I’m 11 mornings short of three years.
Like with most of my traumas, I’m able to talk about it now with time-seasoned detachment. It’s a story that happened to someone else – a different version of me.
But sometimes the emotions sneak up on me. Like, when I’m approximately 12 mornings short of three years and I’m laying in a different bed beside a different man in the same room of a house transformed, feeling happier than I’ve ever felt….
…12 mornings short of the three year anniversary of the worst day of my life. A day I woke up believing it impossible to ever feel any form of happiness again.
“He would have wanted this for you,” imaginary people in my head tell me.
And silently, I respond back, “I want this for me.”
Eleven mornings short of three years ago, he stopped living. Sometime between then and now, I stopped living for him.