Sometimes I Miss You So Much It Hurts


Sometimes, when it’s late at night and I can’t sleep and leaving Netflix on for just another minute feels like too much, I start to miss you.

I sit there, sprawled out in a bed that use to encase us both, in sweatpants I never gave back, in a body I at times do not recognize, and I miss the way it felt to have you wrapped all around me. And so I sit in my own misery, attempt to wrap myself around my knees, my chest, my arms, myself, and try to squash out how it feels to miss you.

Because if I’m being honest.

If I’m being truly honest.

If I’m being the kind of honest that only comes out in therapy. That only comes out when I’m done with spouting bullshit, with painting pretty pictures for the internet, with trying so valiantly to be the personification of the ‘cool girl’ I desperately want to be, I’ll be honest and say…that I don’t know if I’m myself these days.

I’m of a version of me, that’s for sure.

But I don’t fully recognize this version.

She distorted in the mirror. Curvier in places, softer in places, harder in more. She has a voice that is more purposeful, more self-sufficient. But it’s also distant, and guarded. It’s more cautious and protective than the bubbly person who used to use it.

Because see, when I’m talking about missing you, I’m not lying. But I’m withholding the truth. (Which is kind of the same thing.)

Because when I talk about missing you, I’m also talking about missing me.

I miss the way I would instinctually say, “Absolutely” when asked if I believed in love at first sight. I miss the way I would leap before I looked. I miss the way I never worried about the future, because I was sure about who would be there with me. I miss the way I had it together when no one else did, because I was exactly where I was meant to be.

I miss the way I was unapologetic, and didn’t constantly worry about coloring in the lines or being understood. I miss how sure I was of my decisions, and didn’t care to even attempt to explain them to people who couldn’t fathom why I was the way I was or did the things I did. I miss the way I was never afraid, never nervous, never uneasy. I miss the feeling of certainty that I had, and that I never questioned.

I miss me. I miss me. I miss me.

I miss me. 

But more than that…

I miss the me that I was when I was with you.

Because sometimes, when it’s late at night and I can’t sleep and leaving Netflix on for just another minute feels like too much, I start to miss you.

But when I say I start to miss you, it’s more than that.

Because when I start to miss you, I ultimately start to miss me.

And darling, missing myself is more painful than missing you will ever be. TC mark

I asked women to be honest about their Instagram photos

“The essays in this book are short and sweet, and incredible. Love love loved this.” — Alex

“I’m so in love with this book! It’s so moving and some of the stories bring me to tears not because it’s sad, but because it’s relatable and shows that we’re not alone.” — Kendra

This is the reality of Instagram...

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