I think about him every day, the way he made my body quake. I lie awake imagining him touching me once more. Such feelings I abhor. I’m longing for a man who doesn’t give a damn about me. It’s been three months since I cut contact, still I want him back. Long as he stays away I should be ok. This is the gritty truth about recovery. We don’t suddenly decide to become butterflies and fly away gracefully. I’m a caterpillar first, crawling on the earth, wanting to fly into his arms as though The Law of Diminishing Returns doesn’t apply. So I cry, admit how I feel, and continue to heal.