don't let the bed bugs bite

Sometimes I miss his bed more than anything else.

It's not a particularly amazing mattress. Or soft set of sheets. Or fluffy pillows. But it's his.

He used to say that my bed, despite the fact that I think it's too short and small for just about anyone over the age of 14, was the more comfortable of the two. And I always vehemently disagreed. My bed can be lonely and cold and empty. But his bed? Well the thing is he was always in it with me. And that made it the best.

I always slept comfortably there. Because I feel safe there.

When we slept I could trick myself for an hour, or two, or however long I could stay in that bed, into thinking that we were us. The outline of his body so acquainted with the outline of mine. How we fit. How I lodged perfectly into the nook under his right arm. Always his right arm. How our legs intertwined. How we'd just lay there, existing. Comfortably.

There was always this small bit of time in the morning where we were just together. Still. Where nothing else seemed to matter or exist. It was just the two of us. With our guards down. And, in those moments, I could almost forget everything else that had happened between us. All the hurt. All the confusion. All the uncertainty. None of it mattered in that time between waking up and getting up. Life seemed different there. We seemed different there. We were us. And things seemed simple and right.

I always liked that best.

You see, what I don't think I've quite been able to articulate before is this: I don't want to give up. On him. On mornings in his bed. On the us that exists between waking up and getting up. On the hope of a future, steady and strong us. On the way I feel with him at times that makes this whole often maddening thing seem worth it.

But that's just it. I have to give up.

I owe it to myself. I owe it to myself to devote half as much effort to getting over him as I have to proving I'm the right one for him. I've got to be stronger than I think I can be. That has to be my new challenge. I have to use that stubbornness that has made me hold on so determinedly and turn it around. Focus it on reminding myself that I deserve better than what he's been able to give me. I deserve more. Focus it on quieting the what ifs in my head. What if he just needs more time? What if I was able to be just a little bit different? What if I tried just a little bit harder? What if. What if. What if.

I have to force myself to remember that every time I've put my hope in him, he's let me down. Without fail. He has never gone out of his way for me. In decisions, he doesn't usually even consider me. I don't think he's ever been the one to instigate one-on-one plans with me. Nonetheless ask me on a legitimate date. Plus, there was always another girl, or the possibility of another girl, somewhere in the mix.

When I start to remember all these things, the first thing I do is get angry. At him for treating me that way for so long. At myself for letting him do it. At those other girls for getting in the way of the potential us. (Yes, I know this last one is ridiculous, but everyone who's ever watched The Bachelor knows it happens to the best of us.)

But then I remind myself to own up to what I'm really feeling: hurt. And rejected. And not good enough. And all those other feelings that are just. plain. dumb.

I've got to face the fact that we’re obviously not meant to be together... but that that doesn't always make giving up on him - and his bed - easy. There are, and will continue to be, times I wish I was there instead, but I've got to believe I'm exactly where I need to be. For me.

I'll find different someones who have the things he was lacking. I'll find missing pieces. And I'll eventually find the one that's the whole thing.

I'll find the bed. The body. The nook. The legs. The feeling of safety. The waking up and getting up. And I won't be "tricking myself" or "almost forgetting" everything else.