Tomorrow is September 1st.
It’s been exactly 30 days since I last talked to the boy, and while I’m getting by during the week, the weekends are hell, and I know I’m just not myself. I’m trying, but I’m just plain sad, and I’m frustrated, because I should be better. I should be over it. 30 days is plenty of time.
Lucky for me, I have a bookshelf of journals dating back to 1978. I didn’t need to go back quite that far–but I did locate the journal that documented a previous heartbreak, and I read it. I read about the breakup, then I read about the months that followed. I didn’t write every day, but I wrote often enough to see that initially I was devastated, but gradually, I got better.
It took longer than one month.
So I’m going a little easier on myself, and I’m surrounding myself with friends who are willing to give me more than 30 days.
I promise to try and be better in 60.