Today I woke up earlier than I normally do. Perhaps it is because of Daylight Savings having happened over the weekend, or maybe there is something to this whole ‘not drinking’ thing.

Then again, I could simply be getting over him.

I haven’t been waking up in the middle of the night crying or angry, as I had so many times last week and the week before, and the week before that. The only occasions I’ve been waking up unexpectedly in the past few nights have been to go to the bathroom, a lovely side effect of getting older, I presume, and yet another reason my stock plummeted in this previous relationship.

I do miss him, but I feel at peace more now than I did before. The melancholy has lifted slightly, at least so much so that I don’t have to try so hard to hide it, and I don’t immediately run for chocolate something pint in the freezer every night.

There are moments throughout my day, though, that I catch myself thinking of something funny he’d said, or some beautiful experience we’d shared, and I pause, seemingly stuck in time for a brief second, living the ‘good life’ over again in my head. When I come to, I remind myself that those stints were fleeting and few and far between, and to hold onto them in the turmoil of all else that had happened was an attempt to lighten my traumatic memories, which I need in my grasp for a bit longer.

Healing is happening, and I have a need to recall the bad memories as much as I cherish the good. I need to remember them to stay present in my onward journey, and I need them to call attention to what I don’t ever want again.

I will hold these malignant mental movies close to me for as long as it takes to fully restore my faith in myself, to untangle the love wires in my broken brain and heart, and to possibly be able to forgive, someday.

Thankfully, there is no time limit on repairing what’s been damaged inside us humans, and while I wish there was a magic pill I could take to make the hurt all go away, I know this practice of sitting with the pain will lead to the growth that will catapult me into the next better version of myself; one that understands herself more deeply, is resilient, is not as careless with her soul and is a magnet for a better match next time around.

So for now, I’ll drink my coffee, and write, and write and write. I’ll write until I meet myself again and it all makes sense, however long that may take. And if this relationship enlightenment never happens, which may be the case, that’s okay too. At least I’ll have something fun to read later on, from a familiar voice I once knew.