The Great Unknown…

I’ve been a co-conspirator of several serious and somewhat satisfying relationships. I have recently emerged from a Very Serious Relationship, the “grown up” type, you know, the one where the word MARRIAGE wasn’t just whispered but bellowed from the rooftops.

 “They” say you should give yourself a month for every year that you were in the relationship. 2 years = 2 months + 2 because I was extra pulverised, is my logical reasoning.

I’m not quite certain at this stage if I’m over it or not, truth be told. Aargh- the failure of it all!!! The massive scarlet “L” on my forehead! I’ve done the friggin “7 Steps”. I’ll tell you I don’t love the guy anymore, if it’ll make you leave me alone, OK?! I’m still achy and ouch.

So what’s a girl to do? Consider dating, of course. Dad always said when a horse throws you off, you bladdy get back on.

I read books. I consume them like Häagen-Dazs Dulce de Leche. I talk to my besties like they’re my 24-hour lifeline. We ponder, pontificate… we take it on board, we throw it back out, we wonder what we did wrong, we blame the bastards, we confide how much we miss them, we shriek relief at how glad we are they’re out of our lives.


Q: What is the best, healthiest way to move forward and start afresh?


I speak to men. Colleagues, all of my exes, bad boys, family, friends, foes, frogs, fags. I select a few snippets of truth for my rucksack, and then I decide that I shouldn’t listen to every Tom, Dick and Harry.

I talk to my ex, free of the angst of expectation, pressure and familiarity, thinking he will tell me how utterly amazingly perfect I am and oh God, how breaking up with me was the biggest mistake of his life. Alas, he doesn’t tell me any of that. I decide he’s delusional.  

I read “Women Who Love Too Much”. A few ‘Aha!’ moments, sure, but mostly I think the women featured are unconscious and have perpetuated their own tragic childhoods.

I read “The Rules” and almost kill myself choking with laughter on my Coke Zero.

I read “He’s Just Not That Into You” and am singed by the red hot element of truth. I decide it’s all too close for comfort and put it down halfway. Maybe later, when I am happily coupled and won’t take it all to heart.

I write a journal. I purge, cry, vindicate, commiserate, reflect with nostalgia and then reflect with embarrassment. OK. I’m getting tired of the sound of my own handwriting.

I listen to my entire shelving unit full of music. From Marilyn Manson to Miley Ray Cyrus, Portishead to Prince. I jump up and down, cry, scream along and feel… until there’s nothing left but a remotely grating bass line that needs to be switched off.

I go back home, ready for a welcome deserved by a champion who just came last in an arduous marathon. I relax with my family, talk, eat, sleep, heal, spiritualise. I chill out with my old school mates and hear their equally arduous stories and don’t feel so bad.

And then, I stop. I stop my tired old Analysis Paralysis. I breathe. Deeply. And then it dawns on me:

To get out there and get back on the proverbial horse, you need to be totally happy.

And just brush your teeth and leave the house.

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