to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all.” Problem is he gave zero guidance as to what you should do if the love you lost calls you up for another go. Nope, no help there.
Say Heath and I did hook up again, what would stop him from hurting me again? Only before, we were together all of a week and it hurt so bad. Say we were together a month before he left me. If a week crushed me, what would a month, two months do to me?
Pushing up out of the chair, I head back inside to eat something. After that, since there’s no place I need to go and no one I’m going to see, I climb back up into the loft. Sitting cross legged in the center of the bed, I meditate, or attempt to meditate. Cecil, tried to teach me when I crashed at his place. He is my most spiritual friend.
Try as I may, I tend to fail at meditating.
Like now, sitting comfortably, my back straight but also relaxed, my hands resting on the tops of my knees, I’m already screwing up.
The breathing I can handle. Inhale, feel the breath enter your body and expand your chest. Exhale the tension from your joints and you settle further into your thoughtful zone.
Thoughtful zone? Cecil calls it that but he also wanted me to clear my mind from all thoughts until my brain resembled an empty cup. That’s a contradiction. How can my thoughtful time involve no thoughts? This confuses me.
Then, while I should be clearing my mind of all thoughts, I’m instead making the argument on both sides of the whole thoughtful time but no thoughts allowed dilemma.
Then I mentally smack myself and lecture myself for wasting my thoughtful time arguing if that name works or not. After that, I do try to clear my mind. I get as far as admitting to myself meditating is boring as hell. Then I lie down and take a nap because failing at meditating is somehow exhausting.
As I start to drift, I tell myself it’s okay that I fail at meditating. Then, because I’m a masochist, I wonder if Kacey is good at meditating. This only makes me drift further from sleep when I have to remind myself that it doesn’t even matter what Kacey can and can’t do since she isn’t even with Heath anymore.
Further, it’s unhealthy to continue to compare myself to another woman that way. If we were held up, one next to the other, who would make the cut?
This is nothing more than self-inflicted torture since that’s a question I already know the answer to. So instead of meditating and instead of napping, I lie on the featherbed in my grandparents’ cabin, wondering for the millionth time, why I wasn’t good enough.
Sad thing is, if Heath were here to ask, would I truly want to hear his answer? Would knowing for sure do anything to ease the ache that comes from not feeling adequate?
That may be the thing that is holding me back from Heath Mackey most of all. Before him, I thought I was great. I thought any guy would be lucky to have me. He took that away from me.
Sure, I was single but at the time, that was more from choice than anything else. There were guys I thought were attractive but I wasn’t actively worried about having a boyfriend.
Before him.
If I could leash my train of thought I would. That, or I’d put the things that I don’t want to obsess about into a little safe, inside a vault, buried deep underground, guarded by a giant hairy spider.
Honestly, just a giant spider guarding my thoughts should do the trick, if I could figure a way to do that. Until then, I was stuck with Heath Mackey, all day, every fucking day.
I still want him. I just don’t want to want him. It’s funny how the nice guy turned out to be the one who messed up my self-esteem.
I spend the day puttering around the cabin, getting lost in physical reminders of all the time I’ve spent here. There’s a bookshelf full of board games and puzzles. I pull out a 500-piece puzzle of the statue of liberty.
The constant rain my only company as I put it together. I’m still working on it hours later when I
Say Heath and I did hook up again, what would stop him from hurting me again? Only before, we were together all of a week and it hurt so bad. Say we were together a month before he left me. If a week crushed me, what would a month, two months do to me?
Pushing up out of the chair, I head back inside to eat something. After that, since there’s no place I need to go and no one I’m going to see, I climb back up into the loft. Sitting cross legged in the center of the bed, I meditate, or attempt to meditate. Cecil, tried to teach me when I crashed at his place. He is my most spiritual friend.
Try as I may, I tend to fail at meditating.
Like now, sitting comfortably, my back straight but also relaxed, my hands resting on the tops of my knees, I’m already screwing up.
The breathing I can handle. Inhale, feel the breath enter your body and expand your chest. Exhale the tension from your joints and you settle further into your thoughtful zone.
Thoughtful zone? Cecil calls it that but he also wanted me to clear my mind from all thoughts until my brain resembled an empty cup. That’s a contradiction. How can my thoughtful time involve no thoughts? This confuses me.
Then, while I should be clearing my mind of all thoughts, I’m instead making the argument on both sides of the whole thoughtful time but no thoughts allowed dilemma.
Then I mentally smack myself and lecture myself for wasting my thoughtful time arguing if that name works or not. After that, I do try to clear my mind. I get as far as admitting to myself meditating is boring as hell. Then I lie down and take a nap because failing at meditating is somehow exhausting.
As I start to drift, I tell myself it’s okay that I fail at meditating. Then, because I’m a masochist, I wonder if Kacey is good at meditating. This only makes me drift further from sleep when I have to remind myself that it doesn’t even matter what Kacey can and can’t do since she isn’t even with Heath anymore.
Further, it’s unhealthy to continue to compare myself to another woman that way. If we were held up, one next to the other, who would make the cut?
This is nothing more than self-inflicted torture since that’s a question I already know the answer to. So instead of meditating and instead of napping, I lie on the featherbed in my grandparents’ cabin, wondering for the millionth time, why I wasn’t good enough.
Sad thing is, if Heath were here to ask, would I truly want to hear his answer? Would knowing for sure do anything to ease the ache that comes from not feeling adequate?
That may be the thing that is holding me back from Heath Mackey most of all. Before him, I thought I was great. I thought any guy would be lucky to have me. He took that away from me.
Sure, I was single but at the time, that was more from choice than anything else. There were guys I thought were attractive but I wasn’t actively worried about having a boyfriend.
Before him.
If I could leash my train of thought I would. That, or I’d put the things that I don’t want to obsess about into a little safe, inside a vault, buried deep underground, guarded by a giant hairy spider.
Honestly, just a giant spider guarding my thoughts should do the trick, if I could figure a way to do that. Until then, I was stuck with Heath Mackey, all day, every fucking day.
I still want him. I just don’t want to want him. It’s funny how the nice guy turned out to be the one who messed up my self-esteem.
I spend the day puttering around the cabin, getting lost in physical reminders of all the time I’ve spent here. There’s a bookshelf full of board games and puzzles. I pull out a 500-piece puzzle of the statue of liberty.
The constant rain my only company as I put it together. I’m still working on it hours later when I
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