These past five days or so have been oddly painful. Like a ripped off scab. Working a swing shift via the temp agency has limited my already minimal social interaction and my mind has been roaming wildly. Also, I’m pretty sure some where deep down that I thought the healing process would take a year to complete. No more, no less. Not so. And no matter what I’m doing, I stop and think to myself that he is simultaneously happier and having a better time than I am at that exact moment. I know that it’s beginning to border on ridiculousness - the way I’ve begun to label everything before as some mythic golden fucking era of bliss. It’s a dangerous path, a slippery slope. And I repeatedly torture myself with ways in which I could have done things differently or my ultimate fantasy, going back in time. It’s over and it’s done.
I work myself into a state of panic over my perceived doom. I am absolutely positive I will never fully love another person the way I loved him. And, in the off chance that I did, the said object of affection could never return those feelings.
I mull this over until I want to drive off of a bridge.