So, it’s been six months or so (counting back to around Christmas) since the breakup. And guess what? I finally feel happy. Not just better. Not okay. Not over him, but happy. In fact, happier than I have been for as long as I can remember. And this is the real stuff–this time it isn’t because of love, or lurv, or lust, or anything involving a boy. This is because of me.

I do think that it took one final nail in the coffin to get over him, or really my dependence on another half in the broadest of terms. And what was that final nail? Well, it was a wedding. No, no, not mine.

Two of my bestest friends were married a few weeks ago. They have been my f0undation here in Boston. When they asked me to be a part of their wedding, I was thrilled, I had never been part of one before. And the fact that these were my friends, that liked me, that didn’t find me awkward or embarrassing helped a lot. And he had only met them once. These were MY friends. At the wedding, I met a lot of their friends from out West, and they liked me. They thought I was interesting, funny, and generally a good time to be around. I really, really needed that. I had it driven into my head for far too long that I was socially awkward and an embarrassment to be with in public. None of these awesome people seemed to think that.

So, I danced. I drank too much. I flirted with boys. I felt pretty. I curled my hair. I smiled a lot. I met people. I wore a lot of makeup. I had a flower in my hair. I was confident. I slept with someone else. I was hungover for days. I made friends. I did all of these things on my own, and was happy doing them, experiencing them with myself. I didn’t feel like I needed someone there to share these things with. It was enough that I was doing them. Oh how I’d forgotten the importance of I…

Elise and Anne, with Tim lurking in the background