I’ve got wonderful, supportive, considerate friends. Because of that, my weekend was busy and constructive highlighted by laughter and good food. And as the weekend winds down to an end and everyone has gone home, I’m left in a quiet house, learning how to exist with just me again.

It’s an interesting process, learning to be single. There are ups and downs, as I posted previously. I try to stay positive, for the most part, and remember that it will be a good thing to learn to be me again, not as a part of a couple, but standing solo. Every once in a while, I let myself wallow, because that’s a part of the healing process too. Crying happens a lot when I’m alone in the dark, thinking too hard.

When I’m wallowing, there are questions I ask myself. Was I that horrible? Why wasn’t I good enough? Did I push too hard or were my expectations unreasonable?  Why wasn’t I worth trying harder? Did I deserve this?

But those questions are unfair. They’re unfair to him and to me – because in our case, it was just that things weren’t working out. There it is. He needs to find the life that will make him happy. And as a very good friend helped me to understand, I need to build happiness for myself.

So one dark thought hangs in my head in these evenings alone: People like me don’t get happy endings.

That’s partially childish, definitely depressing and most certainly not productive. It’s fear and hurt talking. It’s also cowardly, because it let’s me off the hook from even trying to build my own happily ever after. If I say I won’t ever achieve it, then what’s the point of working to achieve it? What’s the point of learning how to breathe again, of learning to enjoy life again?

I’m not there yet. I’m wallowing a lot. But there is a point to it all and I won’t let myself off the hook. I’m going to be happy again.