It was just before 3am last night when it occurred to me that I might not be coping very well with my break-up after all.
There were a few subtle signs; namely that I was curled up, foetal position, on my hall floor, still wearing my stilettos, crying drunkenly and hugging my cat.
The Essex Boy broke up with me two months and six days ago. I didn't write much about him on this blog while we were together, but suffice to say I loved him very much. The reasons for our break up are simple - I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him, but he didn't want to spend the rest of his with me.
I had seemed to be coping pretty well. After taking a day off work to cry, I picked myself up, brushed myself down and carried on with my life. I took sleeping tablets at night so I wouldn't lie awake thinking about him, I swapped baths for showers, I signed up to help at my local Cadet Squadron so I'd be busy, I collected the gorgeous Oscar from Cat Protection, I had a fringe cut. Friends commented on how well I seemed to be coping as I chatted to my ex in the office (we work for the same company) and said wise, balanced things like, "He's not a bad person, he couldn't help how he felt."
Crucially though, I also embarked on a rebound. The Rebound was an army officer who pursued me relentlessly and made me feel sexy. However, he also called all the shots and lived for the drama. One night he'd be texting me until gone midnight asking about my sexual fantasies... the next night he'd pretty much ignore me while we were out with friends. I let this continue for six weeks, despite the fact that I wasn't even sure I liked him, and the sex was fairly mediocre.
Which brings me neatly back to why I was crying on the hall floor at 3am this morning. Being rejected by someone I wasn't even that interested in was a deeply unpleasant experience, and made me realise just how little I was valuing myself. Everything I've been doing has just been a distraction, and I've not allowed myself to grieve, because grieving hurts. Plus I don't want a new boyfriend - I can't imagine opening myself up to anyone at the moment - and I certainly don't want to be messing about with boys who purport to be almost thirty and yet behave as if they're characters in Dawson's Creek.
So I've made a decision - no men until at least Christmas. And I don't just mean no sex... I mean no kissing, dating, flirting... not even any lingering looks across the bar. I am one of the flirtiest people I know, so this might be tough, but I have to stop needing a man in the wings to be happy. The only men in my life will be my closest friends, my dad and brothers, my minky little cat, and this picture of Digby Ioane.
That's going to be enough for now.