Alright y’all, I think it finally hit me…at least for now.
Yesterday, in a fit of boredom, I decided to check Timehop to see where I was in my past.
Six years ago I was with my best friend in the entire world taking these absolutely absurd pictures and having one of the best nights ever basking in our extremely odd/something only we understand/ full of life, love and laughter friendship.
Two years ago I had purchased my first brand spankin’ new Kate Spade purse and thus began my over-priced but totally necessary accessory addiction.
But a year ago? A year ago I was exactly where I am now—maybe not physically, but in matters of the heart, nothing had changed. Sure along the ride of the last year there were plenty of twists and turns for the better—smiles and experiences and love that I wouldn’t trade for the world—but in the end, I was right back where I had left off the last time I had my heart broken.
A year ago I had posted a picture of a 1000-piece puzzle that my Little sent me in an attempt to make me realize my complexities and the need for me to move on in order to find someone who gets them and would spend hours trying to put it all together. Man, I really wish I still had that text convo because it was perfect and y’all would’ve learned a thing or two, too.
A year ago, Lil Bu (that’s Alex, y’all. I call her Lil Bu because she’s my little Buddha—another one of my best friends who knows exactly what to say to get me thinking optimistically, yet realistically) was sending me lyrics and quotes and laying with me drinking wine and eating Chipotle as I allowed myself to get completely consumed by the hurt in my heart.
That was a year ago. A whole entire year.
You know, they (and by “they” I mean my friends, family, experts, pretty much anyone except Nicholas Sparks) say that it’s called break up because it’s broken. But, like Nicholas Sparks, I have never wanted to believe that. I have a wicked bad tendency to hold on too tight to what would’ve/could’ve/should’ve been and try to win people back. As a result I voluntarily hop onto emotional roller coasters and allow myself to enjoy the ride—but in the end I just get motion sickness and as much as I want to love the ride, there comes a point when I just want to get off.
Yesterday, after seeing that I was right back on the same ride as a year ago—a ride that left me nauseous, on the verge of tears at any minute, even more analytical than normal and seeing myself through the eyes of someone who only saw my worth occasionally and trying my darndest to get things to change—it finally hit me.
So I got off. For now. And I say for now because, like Nicholas Sparks, despite everything, I’m still a romantic idealist at heart. So, if the weather ever changes, though I doubt it ever will, maybe I’ll be back in line and ready for the front row seat of the ride.
(If y’all actually think I get sick on literal roller coasters, you are very unaware of the adrenaline junkie before your very eyes.)