Chronicle

Today felt different—like the calm before a storm of change. It was a day that carried a sense of quiet triumph mixed with an acknowledgment of the challenges that lie ahead. At work, I received news that a series of major projects are coming my way. It’s not just the usual tasks; these are substantial, demanding projects that will push me to step up in ways I haven’t before. It’s going to require grit, focus, and a level of dedication that matches my determination to grow. It feels like life’s test, a call to prove not just my competence, but my resilience and ability to adapt. And I’m ready.

Beyond work, I’m setting my sights on personal projects that carry a deep sense of fulfillment. I’m taking steps toward building my own tiny home—a space that will be a reflection of my independence and newfound focus. Alongside that, I’m preparing to put effort into restoring my mom’s old house. These projects are more than just physical tasks; they are symbols of anchoring myself to stability and building a foundation that is entirely my own.

But the weight of personal transformation doesn’t come without pain. Lately, I’ve come to terms with a truth that has been hard to swallow: in the end, I can only rely on myself. No one, not even those who once promised to walk through life beside me, will always be there. This realization hit hardest when I thought of Katarina. The path she’s chosen has carved a rift between us, one that can’t be bridged. It’s a choice that broke my heart, not just for what it meant for us, but because it revealed a side of her I never wanted to see. I can’t pretend that it doesn’t hurt or that I don’t wish it had been different. It feels like betrayal; it feels like being shattered by the very person who once gave me the most hope.

Despite the pain, gratitude still finds a way to surface. Katarina, for all the ways she lifted me up and later let me fall, was integral in shaping who I am today. In her presence, I learned to believe in the power of us, and more importantly, in myself. The highs of that belief were intoxicating, and the lows—when she pulled away and left me with nothing but echoes of what we had—were devastating. She broke the illusions I clung to and left me on the ground to rebuild with pieces that, although scattered, were mine to gather and reshape.

I’m thankful for the lessons that came wrapped in heartbreak. I’m grateful that she showed me my limits so that I could push past them. For years, I trusted her with everything I had, believing she would be my constant. Now, in her absence, I’m learning to become my own unwavering support. It’s a painful gratitude, a complicated one, but it’s real.

From now on, I’m shifting my focus inward. I’m going to work harder than I ever have, not out of bitterness, but out of a genuine drive to strengthen myself. I want to build a life defined not by what was lost but by what I chose to create in the aftermath. I want to become strong—not just in the physical sense, but mentally, emotionally, and in my dedication to my own growth. This is for me, for the future I’m crafting, and for the parts of me that are still learning to stand tall after being knocked down.

Every project, every hour spent in sweat and effort, is a testament to this newfound resolve. I will take these challenges head-on, grateful for what they teach me and steadfast in my journey forward. I may not have the partnership I once envisioned, but I do have myself—and that is more powerful than I ever realized.

Yesterday was one of those days that tested my patience and reminded me of just how alone I’ve become. I found myself at work, in the middle of clearing out a bunch of old fencing—a job that was nothing short of exhausting. With each truckload, I felt the fatigue setting in, but the satisfaction of nearing the end pushed me forward. By the sixth and final load, the finish line was in sight. I walked up to my truck, sweat trickling down my brow, only to discover that I had locked myself out.

There I stood, tools scattered around me, the remnants of the old fence leaning like sentinels against the fading sunlight, and my truck—my lifeline—was now an iron fortress with no key to its gates. For a moment, frustration bubbled up. I wanted to shout, to curse my luck, to be angry at anything but myself. But there was no one around to hear it, no sympathetic voice to offer help or reassurance. Just me and the stubborn silence.

I spent the next 40 minutes wrestling with a makeshift tool—a clothes hanger I had scavenged from the debris. The wire felt flimsy in my hand, bending and twisting with each failed attempt. My mind raced, shifting between problem-solving and the deeper thoughts I’ve tried so hard to avoid. Each failed attempt brought the realization home: there’s no safety net anymore, no one to call. Not Mom, not Dad, and certainly not Katarina. Those days are behind me, sealed away in a past that no amount of desperation can unlock.

It’s a sobering thought to recognize that you’re alone in a world that demands so much of you. No helping hand, no comforting words. Just the echo of your own resolve. But that’s when it hit me—this is life now. It’s raw, unyielding, and it’s mine to face. I could’ve given in and called a locksmith, sacrificing a day’s worth of wages and admitting defeat. But I knew that wasn’t the path I wanted to walk. I needed to prove to myself that I could handle it, that I could fight back against the setbacks that life throws my way.

As the minutes stretched on and the sun began to dip lower, I finally felt the satisfying click of the latch. The door swung open, and I exhaled a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. Relief washed over me, but so did the understanding that this was more than just unlocking a door. It was a reminder—a lesson carved out in that moment of struggle—that no one will ever have my back like I do. It’s just me, facing the world with nothing but my wits, my hands, and whatever makeshift tools I can find.

So, yes, it’s just me against the world now. But in those 40 minutes, with a clothes hanger and a stubborn heart, I learned that maybe—just maybe—that’s enough.

Sometimes, in the quiet moments, I find myself drawn back to those few precious videos I have of you. I play them on loop, each frame capturing the warmth and sweetness that once defined our time together. It’s a small comfort, watching you laugh or share a quiet moment, feeling that familiar joy surface, if only briefly, when I see you on the screen.

I often wish you had let me capture more of those moments—those little snippets that held so much life. I never realized then how much I would crave the ability to revisit them, to hear your voice, see your expressions, and remember who you were. It’s like looking through a window into a life that was once so vibrant, now only alive in memory and old footage.

I understand you’ve moved on and that our paths have diverged completely. I’ve come to terms with the reality that I’ll never see you again. Still, it’s bittersweet to watch those videos and see glimpses of the person I once knew, the person who was so tender and kind. You changed so much over time, and that transformation is hard to accept, knowing I’ll never have the chance to know who you became or how you got there. I find myself longing for the version of you that was warm, patient, and gentle—the version that seems like a distant dream now.

But that’s the nature of life, isn’t it? Time presses forward, reshaping us, carving out parts that we never thought we’d lose. Though you’re gone from my world, these few cherished memories remain, grounding me in the beauty of what once was. Watching you in those moments is a small reminder of the kindness you showed me and the laughter we shared.

So, I find comfort in that slice of the past. It’s a quiet kind of joy, tinged with the sadness of all that’s changed. I’ll keep playing those videos now and then, holding onto the happiness they bring, and letting them remind me of a time when life felt simpler and connection felt easy.

A Heartfelt Journey Forward

Some days, it’s tough to keep pushing forward, especially when the one person I wanted to share my life with no longer cares, and I’m left with no idea how she’s doing. It feels like I’ve been cut off, abandoned—and I have to remind myself that “it is what it is.” But that doesn’t make it easy; some days, the weight of it is harder to bear.

Despite it all, I’m pouring everything into bettering myself, working hard to grow into the best version of me. I hope that, over time, the ache will fade, and I’ll fully accept the truth—that she’s gone, and I might never see her again. It’s been a slow journey, but there’s also a clarity: the person I miss isn’t even the same anymore.

After my manager’s meeting, I’m tackling a mountain of inventory work, all part of pushing forward, of keeping busy. Still, there’s this lingering wish that she was around, a hope that we could just talk like we used to. I miss the simplicity of those conversations. But it’s not meant to be, and I know that.

I still have this project we started together all those years ago. That’s one part of her I’m not letting go of. I’m determined to see it through, to finish it for both of us, even if I have to do it alone now.

Today was one of those hands-on, nonstop days where time seems to fly by. I tackled a major project in the elevator motor room—repairing a large section of drywall that had molded over time. It was extensive work; I had to run to Lowe’s for materials, cut the drywall to size, clean up the area, apply spackling, and make sure everything was primed for the next steps. Handling a project of that scale in a single day felt like a big win. And to be honest, the work itself wasn’t bad at all—just the sort that keeps you so occupied that hours slip away unnoticed.

Tomorrow, I’ll need to restock supplies, this time using my new company charge card. It’s a bit surreal to think about; here I am, fully responsible for a significant position and trusted to manage projects, materials, and expenses. Sometimes it hits me just how far I’ve come, and I can’t help but feel like I’m finally stepping into a new phase—one where I’m a “real” adult, shaping things and moving forward with real accountability.

Something else struck me today too. I realized that I hadn’t thought much about Katarina or felt that familiar pang of missing her. There’s a sense of finality now, an understanding of who she is and the lifestyle she’s chosen, and it’s helped me let go in a way I didn’t think was possible. For the longest time, I couldn’t fully accept the person she’d become; it just didn’t make sense to me. But today, I felt a strange calm in knowing that her choices don’t need to affect me anymore.

Reflecting on it, I’m glad I no longer have to be around that version of her. The woman she turned into is someone I’d never choose to associate with. It’s hard to believe, but she changed in ways that just don’t align with who I am or what I value. She treated me poorly, consistently making me feel small or unworthy, and as painful as it was, this distance has shown me the truth of who she wants to be. And that person? It’s not someone I want in my life.

I understand that this is her choice, her path, and maybe she’s even happy with it. But for me, I’ve made peace with not being a part of it. There’s sadness, of course, and sometimes I wonder if this was always part of who she was, hidden beneath layers I never saw. Maybe it was there all along; maybe it grew over time. Who knows? But one thing I’m sure of: each day, it’s a little easier to move on, and I’m grateful for that.

And just like that, another day comes to a close.

Today was one of those days where I just spent most of my time catching up on chores. It’s funny when you think about it: we spend five days of the week working, one day catching up on life, and that leaves just one day to actually rest and enjoy ourselves. But honestly, I don’t mind. I actually enjoy my job for the most part. It’s not too demanding, and I get to pace myself throughout the day. In reality, I probably only work a solid five hours out of my eight-hour day.

When I first get to work, I ease into things. I spend a little time waking up, playing around on the computer, and even squeezing in a quick workout. I’m not in a rush to dive in. By around 8 AM, I start getting into the day’s tasks. Usually, it’s something simple like picking up supplies or running a few errands, but once I’m back, that’s when I hit my stride and get to work. Before I know it, it’s lunchtime. After that, I push through a couple more hours of work, and then it’s time to clean up and head home. So really, it’s not a bad gig. I get to be my own boss in a way, and there’s always something different to tackle each day.

On the home front, I’m still waiting to hear from the HOA about whether I can build a shed or not. I really hope they approve it because I’ve got big plans. I’ve been dreaming of turning it into a tiny home where I can kick back and relax. Maybe even plant a garden, set up some solar panels, and prepare for whatever life throws next. It’s funny to think about doing all of that in the suburbs, but with how the world’s been lately, it doesn’t hurt to be ready for the next big emergency or economic downturn.

One thing I’ve finally come to terms with is that Katarina is no longer part of my life. She’s not the same person I used to know, and she’s let go of everything we once dreamed about. It’s just me now, and I’ve accepted that. I’m focusing on myself—on building something for my future. Fitness has become a big part of my life lately. I’ve been biking a lot and lifting weights whenever I can. I really want to build up my upper body strength. I think it’ll feel good to be in shape, not just for myself but because it gives me something tangible to work towards.

As for my diet, I haven’t been paying the closest attention, especially on my days off. My meals have mostly consisted of chicken and Huel, which isn’t terrible, but I know I can do better. Tracking my calories more carefully is something I need to stick to if I want to shed these last few pounds. It’s all part of the process.

So that’s been my day in a nutshell. I still need to clean out my truck and hopefully get some time to dive into Metaphor before bed. I’ve been getting to bed early these days, usually by 6 PM, and it’s been a game changer. Waking up early gives me a chance to bike, game, and knock out my tasks before the day even really starts. It feels like I have more control over my time, and that’s something I’ve really come to value.

That’s all for today—just one more step in figuring things out and moving forward.

It’s actually really freeing that Katarina has finally revealed who she truly is now. For a long time, I held onto hope that she might still be the person I once loved, that maybe her changes were just temporary or influenced by something like alcohol or drugs. But now, after seeing her for who she has become, I realize it goes beyond any of that. She has transformed into someone unrecognizable, someone whose priorities and values no longer align with the person I fell for.

The bar has claimed her—her goals, her dreams, and even the people she chooses to surround herself with. She’s no longer the woman I knew, and, frankly, she just doesn’t care. Not about me, not about the future we once imagined, and not about anything beyond her current world. And while that used to hurt, I’ve finally come to terms with it. She is gone. But it’s her choice, and I can finally let her go.

From here on out, this space will serve as my personal blog—a place for reflections as I rebuild Meepcow and continue to pursue the dreams and goals we once shared. But now, they are mine alone. There is no going back, and I’ve made peace with that. I no longer want her in my life, not after seeing the lifestyle she’s chosen. It’s not ladylike, and it’s not the kind of energy I want around me.

So, here’s to moving forward, to reclaiming what was lost, and to rebuilding my life on my own terms. This is a new chapter, one where I no longer hold onto the past but instead embrace the future, one step at a time.

There’s a profound difference between feeling like someone has changed and realizing they’re not the same person you once knew. It’s one thing to cry out, hoping the person you loved will come back, only to find a cold, callous version standing before you. But it’s something entirely different when the truth hits—you’re not just missing who they were, you’re mourning someone who’s essentially gone.

Today, everything feels strange. I’ve come to terms with the fact that the person I thought I knew is, in a way, dead. They aren’t the same, and what’s left is someone completely unfamiliar, someone I can’t reach or recognize. It’s not just a change; it’s like a part of them died, and now someone else entirely inhabits the body I once knew so well.

This realization, though painful, brings a kind of clarity. Sometimes, people change so much that it’s like they’ve become a stranger, and all we can do is acknowledge that loss, even though they’re still physically here. What do you do when the person you’re grieving is still walking around, living a life that no longer includes you? Today, I begin to figure that out.

For months, I’ve been haunted by questions, left in the dark about Katarina’s sudden and complete transformation. Today, out of nowhere, she decided to speak to me. After months of silence, she finally provided answers—answers that, deep down, I had already suspected. I had worried and obsessed over the possibilities, imagining every scenario, and in one way or another, most of my fears were proven to be true.

It hit me hard when she confirmed that she’s been spending her nights with men she meets at bars, fully embracing the lifestyle. The person I once knew, the person I once loved deeply, has changed beyond recognition. She’s become someone who thrives in the bar scene, whose nights revolve around strangers and shallow connections. It’s like she’s shed her old self entirely, and with that, every piece of the person I once admired and cherished is gone. She’s no longer the Karina I knew.

I’ve been grappling with this question: how much of her transformation is driven by alcoholism, and how much of it is simply her desire for this new life—this life with new men, fleeting encounters, and endless nights spent in bars? Maybe she found someone new there, someone who fills the void I no longer could. Maybe she’s found solace in this chaos, or maybe it’s her way of coping. But whatever the reason, it’s clear now: the Karina I loved is gone. She’s a completely different person.

What hurts most, though, isn’t just her transformation. It’s the cold, detached way she’s treated me throughout all of this. She waited months to give me any kind of explanation, leaving me in the shadows, suffering. And when she finally did, her words were like a knife—so sharp, so cruel. She told me she just doesn’t care anymore. She doesn’t care about me, about us, about anything we shared. Her honesty, brutal as it was, left me feeling both grateful and devastated. I needed to hear it, and yet I wished I never had to.

It’s hard to wrap my head around the fact that she could have saved me from so much pain if she had just told me the truth earlier. I’ve spent half a year tormenting myself, having nightmares, imagining what she could be doing, torturing myself with the unknown. If she had only been honest from the beginning, I could have started to heal sooner. Instead, she left me to fester in this pit of uncertainty, and for what? For her to finally admit that she just doesn’t give a damn anymore?

Now, though, the truth is out. I see her for who she is today, not the person she was. And that person—the one I loved, the one I thought I knew—is no more. She’s gone, replaced by someone I can’t even recognize. It’s a strange, bittersweet relief to know this. Knowing that the woman I once loved no longer exists makes it easier to let go. It’s like I can finally give up the fight, stop trying to hold on to something that no longer is.

Katarina was a good person once. I can still remember those moments, the times we shared that felt real, that felt like they would last forever. But time changes people. Life twists them into versions of themselves that you never see coming. She’s just not that person anymore, and I have to accept that. And in accepting it, I can finally move on.

I’m ready to let her go. Ready to walk away from the hope that she might return to who she was. The Katarina I loved is gone, and while that’s painful, it’s also freeing. It’s time for me to move forward, knowing that the chapter we shared is truly over, and I can finally start writing a new one for myself.

Sometimes, life throws you curveballs when you’re least prepared. For me, that curveball came in the form of a message from Katarina—completely out of the blue. And once again, it wasn’t for reconciliation or understanding. It was a reminder that she’s chosen a life that I no longer recognize, and more painfully, that my suffering means absolutely nothing to her.

I don’t know why she felt the need to reach out this time. Maybe it was to twist the knife a little deeper, to watch me squirm as I wrestled with the lingering hope that things could go back to how they were. She made it clear, though—there would be no explanations, no reassurances. She wouldn’t even try to help me understand the path she’s on, one that I once feared but now realize is reality. She has truly become someone I can no longer recognize, and in all the worst ways.

It hit me like a ton of bricks: not only does she have no intention of coming back, but she seems to take pleasure in knowing that my pain and longing mean nothing to her. In her eyes, I never mattered, and my existence might as well be erased.

As painful as it is to admit, the person I once loved is gone. The Katarina I knew—the one I shared so many memories and dreams with—is dead. There’s no point holding onto the hope that she’ll return. She won’t. And it’s time I let her go, as hard as it may be.

So, I’ll take her up on her unspoken request. I’ll start living as if she no longer exists. Because, in a way, she doesn’t—at least not the version of her that I loved. And from here on out, it’s about moving forward without looking back, no matter how deep the scars run.