“Do you reckon you’ve moved on?”
That question has been floating around in the back of my mind for the last couple of days.
I was talking to my friend when the topic of my ex came up. It wasn’t a long conversation, but it was hard to talk about. He is hard to talk about. I was blinking back tears the whole time because – truth be told – I still miss him.
I still remember walking into my friend’s kitchen and seeing him. That part of the evening is clear as day.
I had been casually seeing someone when I met this boy. It didn’t take me long to figure out that I was ready to move on and try again with someone else. Within the month, I sent an ‘I can’t do this anymore’ message to my man friend and forgot about him. Call me crazy
because I probably am but I was more interested in a boy I had known for a month than one I had known for a year.
It’s hard to believe that one night, one chance meeting and one decision has changed everything.
Yet here we are.
Yet here I am.
Am I moving on?
I feel like my friend asked a valid question, but it is still a hard one to answer. She asked the question after I admitted that I had cut communication for a few days to sort my head out. I think that should have been answer enough.
Have I moved on? Can I move on?
I guess the answer is yes and no.
I am moving on in the fact that I know he isn’t mine.
He’s in England, for goodness sake. He’s moving on and doing the exact things he said he was going to do. He’s doing exactly what he wanted to do. Right from the start. Ultimately, I knew that he was going to leave.
I would be lying through my teeth if I said that I was happy about him being in England. I can name a million places I’d prefer him to be instead of a country on the other side of the world. The first being here. With me. On the other hand, I am happy that he’s doing what he wanted to do. That was the whole point in me telling him to go. I really, truly wanted him to go and live out the adventure he wanted to have. It would have been unfair to ask him to stay
even though it damn near killed me to tell him to go.
So, here’s the truth: I haven’t moved on. Not completely.
Moving on from any situation and relationship is hard. Even at the best of times.
Add in some pregnancy hormones, a growing stomach, and a baby that kicks you every two seconds (especially at night), and you have a recipe for
disaster a hot mess.
Every ultrasound is exciting, but it also feels like someone is twisting the knife a little deeper. Every form that requires my current relationship status is a sting. Every time I feel the baby kick is a blessing and a reminder.
I love being able to spread out in the bed and drool all over the pillows without being judged.
I love being able to sit in bed at night and write until the early hours of the morning.
I love being able to sleep in without having one million alarms go off (
slight exaggeration) at some ungodly time in the morning.
That’s where it begins and ends.
I still wake up in the middle of the night and reach out for him.
I still have to listen to music or a TV show so I can go to sleep.
I still miss all the normal things.
Some days are better than others.
I’m learning there is no ‘right’ way to move on from someone.
One day you just wake up and it hurts less.
And a little less.
I am getting there.
It just takes time.