Letting go

So I am currently still trying to divorce the Arsehole ex. (He whose name must not be spoken will be referred to as Mr A(rsehole) from here forward.) In between the aftermath of seeing Mr F and trying to understand how and why I put up with sooo much shit from Mr A I discovered that I’m still totally fucked up and still have a lot of healing to do. In order to make it through the messy hell of divorcing a narcissist whilst trying to heal and not implode, somethings had to go. The first was work.
I needed some time out. It was the first time I’d ever admitted defeat and listened to my body. It was screaming at me to STOP. So rather than experience the breakdown that I could feel hurtling towards me with the force of a thousand Lewis Hamiltons, I took a leave of absence that would go on to last five months. 

Second to go was Tinder, Okcupid and the search for sex. I could not be doing with the stress of online dating with all its checking and waiting and swiping and updating and poor results. It seemed as though turning 36 had taken me over the desirability threshold. Notifications dried up; no fish were biting. This was like a death nell to my vagina which was already having a MAJOR self evaluating crisis over the appearance of a few grey hairs. To be honest though I was too busy just trying to make it through each day to do anything about it: there were no ‘come fuck me’ photos to edit or warm smiles to flaunt, no full body shots for me to upload. I didn’t have the energy to come up with any more witty but not too intimidatingly clever one liners. I weaned myself away from daily swiping, deleted the apps and focused on living life offline. There were a few trips back to it all but after a day or two I was always left underwhelmed by what was on offer.  

The last thing to go was my car. My first baby. I bought it in 2003 and sold it for £90 in May 2015. I thought I’d shed a tear but instead I felt liberated. These days I’m in the world not in my car. I’m connected. In the rain. In the warm sunshine. Connected to the pavement as well as the person sitting next to me on the train. 

I’ve let go of all sorts of things. Tossed weight out of my canoe and into the sea. I’m paddling to the left and then to the right, plunging my oar silently into the water. Life feels lighter, as does my boat, as do I. 

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Sex in the City of London

Ok so I have begun to refer to my new bed friend as Mr F. Partly because I am channeling my inner Sex in the City Samantha and because I always liked the brevity of Carrie’s Big. And also because when I asked for exclusive rights to his dick he said he didn’t want to put all of his emotional eggs in one basket. So he is now without a personality. Devoid of characteristics that might make me care. He has become for now at least just someone to fulfil my sexual desires. I do still keep abreast of developments on Tinder and now also Okcupid but goodness it’s a lot of work! Mr F may wish to keep his options open but I’ve got better things to do than to search for fresh meat. All I need is someone to tide me over until the end of the summer. For now I’d like to think that what I’ve got is a pretty efficient system.

He wants to sample all the dishes on offer at a cheap Chinese buffet while I like to order exactly what I like from the a la carte menu. But I guess when it comes down to it there’s no accounting for taste when both of you are just really fricking hungry.

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