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.
polyammering 
This, this is what I want for you. Living for yourself, because you can’t live for a person that is no longer on this plain…. hugs my friend
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” a different version of me” – I don’t think I could have said it better myself. I’ve been trying to figure out this feeling I’ve had and I think that just might be it.
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