Sunday, September 6, 2026

This morning was probably the best morning I’ve had in I can’t tell you how long.

I think part of what made it so good was how familiar it felt. It reminded me of the mornings Anthony and I used to have, the ones that literally revolved around the dogs and spending 30 minutes in bed just snuggled up, laughing and enjoying the dogs and each other.

He came downstairs this morning and I don’t even really know how it happened. At one point I thought it was one of the dogs laying next to me, but it actually ended up being Anthony. And I do miss him laying next to me. I do. But we can’t go that way, and I don’t want to go that way.

Instead, we ended up going through random fucking pictures and memories on my phone for hours. They ranged from things that happened two nights ago all the way back to 2015. We laughed, remembered random shit and just sat there together.

Then, I made breakfast while he let the dogs out and played with them. It wasn’t as if we were together again, but it also didn’t feel like we were hurting each other. For a few hours, there wasn’t this constant reminder that everything is different now. We were just enjoying each other’s company.

It was a good fucking morning.

Then, somewhere between all of that and eating breakfast, he made a comment about how I’m rubbing my new life in his face.

And just like that, something shifted.

It hurt because that’s not what I’m trying to do. He’s still my best friend. Yes, we’re not together anymore, but fuck, this stuff doesn’t just stop. Eight and a half years is a long fucking time. I don’t know how to navigate going from that to whatever the hell we are now, especially when we’re both hurting and still living in the same house.

That one comment put this fucking pit in my stomach. I couldn’t eat anymore. After having such a genuinely good morning, my brain immediately went, well, there goes the morning.

But I got ready anyway.

I’m trying to set small goals for myself right now because I cannot keep spending entire days in my bed crying, sleeping, sulking and feeling sorry for myself. It’s not helping me. So today I was making myself get up, leave the house and go meet Marcy and Alex because honestly, that’s exactly what I needed.

Then, while I was getting ready to leave, he made another comment.

“Yep. Have fun on your date.”

I’m literally wearing jeans, my big nasty-ass flip-flops, and a fucking Hanes T-shirt. I’m not going on a date. I’m not ready for a date. I’m not even thinking about that.

And that’s when I lost it. I raised my voice, but mostly I just ended up crying.

“It’s not a fucking date. You can’t keep making me feel guilty for trying to do something other than sit downstairs and be miserable. I’m just trying to get through this.”

I’m forcing myself to leave the house. I’m forcing myself to see people. I’m forcing myself to do something other than lay in my bed and cry. And every time he makes a comment like that, I feel guilty for even trying.

And then came the part that really fucking hurt.

“I didn’t choose anyone else. You wanted other people. I didn’t.”

Because I didn’t.

I’m not running around living some exciting ‘new life.’ I’m not replacing him. I’m not going on dates, and I’m sure as hell not rubbing anything in his face. I’m trying to figure out what my life even looks like now while still living in the same house with the person who has been my best friend for eight and a half years. I don’t know how the fuck I’m supposed to do this correctly. I don’t think there is a correct way.

That’s what I’m struggling with. I can’t feel guilty every time I leave the house, because I know what happens when I let that guilt win. I stay home. I go downstairs. I lay in bed. And I’m fucking miserable.

I can’t keep doing that.

So I left. I left the house crying and went anyway.

Then, not even ten minutes later, he sent me a video. Like previous videos, it was along the lines of how great I was and how he knows that, but because he didn’t love himself enough, because he hated himself so much, he couldn’t love me the way he should have.

And that one got me.

Because all I could think was: you’re trying to talk to me about self-hatred? I wrote the fucking book.

I know what it feels like to hate yourself. I know what it’s like to live inside your own head and genuinely not like the person living in there.

But that was the difference.

I loved him more than I hated myself.