It’s Not You, It’s Me


I know those are the last words you ever want to hear, but if you think about it, it’s true. I just got over an *ahem* six month mourning period of a relationship that didn’t even happen. I spent half a year getting over something that wasn’t even real, something that was just a figment of my own imagination. He didn’t even have the courtesy to break it off; one day he told me he was too busy to hang out and then the next day he had a girlfriend. Whatever, I told myself, it’s no big deal. But, oh god, it was.

As I’m sure most of you do, too; I do all my big thinking in the shower. I was just innocently shampooing my hair when I realized I hadn’t thought about him in a while. I smiled proudly. In fact, I hadn’t thought about him in a long while. I couldn’t even remember the last time I thought about him willingly, a time where the thought of him made me happy. Yes, I reminded myself, there was a time when the sight of him or the sound of his name used to fill me with butterflies and plaster a huge smile on my face. Now his name was just a meaningless three letters that just happened to fall together.

The more I thought about him, the more I cringed. Right after the big “breakup” — for lack of a better term — all I could think about was his perfection. I couldn’t understand what went wrong. It’s been long enough now, though, that I remember with clear accuracy all the weird things we used to do. I suddenly remembered the hour-long conversation about working out, or the time he named off the drugs he was on the day he lost his virginity. I used to be attracted to that?

And that’s when it hit me.

I didn’t have to get over him. No, it was much worse than that. I had to get over me. I don’t remember why I ever loved him because I’m not the person who loved him anymore. Sure, I may look the same as I did back in April, but I’m not her. I’m not even the girl I was in September. Back then, I was the girl who was in love with him. I had to become someone new. I had to become the girl who liked crafting and who wore bows and who actually finished NaNoWriMo before I could stop loving him because I had to stop being the girl who loved him. He wasn’t even part of the equation, it was all me.

In fact, I might not have even loved him. I think I just loved the me who loved him. I loved being the girl who was dating the smart doctor who made her smile and massaged her back until she fell asleep. I was so busy being in love with who I was to notice all the fact that our “relationship” was doomed from the start. We were polar opposites. Sure, he made me happy, but I hated everything he loved. I’m not outdoorsy. I hate the gym. I hate Adam Sandler. But, damn, I was so happy being the girl who loved him, and that’s what kept me there with him, missing him, for all those months.

You should like Thought Catalog on Facebook here.