What the Hell Is Wrong With Me?

 

Last night, out of nowhere, I remembered everything.

Not just one memory. Everything. From the beginning.

The first time we knew each other. The little conversations.

The things that made me laugh. The things that made me fall.

The moments when everything felt easy.

The stupid little things that probably meant nothing to anyone else but somehow became precious to me.

I remembered the good days. The bad days.

The things we survived. The things we couldn't.

And then, somehow, my mind took me all the way to the end.

To that last day he came here. The day he said those words.

The words that broke something inside me. Words I don't think I'll ever completely forget.

He said the spark was gone. The chemistry was gone. There was nothing in common between us anymore.

I remember how much those words hurt. I remember sitting there and thinking, How can someone who once felt so familiar suddenly feel so far away?

That day still feels strange when I think about it.

Because that was supposed to be the day I completely fell apart.

And I did. At least, I think I did.

But now?

I remembered it all again. And I didn't cry.

What the hell? Seriously.

Where is the dramatic sobbing? Where is the emotional breakdown?

Where is the part where I stare out the window while sad music plays in the background?

Apparently, my brain canceled the subscription.

Instead, I found myself smiling at some of the memories.

Not because the ending was funny.

It absolutely wasn't.

But because some of what happened before the ending was genuinely beautiful.

And for the first time, I could remember those moments without immediately being dragged back into the pain.

I could remember being happy.

And actually feel happy that I was once that happy.

That's new.

Very suspicious.

I don't know what to do with it.

Because for so long, I thought healing meant forgetting.

Or becoming completely indifferent.

Or reaching that magical stage where you can say, “I don't care anymore,” and actually mean it.

But maybe that's not what happened to me.

Maybe I still care.  Maybe I just don't hurt the same way anymore.

Maybe the memories don't have the same teeth.

They can still bite. They just don't draw blood anymore. 

And honestly, that scares me a little.

Because if I can remember the good things and smile…

Does that mean I'm finally letting go? Or does it mean some part of me is still holding on?

I don't know. And then my mind started asking bigger questions.

Because apparently, once you survive one emotional crisis, your brain rewards you by opening seventeen new tabs.

Will I ever find my home again?

Not a house. Not an address.

Home.  That feeling of being completely safe with someone.

Of being able to put your guard down.  

Of not having to wonder whether you're too much.

Of not having to second-guess every word.

Of knowing that someone chooses you—not because it's convenient, not because they're obligated to, but because they genuinely want you.

Will I ever have that again?

And if I do… Will I choose the right person next time?

That's a scary question. Because what if I don't?

What if I fall in love again and somehow end up in the same place?

What if I miss the warning signs? 

What if I convince myself that something is love when it's actually just loneliness?

What if I trust someone again and they break that trust?

What if I give someone my whole heart and end up having to collect the pieces all over again?

I've already learned that love isn't a guarantee. 

You can love someone deeply and still lose them.

You can build a life with someone and somehow end up strangers.

You can believe something is forever… until forever suddenly needs an exit strategy.

So yes, I'm scared. I'd be lying if I said I'm not.

I want love again. I want the kind of love that feels peaceful.

Playful. Safe.

The kind where you can laugh until your stomach hurts.

The kind where you can talk about absolutely nothing and everything. The kind where you don't have to walk on eggshells.

The kind where both people actually want to be there.

I want to be someone's home. And I want someone to feel like home to me.

But I don't want to lose myself trying to find that again.

That's the part I have to learn.

Maybe the next love won't look like the fairytale I imagined when I was younger.

Maybe there won't be dramatic declarations under the rain.

Maybe there won't be some perfect happily-ever-after ending.

Maybe real love is quieter than that. Maybe it's someone who stays.

Someone who communicates. Someone who makes you laugh when you're having a terrible day.

Someone who can tell you the truth without destroying you with it.

Someone who doesn't make you constantly wonder where you stand.

Maybe that's my version of a fairytale now.

Not perfect. Just real.

And maybe happiness isn't about finding someone who will never hurt me. Because that's probably impossible.

People are human. They make mistakes.

They disappoint each other. They change.

Maybe happiness is finding someone whose love feels worth the vulnerability.

Someone I can trust. Someone who doesn't make me regret trusting them.

And maybe I can learn to trust myself again too.

Because perhaps that's what I've really lost.

Not just trust in another person. 

Trust in my own judgment. Trust that I can recognize what is good for me.

Trust that I can walk away when something isn't.

Trust that if I ever get hurt again, I won't disappear inside someone else's choices.

I will still have myself.  And maybe that's enough to try again someday.

So here I am. Remembering everything.

From the beginning… to the painful ending.

And strangely, I'm not crying. I'm actually smiling at some of it.

What the hell is wrong with me? Maybe nothing.

Maybe this is what healing looks like when nobody is watching.

Not forgetting the pain. Not pretending it didn't matter.

Just finally being able to remember the good without drowning in the bad.

Maybe that means I'm getting closer to letting go.

Maybe it means I'm finally making peace with the fact that something can be beautiful… and still not be meant to last.

I don't know what my next chapter looks like.

I don't know if I'll find my home again.

I don't know if I'll choose the right person.

I don't know if I'll get my fairytale. I don't know if I'll trust love again.

And yes, I'm terrified of getting hurt again.

But tonight, I realized something. I survived the last time.

Maybe that's what I need to remember.

If I can survive losing someone I once thought was my forever…

maybe someday I'll be brave enough to love again.

Not because I believe I'll never get hurt.  But because I finally believe that even if I do— I won't lose myself again.

And maybe…

that's where my happily-ever-after actually begins.