Ex-boyfriend Bulimic

I had been doing (what I considered to be) so incredibly well. Of course, I have spent the last 2 weeks practically locked away inside my bedroom (or what can now only be described as festering pit of depression…and dirty washing), drifting in and out of half, anxiety ridden sleeps and bouts of hysteria. I venture out only with the promise of night outs (more concerned with the excessive drinking that comes with them than any other aspect that used to attract me). I am, like a vampire allergic to sunlight, developing a profound intolerance for week days. So unnervingly unchangeable, I sometimes completely forget what day it is. Sometimes I feel like a zombie (note all comparisons to the un-dead. Highly revealing of my current state of mind), just moving through each day without the slightest hint of emotion. I believe I am all cried out. I’m tired too. I should be burning thousands of calories during this week-long emotional workout. It’s simply exhausting.

Alright, so I hadn’t been doing that well, but he didn’t know that, and that was what was important. Yes, I may have been brutally unhappy, living in a state of hygiene known only by those suffering in the depths of third world countries and although every shred of pride had apparently deserted me (from my unshaven legs to my unplucked brows), to him, i remained pristine, his last memory of me somberly waving him goodbye from the platform (perfectly plucked and shaven). Having apologized for the valentines text (after which i was sure i had raped my dignity beyond recovery), i was well and truly rolling on down the high road...until last night.

Last night something gripped me. What it was, or why it happened remains unknown, try as i might to find what provoked it. Sheer panic took hold and i began rushing round the house tearing each drawer apart like some frenzied fool in the hopes that i had a phone bill or something...anything that still had his number on it (obviously having deleted it to avoid temptation). It took me ages, enough time for any sense to set in but it didn’t (perhaps that has deserted me too...maybe even my sense is having an affair). Even as dialed the numbers and pressed 'call' i knew the consequences of my actions would be dire. I was well aware that nothing good could come of it, yet still i dialed. Over and over again. Like a bulimic on some crazy binge who loathes themselves more with each mouthful but cannot bring themselves to stop. He never answered and i was reduced to a weeping foetus, curled up on the floor...angry, not at him, but at myself.

Feeling full of regret after my boyfriend binge i deleted his number off my phone once again, being sure to rip the phone bill into unsalvageable shreds, knowing it was the last record of his number i possessed.

It seems my phone has become like food to a bulimic, my opposition. My enemy. Only thing is, i can't purge myself of those unanswered calls. If only I could stick my fingers down my throat to take them back.

Helpless Bitches

There is a phsychological theory called 'learned helplessness'. It relates to the condition one develops in which they learn to behave helplessly, even if the opportunity arises to better their situation. It is often derived from the notion that we are capable of improving. Of doing better.

Could this term be applied to those of us weak enough to go back to the men that hurt us? By forgiving them time and time again are we simply propagating the idea that we can't do better? We convince ourselves of this belief so much so, that when the opportunity to escape from a destructive relationship makes itself known, when discrepencies are uncovered and lies unveiled, we simply ignore it.

Phsychologists used electric shocks on dogs to demonstrate the theory and found that those dogs who were not given the choice to stop the shocks (believing them to be inescapable) learned to be helpless, while those given a lever to cease them, did so and recovered. In a crude comparrisson between dogs and humans, perhaps when we women go back to these men, inadvertently accepting that being cheated on is unavoidable, we develop a sense of helplessness and no longer strive to find a relationship in which we are truly happy, believing instead, that we can not do better.

By saying 'i forgive you' we believe we are giving a good thing a second chance but really all we are achieving is the start of the slow and painful destruction of our confidence. Our self-belief. Ourselves. In saying 'its ok' we are, just like those dogs in the experiment, helpless bitches.

We justify our actions as 'forgiving' or 'understanding'. Label them as positive traits that we all hope to possess. Love is often sly and is able to cloak our perceptions and make us blind to the truth. This is not understanding, it is helplessness. Find the strength, first of all, to be objective, to step back and see that you deserve more. Secondly, find the strength to better yourself and to get what you deserve.

All it takes is to realise that cheating is not acceptable. No matter what a 'catch' you believe your man to be, if he cheats he is incomparably and extensively flawed and it is not up to you to be the helpless bitch to mend this flaw.

A (not so) Classy Affair

I left London feeling like a two dollar whore. The events of the previous night slowly finding a way into my concious thoughts through the haze of mint mojitos i had still been consuming only a few hours before.



The invitation said 'open bar'. I should have anticipated the consequences of this. The whole evening had been a glamorous affair. London's elite, including a recently named and shamed footballer and prestigious entrepreneur to name a few. The men in crisp suits sauntered between flirtations with beautifully dressed women and intense business-minded discussions with other men. You would have been hard pressed to find a mixture of the two. It was their breasts, not their brains that the women had on display that night.



His name was Jack (i didn't care for his last name, he didn't care for mine) and while at first i was aware of his intrest being purely directed at my long legs and short skirt, i was keen to prove (if not to him but to myself) that it wasn't impossible to indulge in interesting conversation with a girl of 18. I thought i was doing quite well. He seemed fairly smitten (i mistook his frequent fetching of more mojitos for courtesy rather than a ploy to get me drunk) and we chatted for hours on life, love and politics. I felt free to divulge my young age (he was only 30) in the hopes that he would make allowances for any ignorance that made itself known during our conversation and look on it as endearing rather than idiotic.



The end of the night came (as i quickly realised, this was only the 'official' end to the night). The staff were sent home and cabs (including mine) soon arrived. As i stood shivering, not wanting a fun night to be over, and the reality of work the next day (it was a Tuesday night) to set in, i felt Jack's hand on my shoulder and his warm, cigar tainted breath in my ear. His invitation was appealing and expressed with only friendly sincerity. He claimed there was an 'after-party' (perhaps i should have questioned his definition of after-party sooner) in the penthouse suite, where men and women from the party had continued to drink.

My judgement somewhat muddled from the effects of the open bar, i finished my cigarette and, hand in hand with this friendly stranger accompained him through the plush hallways of the hotel and up to a beautiful suite where the women had apparently already started Wednesday's work-handing out blow jobs apparently. In the middle of the living room, the beautiful decor was tainted by the sight of one obese male party goer indulging in what i can only dubiously conclude from my rather profound inexperience of them, was an orgy. Lines of coke were spread across a beautifully carved table, being paid as little attention as the orgy members from others wandering in and out of the room. I couldn't help but think 'some desperate addict would sell their left leg to shove that up their nose, and yet here these people are, practically pouring it into the carpet.' Talk about social distiction. 'Mind you', i concluded, 'these basterds might be bloody minted, doesn't stop them from being totally morally bankrupt though does it!'

I tried to inspect the chubby fingers of the orgy master for the inevitable tan line of a recently removed wedding ring but the seedy lighting of the event prevented such observations. I turned to find Jack, who had already poured me a gin and tonic and was eagerly thrusting it into my hands. I told him i had to go, that it was late and i had an early start. If it wasn't the uncomfortable tremble in voice that exposed my true feelings, it must have been the sudden absence of enthusiasm for drinking that i had displayed earlier. Jack told me it was ok, that he understood but that he wanted to talk to me before i went.

Whether it was curiosity or manners that made me follow him into (what i quickly found to be) the bathroom, i will never know but even i knew through my alcohol sodden sense that bathrooms and strange men are a recipe disaster. I tried feebly to strike up conversation about the bathroom fixtures but Jack failed to be impressed and if anything my interest in the sink fittings seemed to arouse him more (it was clear i had turned on his faucet!!!) Taking into account the harsh lighting of the bathroom and the abundance of awkwardly placed mirrors my reasons for wanting to leave became two fold: i would not indulge in sexual leasions with strange men, particually when our surroundings were so utterly unflattering.

Therfore, despite quiet defiance throughout, i let him kiss my neck for the obligatory 3 seconds (this can always be pushed up to 5 depending on external factors such as looks, money, charm etc) before feigning some sudden moral intervention and pushing him, perhaps a little too violently, away. Grabbing my bag as sobriety hurtled my way, i hurried out of the suite to the shouts of 'fucking tease' from Jack's previously eloquent mouth.

'Fucking tease' I ask you!? Is the kind of derranged world men live in, where to accompany them to an 'after party' having been promised good company and great alcohol is in reality an invitation to drag us to the bathroom and suck on our necks? Perhaps i should have been more forceful, but i had truly hoped that my polite refusal would lead to an amicable goodbye. Should have known better really shouldn't i? That is (i hope) the last time i mistake motive for manners and seedy for sweet. From now on, any man that buys me a drink will be treated with the utmost caution. Any man that buys me two, can fuck off.

The addict

Three years ago i read an email he had sent to his friend. It read 'It's getting silly cheating on her every week'. It was only 6months later after i read the email from a girl he had met on holiday which said 'i hope you meant all those nice things you said to me' that i confronted him. Of course he said he had never slept with them (i also believed this after he contracted chlamidya at uni...err DUH) which in my naivety made it ok, so i forgave him... yet again.

The thing is, he was my first love. The older boy at school who, at one point, i could only have dreamed of being with. At first it was infatuation. Quite quickly it was love. After love, everything went black and i look back now in disgust and horror at the stranger who i became over those first few years, like a helpless friend wanting to yank someone they love out of drug addiction. I suppose thats what you could call it, an addiction. The craving of something, or someone so badly that it doesn't matter how bad you feel after you have it or what you sacrifice to get it. If only someone had staged an intervention, weaned me off in the early stages, then maybe cold turkey wouldn't be so damn difficult now.

I look back and i see how far i went to mould myself into what he wanted me to be. I would run home before seeing him to change into the clothes i knew he liked, do my hair the way he wanted, do the things that turned him on. It's a wonder i retained enough of 'me' to eventually pull myself out. To turn round and tell him 'this isn't who i am'. But i did, and he liked it. Turns out, while i had been so concerned with changing the superficial aspects of my character, he had fallen in love with the profound aspects of myself, which i suppose i hadn't been cautious enough to conceal. Perhaps i should have used more hairspray.

So then i was just grateful and proud, i suppose. Proud that someone 'like him' could love 'someone like me' (be careful not to adopt labels like this; it is the best way to rapidly depreciate your self-worth). I was so blindly loved up with him that i ignored the random girls who would approach me in clubs and bars around our hometown telling me 'you're too good for him' or even 'you are so much better looking than him'. I refused to believe it, and the more he cheated the more lucky i felt that it was me who he loved. Me who he wanted to be with despite sleeping with all these older, more experienced girls. I look back now and i realise, these girls were probably girls he had slept with or friends of girls he had slept with, too kind to blurt it out bluntly in the girls loos, that the man i loved was a lying, cheating bastard.

I know he loved me. He really did. But what i realise now is that unlike me, he will never love anyone more than he loves himself and for that i am sorry. I am sorry that his new girlfriend is, i'm sure, a lovely girl. Probably full of trust and naivety, unaware of the rotten spoils of human nature. And i am sorry that his hedonistic and destructive approach to happiness will destroy this in her as it did me.

I am left with the scars of my addiction, the track marks of this abuse.
And sadly, like all scars, only time will help them to fade.

Leopards and Cheaters

They say leopards never change their spots, but i've been thinking, is it really fair for us to expect them (with their all ecompasing arrogance and predatory nature) to change themselves. After all, we are all only in control of our own actions, not the actions of others.



I'm all for giving second chances, but can anything that comes after really be deemed a 'chance', whether it be third, fourth or fifthteenth. After the second chance, surely cheating just becomes a predicatble pattern of behaviour, which, if we choose to endure, transforms a gracious act of forgivness into a blindly stupid act of self-degradation. Leopards do not change their spots, so why don't we just save ourselves the trouble.

Perhaps, instead of expecting the predator to change, should it not be us, the prey, who learns to adapt. Instead of falling victim to the leopards predicatble hunt, should we not learn to out smart them so we are no longer vulnerable to attack. We should learn to recognise tierd old tactics such as 'give me one more chance', 'i love you and never meant to hurt you' and my personal favorite 'it will never happen again'. Quite frankly, if you love someone, fair enough. But that love should never compromise the love you have for yourself. Oscar Wilde got it in one when he wrote in his 'Phrases and Philosophies For The Use Of The Young'' that 'to love oneself is the beginning of a life-long romance'. In that sense, while men can come and go, the only person you can rely on is you and the only possession you can be sure to maintain is your self worth.



Betrayal is the worst a person can do and the only person who can stop it, is you. The only way you can betray yourself is to settle for second best. So don't. Forgive but don't forget. Let the mistakes in a relationship be the building blocks for the future and the curb upon which to learn. But always remember, there is no such thing as a third chance. Anything after second, doesn't get placed.



Yes to second chances. No to second best.

Happy Valentines Shame

He has a new girlfriend. His friend told me. On Valentines day. Whilst i was drunk.

Actually, drunk is an understatement. The level of intoxication i reached that night having been told this news (with the same amount of tact as someone who buys louboutins for a double leg amputee) is one that only a broken heart could constitute. With each aspect of this story making it all the more horrific, like someone twisting the in blade further and further, one must have sympathy for why i sent what i sent to mend my poor sad soul (and which consequantly lost me the reminants of my shattered pride).

we have all done it. Lord knows i have, virtually everytime i go out in fact. A cringey message to a friend or potential love interest that you really wish you hadnt sent and quite frankly do not rememeber sending. Well imagine waking up to find the following message staring smugly back at you from your sent items like a little brother who's just shown his friends your diary entry about you first period. Imagine your heart sinking more with every next word.

'you are a fuckeing prick. i am goinh to get fucked by all the rugby boys and i hope they fuck me hard you heartless cunt. go fuck yourself you have broken my heart. enjiy taking out whatever slags your takingg out'

Not my finest literary moment i admitt. Please be careful to note the particually imaginative insults such as 'fucking prick', witty excessive use of swear words, precise use of punctuation and spelling and profoundly heart rendering and effective change of tone mid sentence such as 'go fuck yourself you have broken my heart.' Also do enjoy the use of 'all' instead of 'one of' when referring to my getting fucked by the rugby boys.

Now i accept this is not the ideal way to confront a delicate situation such as this. If i could go back and not have downed those fatal last vodka shots, i would. Because the fact is, i did get fucked that night. By myself. I fucked myself good and proper by sending that text.

That was two days ago.

I still haven't heard back.

He was supposed to love me. Vodka where are you now?