Last night was important for me. It was a reminder of recent pain and hurt, but more importantly a celebration of how far I’ve come in just two short months.
Exactly two months ago yesterday my then boyfriend walked out of the apartment that we had shared for the last nine months. He got in his car and drove across a couple of states, to start a new life in another city.
It sounds awful and it was…painful, hurtful, disappointing and so many other things.
…but it was also a relief. It was the end of a very protracted breakup. It was the final breath of a relationship that began to fade four months prior.
In the weeks that followed, I struggled to stay focused, to keep it all together. The urge to cry was almost constant and tears would spill out, often without warning, at the most inconvenient moments: at work, in the car, on the train.
By the time he moved out, I didn’t think I had any tears left. Turns out, I still had plenty. An inexhaustible supply, apparently!
Around six weeks after he moved out, though, I noticed that I was starting to feel more and more happy. That I no longer had the urge to cry. That I would think about him and our life together less and less. That I no longer missed the good times. That I didn’t miss him…at all.
Six weeks may sound like a short period of time…but, there’s no ‘average recovery period’ for heartbreak.
…and I had invested a lot of time into self-development. In the weeks after our breakup, I read and researched and watched videos about getting over a breakup.
I invested in myself heavily and it paid off.
Last night I went to the Italian Film Festival by myself. Doesn’t sound like a big deal. Plenty of people go to the movies by themselves. Including myself. In fact, I enjoy going to the movies by myself.
But last night meant something.
Last year and the year before we went to the Italian Film Festival together.
Last night, going by myself meant something. It meant so much.