How To Recognize The Moment You Realize You're Fully Content With Yourself

Marija Savic

I was driving home from work in the quaint resort town I live in. I had just changed the radio station, and I was thinking about the late-night gym sesh I was going to have as my eyes focused on the road in front of me.

Next thing I knew, my car was being pushed to the right, my air bag was going off and my head was jolted to the back of my seat.

My driver's side door was flung open, and the girl who hit me was asking if I was OK. Besides the pounding of my head, I was OK. A friend of mine had dropped friends off nearby. She came to check on me, along with a couple of other friends who walked down the street.

"I'm OK," I kept repeating to them.

Honestly, the reason why I opted not to go to the hospital right away was because I wrote for the local newspaper and I had work to do. My column deadline was the only thing I was worried about.

After the cops were called and insurances were exchanged, I was dropped off at my quiet, little house on the bay. I guessed my roommates were asleep because the only sound I heard in the house was the water swishing below it.

There was no one to comfort me, and weirdly, I was OK with that.

My bed, draped in Juicy Couture bedding and endless amounts of pillows, was comforting enough. I didn't need a man, I didn't need anyone to hold me to make me feel better and I definitely didn't need to be suffocated by affection.

I wasn't always this way, but a couple of (recent) past experiences made me change my mindset.

There was no one to comfort me, and weirdly, I was OK with that.

A few days before my accident, I hooked up with a former fuckboy of mine. I ran into him while out at the bar, and he drove us back to my house. The next morning, I left for a doctor's appointment 15 minutes away. When I came back to the house, he was still there, passed out on my bed.

It was a comfortable feeling to come home to someone in my bed, but at the same time, I just wanted to be like, “We had sex, you can get the fuck out now.” I haven't spoken to him since he left my house.

Over this past summer, I spent basically the whole season talking to one guy. I was under the impression that we were pretty much dating. I was wrong. He started to blow me off. And when I ran into him at a weekly bar spot, he told me he was there with someone else.

I didn't understand how he thought he could blatantly disrespect me, publicly humiliate me and not even feel bad. So, I retaliated by cursing him out and kneeing him in the balls. Aggressive, I know. But I couldn't help myself.

Releasing my anger like that was one of the most liberating feelings I had ever experienced.

I was finally able to let go because I had let everything out.

I finally realized that I don't need a fuckboy (or any boy, for that matter). Sex isn't a priority for me. And spending your 20s constantly worrying about someone else is not only stressful, but also dumb and time-consuming.

I was finally able to let go because I had let everything out.

I'll be 24 in a couple of weeks, and I really have my shit together. I pay my rent, my utilities are in my name, I work out, I go out and I manage my finances, time and schedule.

At the end of every day, I come home to an empty bed and smile. Because I'm 24, and I'm content with myself and my life.