1%

I went back and read entries from my journal I wrote earlier this year. They date from April to July of this year, and I didn’t realize how much life happened during those three months. It’s about the same time I’ve spent on this blog, a bit less actually, and I know how much life has been lived during that time. There were so many entries that read like personal marching orders, ways to live a good and happy life, tips for being strong, to always smile, to be grateful I’m alive. I was clearly inspired by Marcus Aurelius’ book Meditations, a book that became my favorite book of all time when I read it earlier this year. But it also contained so much anger and pain and confusion because it involved her.

Like I wrote yesterday, life has its lows and its highs, and our relationship clearly had both. I read those entries, and I missed her and I didn’t miss her. I kept telling myself to move on from her, but then something good happened, and I wrote about how much I loved her. Later, I kept telling myself to move on from her again, but on the very next line I wrote about how much I still loved her. My last entry was the day I was called out to my first fire. I wrote about how this fire will be good for me because I would have been given the chance to leave her life for a bit, to give us some much needed space. On recollection, that fire lasted only 5 days. A few days after that, we had lunch together, and that was the last time I ever saw her.

I still think about her, and it’s been almost three months since I last communicated with her. The idea of getting back in touch with her has been weighing so much on my mind recently. In fact, it’s what hurt my focus a few days ago during my 86 minutes of Insanity. The idea of talking to her again hit me that day, and I’ve been struggling with it ever since. Should I? Shouldn’t I? I see no reason to get back in touch with her. In fact, I’m 99% confident that I should not get back in touch with her. But it’s that 1% percent that always gets me in trouble. I always root for the underdog, even if it’s not the best idea.

I didn’t want to write a whole entry about her again but nostalgia is a fucking bitch. I remembered everything that happened between us — the good and the bad — while reading my entries. I love writing, and I think I wrote some of my best stuff with these raw descriptions of our relationship. I remember holding her when she cried and told me she needed to let me go. I asked her if that’s what she wanted, that I would leave her if it was, but she said she didn’t know, so I told her I wasn’t going anywhere. I remember when I wouldn’t talk to her for a few weeks, how sad that made her feel, how I made her cry, and how sad I feel about that now. She finally confronted me about it later and we talked about it for hours. I remember that was one of the last times I ever hugged and kissed her. I remember the day before I left for Los Angeles, we had a date together, and we had the best time we’ve ever had in our lives. I held her and spun her around and she snorted because she was laughing so hard, and I asked her why I loved her so much, and she said that somebody has to.

Why is it so hard to move on? She hurt me, and I hurt her, and we’re not together anymore, and I think that’s how it should be, but then I have these memories of her, memories that make me happy and memories that hurt me, and I don’t know what to do. I started this blog because of her, and I’m 99% sure she’s never read it. It’s that 1% of me that wants her to, though, and that’s the part that always gets me into trouble.