Welcome.

It’s been over a year since I last wrote a blog post... A WHOLE FUCKING YEAR. It feels like a lot has happened this year, both good and bad, and I am really not too sure where to begin... But the start seems to be a good place, so here we go.

Things ended with Irish Guy (remember him?) in October last year. I had written a second blog post about what happened afterwards, which I never got around to finishing (it is still sitting in my drafts). I suppose I didn’t really know how to finish it at the time, but here is a short summary:

It Didn’t Work Out, The End.

And I am grateful for this. Everything happens for a reason.

Whilst things didn’t work out the way I thought they would, and whilst he wasn’t the guy I thought he was, ending things with Irish did help me realise one thing: I was fucking miserable and I was at breaking point.

The weeks leading up to (and following) the breakdown of that short relationship were awful. In fact, the relationship failing was just the tip of the iceberg. I had let years of hurt, upset and distress build up into this huge mental mess. There were things from my past that I had never really dealt with it and I was barely functioning by that point.

I took some time off work and went to the Doctors. I could barely speak as I told her how worthless I felt. She diagnosed me with severe depression and anxiety, and I was referred to Healthy Minds for an assessment. She recommended medication which I initially refused, however, after a few weeks, I went back and got a prescription.

Depression is a funny thing.

Some days, you can feel pretty ok. You put on a face full of make up and wear your favourite outfits. You make plans to see your see your friends, you go out and you feel alive. You take care of your body. You talk, you laugh. You’re the life and soul of every party. People talk about you as the “happy, hilarious, outrageous one”... The one that is least likely to be depressed.

Then there are the other days. The days where I would get home from work on a Friday night, and not get up again until Monday morning. The days where I couldn’t stop crying. The days where I didn’t cry at all because I was numb. I comfort ate. I starved myself. I often thought about suicide. I wouldn’t shower or get dressed for days, and I hated going to work. When I did go to work, I would just sit there and stare at the computer screen. Then, when I got home, I would sit and stare some more.

I avoided making plans with friends as I didn’t have the mental energy to go out and talk. I would “forget” to reply to messages because I couldn’t always put together sentences. I didn’t want to discuss me. I didn’t want to ask my friends questions about their lives, not because I had no interest, but because I selfishly couldn’t. All I had, was a feeling of emptiness.

I started taking medication which, as was described to me by my Doctor, gave me a bit of a chemical balance. I felt quite “meh” about things and stopped experiencing some of the real lows of my depression. I am not one for taking medications unless it is really necessary, but I am so glad I took it, especially as I was on a waiting list for therapy.

I have always thought I was quite strong. I don’t think I have had the toughest of lives compared to some, but I have had my fair share of shit. I so desperately wanted to change, and I knew that I had to as I couldn’t keep on living miserably. But I didn’t know how to drag myself out of it. I felt like I had no life and that I didn’t have a purpose. I just existed.  

I had an initial assessment with Healthy Minds where we discussed what had led me to my current state. I think the assessment was about 50 minutes or so long (mostly of me crying). The lady doing my assessment was so kind and patient with me. She ran through my treatment options and it was decided that I needed a course of Cognitive Behavioural Therapy (CBT) with a local therapist. I wasn’t allowed to know how long the waiting list was (it turned out to be 3 months), but whilst I waited, I had to try and start recovering.

The first thing I did, was quit my job. I had been there for over 4 years and I hadn’t progressed like I envisaged. Also, it was making me fucking miserable. I had to give three months notice, and whilst I didn't have anything to go to, knowing that there was an end point gave me hope.

With the help of my good friends, I started working on plans. I booked a trip to NYC with my best friend and I got tickets to Glastonbury. I was lucky enough to get the ballot for the London Marathon so I had a goal to train for. I booked in things to look forward to which, as I learned, was so important for long term recovery.

I ploughed through Christmas and spent a lot of time with my friends and family. I left my job in January and started CBT the following week. The first session was tough. We talked about my experiences, my thoughts, and what I hoped to get from therapy. We then set out a plan for what we were going to do.

My therapist asked me how I felt about myself and I found it quite easy to answer her:

“I feel like I am not good enough for anything. In fact, I have never felt good enough... Work, relationships, men, school, hobbies, friendships... I feel worthless. I just don’t see the point in trying or doing anything”.

So, that's what we set out to work on. To try and change the underlying belief that I wasn’t good enough - something that had stuck with me for many years. One key piece of advice she gave me, was that this belief wasn't going to magically change overnight and it would take time. Undoing over 15 years of destructive and intrusive thoughts, was never going to resolve quickly.

My first few sessions of CBT were aimed at trying to function. I had to keep a schedule and set realistic goals of what I wanted to achieve that week. The goals could be anything I wanted: a shower, texting a friend back, applying for a job, going for a run... The aim was to try and achieve these because it would give me a good feeling about myself. If I didn’t achieve something, it was ok to feel shit about it. It was also ok to have a bad moment, a bad day and a bad week. Once I let the bad feeling happen, I moved on and started again.

About 4 weeks into therapy, I got a new job doing something that was completely new to me. I loved the challenge and it fortunately came at the right time. Once I had settled into a routine with work, I was tasked with keeping a thought diary. I had to write about things that happened during the week and how it made me feel. We also tackled historic incidents. This led to lists of things I liked about myself, achievements that I am most proud of, and moments in my life where I have felt good enough. I had to start doing things out of my comfort zone as well, like take up a new hobby, join a new gym, go to event and talk to someone new.

I completed over 18 sessions of CBT before I was put on the recovery programme in September. I also came off my medication around this time. There were so many tools in addition to the above that my therapist gave me which I continue to use (perhaps I will write about this in more detail in another post). All of the tools were to tackle one thing: that I was a good person and that I am good enough. I also had to learn to try and not dwell on what’s happened in the past, and try and live in the present. 

I don’t think I am fully recovered, and I am not sure that I will ever be. I think that anyone and everyone could suffer from a mental illness... And I think that once you start to suffer, it stays with you. I don’t see this as a bad thing. Surely our biggest battles partly make us who we are?

Going forward, I am excited to what happens over the next year. I would like to blog more, travel more, set and achieve more goals, and continue to build friendships and relationships. All whilst continuing to reaffirm self-belief. I am not afraid to put myself first, especially not where my feelings are concerned. I am good enough after all.

A couple of years ago, I was in a relationship with a guy I labelled The Perfect Man. The Perfect Man soon became relabelled as The Cheating Man because... Well... That's what he is.

Something I didn't talk about in my historic posts, was how I discovered that he was a cheat. I guess the reason was because I didn't want him to know how I found out. I have no doubt that he is a serial cheat and I didn't want to give him any tips on how to avoid future exposure. I wanted to leave him feeling paranoid and vulnerable... The way he made me feel. I doubt he ever read my blog posts at the time and I am pretty certain he doesn't read them now.

The Cheating Man first contacted me on Valentines Day, 2014. I know, I know... Romantic, right? He followed my blog and sent an email entitled "Bolt Out The Blue". The general gist of the email was that he thought I was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen and that he had to reach out to me. I ignored the email for a few weeks, but with my optimism low after another failed date, curiosity got the better of me and I emailed him back.

I found out that he had read my blog and seen pictures of me on Instagram. I must have had a link to this blog on my Instagram at some point, before I decided to go anonymous. He said on his emails that he didn't really use social media:

"I have been living under a rock all this time, so they tell me...". He did say that he had just downloaded Instagram, so he started to follow me.

We met around a month or so after we begun chatting. Prior to us meeting, I became paranoid that I was being catfished as I had only seen a couple of pictures of him. Things seemed a little too good to be true. So I did a search for him on Facebook to see if he was who he said he was... And I found him. There had been no updates since 2012. I had no choice but to believe whatever he told me... And that he didn't really use any social media.

Our first weekend date went great and we quickly planned for him to come down for Easter. He told me that he was originally from Neilston, a town outside Glasgow, and that he was currently living in Aberdeen. He said that he travelled a lot for work and was often in Glasgow, which is where he used to live with an ex girlfriend.

Easter weekend soon arrived. We met on Saturday and he was scheduled to fly back to Scotland on Easter Monday. We spent Saturday sightseeing and eating, before bar hopping in Notting Hill. We had tickets for an Oasis exhibition on Sunday.

My memory is pretty good when I am drunk. I seem to remember a lot of things that happen, which is not always a good thing. I do recall him getting some text messages during the night from one of his friends, who was apparently upset that he was in London. He showed one to me, and it said something along the lines of "I can't believe what you're doing". He replied saying "you're just jealous". It was a little odd, but I just put it down to drunk lad chat.  

In the morning, his phone kept ringing and he had a flurry of messages come through. He said that his family dog was sick, and that he may need to go home earlier than planned. He then said that he had missed his flight because it had been booked incorrectly... He was all over the place.

We went to the exhibition and then for lunch in Covent Garden. He was pretty quiet and constantly on his phone. My mind was going into overdrive, wondering if I had upset him in some way... Did I say something when I was drunk? Did I ask too many questions about him missing his flight? It couldn't possibly have been for any other reason, could it? In the end, he got the National Express at 11pm rather than stay and fly back early Easter Monday.

Something didn't sit right with me. I asked him outright, was there someone else? He said no, of course not:

"This is because I left early, isn't it? I only left because I wanted to get home to my parents... That's all. There is nothing else going on".

I felt a pang, deep inside my stomach. Some call it gut instinct, others call it a woman's intuition. I call it a blessing and a curse. A mixed feeling of intense butterflies, nausea and anxiety... It was, is, horrible. And you can't shake it. My mind went into overdrive as I started to analyse his messages and replay conversations, over and over again. Something was amiss.

I went back to his Facebook profile. He didn't know that I found it and I never sent him a friend request. It was pretty blank. There was a cover picture from 2012 of a castle, with one like, and a couple of old profile pictures. So I clicked on the "one like" profile page. 

It brought me to a page of a woman called Marie. I had a scan through her pictures and saw a historic selfie of her and The Cheating Man. It was from October 2013, so before we were together... Ex girlfriend, maybe? There were no other pictures of him on her page. He had not commented on anything either and it seemed quite innocent. I found out that she has two teenage children and lives in Kilbirnie, which is south of Glasgow.

Whilst there were not any further pictures of him on Facebook, I started to make a lot of connections. Prior to the Easter break, he said he was staying at a friends house for the night and that they had a Jack Russell puppy. He had also previously sent a picture of him dressed up in make-up, which he said his little cousin had done. As I looked at various Facebook profiles, I noticed that the dog belonged to Marie. The little cousin, was her daughter.  

When we first started talking, I had googled his number to make sure he was who he said he was. Nothing came up other than a few old entries on Gumtree. I searched again, and somehow stumbled across more recent adverts. They were not based in Aberdeen.  

The one thing that I knew was that he was a liar, even if at this point, I didn't know he was a cheat. Perhaps I should have cut ties with him once I discovered this, but it almost became a bit of a game to try and find out the full truth. You know the saying, when you have an itch... He made me think it was all in my head. The anxiety ate me up inside and I couldn't relax.

I had a sinking feeling that he wasn't just lying to me, but, that he was cheating on me. And, even worse, living with someone else. I started to scrutinise every picture he sent me. I matched up furniture, floorboards, bedsheets and stacks of shoes in the background, with pictures on her profile. I noticed that on his blog account, he had not cropped his selfie properly. I discovered that he had previously had another Instagram account that he had deleted before creating his new one.

I found his Twitter profile, and hers, which unfortunately were both on private. I requested a follow but he never accepted, citing that he hadn't had time to go online... He had time to delete some tweets though. I also found her Instagram profile, where it became clear that they were together. She didn't post very often, which ultimately drew out the process in putting the pieces together.

This didn't all unfold immediately. About a month after Easter, I drove up to Glasgow for the night. I knew he was lying to me about a lot of things, but at this point, I couldn't prove that he was cheating. I picked up on a lot of things though... His phone was always face down. He had size 12 clothes hangers. He disappeared from our hotel room at 1am and didn't know where he went.

After I left Glasgow, things went downhill. He was full of empty promises and often lied about us seeing each other. One night, he told me he was coming down to see me and that he was staying with friends in Camden. He kept me "updated" on his travel movements during the day, and suddenly went quiet at 5pm. We were due to meet at 6pm. He ignored phone calls and messages. I drove into London around 7pm, just on a whim that he might suddenly say he's there. Nothing. I got an email from him around 9pm when I was on my way back home:

"My phone was in the car charging. Where are you?".

If your phone is in the car, how can you send an email? Why could you not go and get your phone? I didn't hear from him again until the next night.

Things came to a proper end around September 2014. We had little to zero contact by this point and it should have ended sooner than it did. He had every chance to leave things as they were when he "dumped" me at the start of August. But, he came running back with apologies. I should never have listened to his apologies and excuses for his ill-treatment of me. He used every excuse apart from the one thing that he should have said, which was, "I have been cheating on you... And my girlfriend".

Just before we severed ties, I found out their exact address. He never lived in Aberdeen and had been living with her since 2012. There was a video of him on Instagram doing gardening outside the house that they shared. I matched it up with records from 192.com and sent a huge parcel of his belongings, to their house... By special delivery. I coated it in my signature Chanel perfume and I ensured there was no return address. They are still together.

The thing is, cheaters always get caught... One way or another. And so do liars, especially crap ones. Perhaps I wasted way too much time and effort on trying to catch this one out... But you know what, I am glad I did. I proved to myself that my gut instinct was right. It's difficult to let go of someone who makes you think that it is impossible to live without them, and ultimately, you do things in your own time. 

"There's nothing worse than meeting the perfect person at the wrong time".

If you follow me on Twitter, then you may already be familiar with Irish. And the story of Irish.

Irish is, well, Irish. We met at my best friends wedding in Galway on New Years Eve, 2015, where I was a bridesmaid. He’s a friend of Bestie’s husband and was there with his girlfriend. Part of my job, as a bridesmaid, was to mingle with the 200 guests and assist my Bestie as she made her way around the dinner tables. I was extremely unwell at the time and I first bumped into Irish when I was at the bar getting a medicinal gin.

"You should have a hot whiskey"...  

Who is this joker? Doesn't he know about my long term relationship with Hendricks? I probably should have taken his advice given my hangover, but, my  stubborn self wasn't prepared to dump gin at that particular moment. 

I bumped into Irish a few times during the night. I liked him. Aside from being ridiculously attracted to him, he just made me smile. I overheard him say how wonderful I was to a few people, which, I just took as a job well done in being a bridesmaid. His girlfriend was not hugely impressed with his compliments though. I was dancing with Bestie's cousin, when she came up to me and said that I was attractive, and I dressed well... For someone that's big.

The wedding passed and I was soon back home, living my life as normal. Irish would sometimes pop up as a suggested friend on Facebook. I often thought about adding him, but I knew he had a girlfriend so I didn't bother. Bestie kept me up to date with the lives of people I had met at the wedding anyway. She was not overly keen on the girlfriend so she was delighted when they broke up around June time.

“They’ve split up. Why don’t you add him as a friend... Just have the craic with him”.

But I didn’t. I had only met him once and I wasn’t about to become anyone’s rebound. A few weeks passed, when not long after my birthday, he sent me a Facebook friend request.

“You should send him a message”.

Again, I just ignored it. I just told myself that he was getting back out there with his social life now that he is single. I also knew that the break up was particularly difficult on him so I decided to keep my distance.

It wasn't long before Bestie joined us both in on a Facebook conversation, which then led to us messaging. The messaging led to WhatsApp. The Whatsapping led to lots of telephone calls and discussions of me going over to Ireland.

So, that's what I did. On August bank holiday weekend. I stayed with Bestie and her husband. We spent the entire weekend as a foursome, going on excursions, going for drinks and just generally having a great time. It went better than either of us ever imagined. We just loved being with each other. He went on to book flights over for a wedding reception. He also booked a four day trip to London for November and we planned that I would go over for Halloween.

Irish disclosed early on that he had Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD). I often did some reading up on it so I could fully appreciate what it was and what it meant. I also needed to be prepared for the 'what ifs'. From the things we had discussed, there have been some awful moments in his life that have been a result of this condition. And some terrible relationships too.

The thing is, his BPD didn't really affect us. We were both extremely aware of it and we never wanted to rush anything. We agreed from the outset that we would take it day by day, enjoy each moment and just have fun. Knowing that he had just come out of a shit relationship, we were both cautious and wanted to enhance each others lives... Not make things difficult. That being said, I was clear about what I wanted, and that was to be with him. I didn't expect that right away, but I needed him to know that there was no other option for me.

We have always been open and honest with each other from the start. About everything. There was no bullshit with him. No games. I always knew where I stood and felt no anxiety about us. The day before I flew out to Cyprus, he said he was not feeling well at all. We spoke on the phone for over an hour about him, us, his past, his mood... I felt helpless because I didn't know what to say or what to do. So I listened. I've never heard a man speak which such emotion and such doubt about what he could offer me, or anyone. It was one of the hardest conversations I have ever had.

During my trip to Cyprus, he admitted himself into hospital with his parents by his side. And he has been there for around 3 weeks now. It was the best thing for him because otherwise, who knows what might have happened to him. The hospital isn't the Hilton. But it's a necessary evil.

He calls me when he is feeling up to talking. And we text daily. I am also in contact with one of his good friends who has been able to go and visit. He was due to come over on Friday for the wedding reception, but, he ended up being too sick to be discharged from hospital. Something I expected.  

There is no cure for BPD. One in ten people who have it, successfully commit suicide. People do learn to manage their symptoms with medication and different types of therapy. But it takes time. A lot of time. And perseverance. It doesn't ever go away, but you can live with it.

He found out on Thursday that he couldn't make it over to me. His medication was increased to the point where all he could do was sleep. It takes a few days for the body to get used to the medication... And for things to be a little less hazy in the mind. Which brings me to last night.

"I have a lot to work on in the next while and it's going to be tough. I am really looking forward to the trips we have planned but I need you to know that I can't be anything more than friends whilst I go through this... I need to get on top of this for the first time in my life. I know what you're looking for and I don't want to let you down... You're the best in the world but I can't give you what you deserve... If I break your heart in 6 months time, I won't forgive myself... I still want to have you as my friend because you're fucking awesome..."

I expected it. But it was still so painful to hear.

"All I can offer you, is chaos at best and heartbreak at the worst. You deserve to be very happy".

The timing of this whole relationship, is the worst.

The main priority, as far as I am concerned, is that he gets himself well. And on top of his mental health. Because if you don't have your health, what do you have?

But... I don't know if I can be his friend. Not at least right now. I don't think I am strong enough to separate my feelings away from friendship. As for the trips we have planned... I want to go on them with him. But... I don't know if I can. I don't know if I can not touch him, not kiss him, stay in the same bed as him and not curl up into his arms.

I am due to fly over on Wednesday even though he didn't want visitors last week. But... I don't know if I can go. I don't know if I can see him, and then walk away from him, without feelings.

Is there anything worse than meeting the perfect person at the wrong time? Turns out there is.

"Your 30's are the best years of your life"...

Said by everyone who is in their 30's or passed it. I am only a year in, but I am starting to agree that this decade is, and will be, an ok one. And I've learnt some shit too. Here's a teaser:

Hangovers get worse...

If I am tearing up the dance floor with a bottle of Bombay on Saturday night, you can bet I am still suffering with the aftermath on Tuesday morning. Gone are the days where I can go out, drink until I sink (into a 5am McDonald's), and get up the next morning for the gym (AKA balls deep in brunch).

I can't hack it. I bang on about how I can deep throat a bottle of Pinot, but in reality, I just get sick-o. Even if I am no longer nauseous on Tuesday, I will be paranoid and think that even the postman has issues with me.

Orgasms get better.

I can count on one hand, the amount of guys who were interested in my orgasm in my early 20's. One of my exes, who I was with for about a year and a half, "didn't like going down on women". I will let you do the O maths. And O(h), FYI, he expected to receive at every possible opportunity.

I put better orgasms down to age and the fact that I am more comfortable and confident with my body. I am not afraid to say what I want, what I like and what I expect. Also, I literally don't have the time to fuck around.

Cooking becomes so fucking important that you refuse to buy sauce in a jar.

There's something about reaching your 30's and wanting to cook or bake everything from scratch. And can we please, just talk about how special Tupperware is? Freshly baked cake ain't the only moist thing in this kitchen right now.  

Is there anything more satisfying than going shopping for your organic wanker produce and hitting the kitchen for a hot and sweaty session? No...? Well, actually there probably is unless you were 21 year O me. (BTW, nothing is more satisfying that piping the perfect rose on a cupcake, just-fucking-saying).

Onion running mascara, tomato puree up the wall, red wine down your throat rather than in the sauce... Doesn't make for a sexy cook-a-thon. And if you think you can give a mixing bowl a vigorous tossing without a bra on, you can think again. DATC Lawson? More like DATC Grossman.

Everyone has a slight intolerance to wheat and/or dairy.

You know the saying... Too much of a good thing, is bad for you. The same can be said for bread, cake, ice cream, cheese, men... Oh, and by the way...

You learn to accept that doing a shit in a public toilet, is just a part of life.

Oh shit, why did I have all the sides AND all that fucking cheesecake? Because it's delicious (and part of the offer), that's why. Listen, few things in life are certain, but one is that you die, and the other is that shit happens. So let it. Can't be coping with a Black Sabbath belly grumble.

Bridezillas are real.

Not only are they real, they are massive fucking bitches. And don't worry if you start to hate your best friend, the bride... It's totally acceptable and you shouldn't feel bad about it. 

It is a forgone conclusion that people around you start to get married, particularly towards your late 20's and early 30's. Weddings are great. I love the atmosphere, the food, the dancing, the celebration of love, the drink... Even the wedding cake, when I am not too pissed to get myself a slice. I particularly love the sound of my own voice on the mic when I have hijacked it from the band.

What I don't like, is brides who get worked up over every little thing. I get it, it's an important day and everything has to be perfect... But please, calm the fuck down.

BTW, you can tell them that they are being a bitch, just pick the right moment (after the wedding).

It's ok to cut people out of your life.

You outgrow people. That's a fact. But sometimes, there are people that you just don't like anymore. And it's ok to cut them out of your life. Especially, if they add nothing of value to your own. Old friends can become past friends, it doesn't mean that they were not important once.

It's also perfectly ok to unfriend the bragging Facebook wanker. I really don't care that you're on day 4 of the "Love My Spouse" challenge, babe... A bit like how I don't care that your husband is using Tinder.

You become more comfortable and positive with your body.

Maybe the growth of social media is partly to blame for this, as well as age, but there does come a point where you're just more peaceful with yourself. That doesn't mean that you don't have struggles. You're just more accepting of yourself... You kind of know who you are.

Things go south.

I mean breasts. Can't even see my nipples anymore. But that's ok, I carry a compact mirror in my bag.

Don't change yourself for anyone, particularly a partner.

The training took up a large part of my social life. I would often need to be available on a Saturday or Sunday for a long run so I could not always do what I wanted. I needed a clear mind and a clear body, otherwise I couldn't focus. It was hard work. I changed my eating habits and, as a result, I lost around two stone. I suffered with injuries and sore limbs. One night, the pain in my heel was so bad that I couldn't sleep. I walked barefoot around the office because my blisters couldn't face my heels. I cried under the pressure and continuously doubted myself.

I got into my last relationship during the first couple of weeks of training. In those initial weeks, he was very supportive and encouraging. He was often on the receiving end of my self doubting messages, telling me how proud he was of me and citing that he couldn't do it. Although things ultimately didn't work out due to his actions, I do have to acknowledge the support he gave me, even though it was short lived.

I was due to go for my final 16 mile run on the day we broke up. The marathon was two weeks away. He had been acting distant for a couple of weeks prior to the break up, and my anxiety levels were through the roof. It felt like I hadn't made any progress since I was diagnosed in 2014. On the day of our break up, I asked him what had changed and he didn't have answers. All I knew was, I couldn't run the marathon with that level of anxiety.  

As things turned out, he had cheated on me. He has a history of lying and never ending relationships properly. He sabotages relationships with good women and then alleges that he cannot trust them, which is a real shame. I found a lot of this out after two ex girlfriends got in contact with me. They say everything happens for a reason. These women got in contact after reading my blog post, and I will be forever grateful for that as they have helped me move forward quicker. They have given me some of the closure that he was not man enough to give me.

That weekend, I ended up doing a round trip of 16 miles from Chiswick to Trafalgar Square. It was the best run I had done, and it was the first time I had run in London. Despite my sadness, my anxiety was lifting and I was marathon ready. Mentally and physically.

In the lead up to the event, I realised just how many wonderful friends I had. I mean, I knew I had it good, but not this good. The constant stream of support for the marathon and for my welfare, was almost overwhelming. The days flew by and I started to get excited at seeing all the news articles and pictures of the marathon set up. One of my good friends came with me to the expedition which was where I had to register and pick up my running number. It was such a fun and exciting process, especially going for gin after (and probably the only time I was happy to stop at just two drinks)!

The actual day of the marathon seems so long ago now. I have even forgotten how the pain felt, just about, but I can remember the small but more important details. 

I remember the journey to the start line and tweeting a picture of my hand. I was on the tube travelling from Chiswick to Greenwich, surrounded by other runners. A lady singled me out of the crowd to wish me good luck before she got off the train. I remember bumping into and hugging other MIND runners as we waited to cross the start line. It was cold and I needed the toilet. We shared stories about why we were running. One had lost her brother to suicide.

I remember the cramp I got at mile 8 and reaching for the emergency hydration sachet in my back pocket. I remember running past the Cutty Sark and thinking about the school trip I went on when I was 12. I remember the cheers I got from a group of women who were wearing t-shirts that said "Too Fat To Run". I remember running through Bermondsey and seeing a guy I went on a date with. He was a spectator and stood in the middle of the route, AKA, in the way. He saw me and ignored me. I laughed to myself as I ran past him because I had a feeling I would bump into him... Also, what a wanker.

I remember screaming at the MIND support group at around mile 12. Then I turned a corner and saw Tower Bridge, which is where my friends and family were. I remember getting to mile 16 and wanting to quit. I met a runner called Leann. We talked, had a giggle. She picked me up at my lowest point.

I remember getting to mile 18 and seeing my friends and family again. I cried and told them I couldn't do it. Everything hurt. I daren't stop because my body would have seized up. I was worried about my time and worried about being last. I really had to dig deep mentally, and telling myself "you will finish this". I remembered my colleagues words "20% physical, 80% mental".

I remember being furious at a slight incline at mile 20, but also, elated because I knew at that point I was going to finish it. I remember going down Pall Mall and seeing a guy being carried to the finish line by his friends. I got to the last mile and saw my friends and family again.  

I remember crossing the finish line to "Everywhere" by Fleetwood Mac and being given my medal. I had my finishers photo taken but my hands were so swollen, I couldn't do a thumbs up. I remember my mum having a wrestling match with a marshal, because she tried to jump a barrier (this is why she is not allowed out in London). I remember going to a Weatherspoons and enjoying a glass of fizz... Until a kid threw up next to me.

I remember the taxi ride back to my friends house, where he kept shouting out the window "my friend ran the marathon" and I kept telling him to shut the fuck up. I wore my medal for about 3 days solid.

I always think that I am a weak person... I pick bad men. I concentrate on things I can't do. I torment myself with things I am not good at. I tell myself I can't do something and then mentally list the reasons why. I have ideas, dreams, goals... And I then talk myself out of them.

If I learned anything from this experience, it's that anything is possible. You can do anything you want to do, with a little drive, and a shit load of determination. I am a lot stronger than I give myself credit for.

“Running is not just for those who are fit and healthy and strong. Running is a life-breathe for those who struggle with physical and mental illness, self-doubt, loss, anger, regret and other unspeakable pains. Why? Because running has the power to heal, to bring perspective, to instil confidence, to restore sanity and to make us believers again. This is why I run.” Susan Husband

I was sat in my office this time last year, talking to two of my colleagues:

"I am going to do the London Marathon next year".

The marathon was something that I had wanted to do for years, but for all those years, I didn't have the courage to. I didn't believe in myself. I didn't think that I was capable. And probably more realistically, I didn't think that physically I could do it. Fat people don't run. If they do, they don't run marathons. And if fat people do run marathons, I sure as shit hadn't seen them.

So, that day, I committed myself to the challenge and entered the ballot.

Back in July 2014, I entered the last year of my 20's. I was in a shitty relationship with the Cheating Man which was on the verge of a long and painful break up. A break up that dragged on for two months. At the time, I was having counselling sessions for depression and anxiety. I had previously been diagnosed with depression, but anxiety was a new one. For me, there is some overlap in the symptoms, but they are quite different.

During that period, I had a constant feeling that I was worthless and nothing would shift it. My life, in my eyes, was falling apart. I would wake up each morning with a constant feeling of stomach knots. Dread hovered over me like a stormy cloud and it would stay there all day. I didn't always feel sad or upset, which as I understand, is a common misconception about depression... I just felt... Nothing. On edge. On edge about nothing. You hear that sometimes the saddest person, can hide behind the biggest smile. That was me.

With anxiety, I found myself needing to get out of the house a lot. That was weird for me as I was so used to my mental health issues stopping me from going out. I can only describe it as a continuous need to shake something off. A bit like when you do warm up stretches in the gym and you jump about like a tit, flailing your arms. It's a need to physically get rid of a feeling. 

It was summer and the weather was nice, so I started taking myself up to the fields in the evening. I would walk. I would think. I would scream inside. I would listen to music. And sometimes, I would run. I wouldn't run very far, perhaps no more than half a mile in total. I wasn't a runner and I didn't even own a sports bra (despite being a gym goer). There would usually be people in the fields walking their dogs, so I wouldn't run unless the coast was clear.

I started to enjoy the mental challenge of seeing if I could run from one corner of the field to the next. But I was never in a position to take it out onto the roads. I dreamed of it but it wasn't a reality. I just didn't have the confidence, and I didn't want to have to worry about who was watching me.

I got over the break up with the Cheating Man. That took me more time than I care to admit, which is what can happen when you don't necessarily get the closure you deserve. I stopped running in the fields, mostly due to the weather and dark nights, and went back to the treadmill in the ladies gym. After I made the mental commitment to the marathon, I decided that it was about time I got back out into the fresh air.

Of course, at this point, I did not have a place in the marathon as the ballot results were not released until October 2015. But, there was no harm in working on my fitness and, more importantly, my mental health issues. I headed back up to the fields. Unfortunately, due to some changes in the land control, they had been cordoned off to the public so I had to resort back to the treadmill. I promised myself that I would eventually get out and onto the roads.

The ballot results were released and I didn't get a place. I kind of knew that I wouldn't because it's such a tough process. My only other option was to apply for a charity place where you have to pledge to raise money. I had a look at the charities offering spaces which is when I spotted MIND. It was the perfect charity choice and something that I could fully support. After completing the application, I was lucky enough to be offered a place on the team.

Shit just got real.

I told a few people that I was going to do the marathon and luckily most were really supportive. Some people did openly laugh in my face and I think a few just didn't believe that I was going to do it. Just more motivation, right?

Before Christmas 2015, I became quite run down and unwell. I had two bouts of tonsillitis within a month, followed by a flu virus and a chest infection. And then on Boxing Day, I started to get run down again. This was just before I was due to fly to Ireland for eight days for my friend's wedding. I battled for those eight days and took over the counter medicines. I felt horrific. When I came back, I was diagnosed with infections in both ears as well as another chest infection.

Given the fact that I was supposed to have started properly training at this point, I really toyed with the idea of pulling out. It would have been much easier. Being a non-runner, and rather unfit, how the fuck was I effectively going to go from couch to 42k in three months? 

It took about three weeks for me to recover from the sickness and I started my training plan towards the end of January. I gave myself two weeks on the treadmill, before making the commitment to get out on the streets. Those first two weeks were a real struggle. I could not run a mile without having to get off the machine. I said to my mum and dad "I am not going to do this, am I?". They said:

"Of course you are. You can do anything".

I remember the first time I went out on the street. It was a Sunday evening at about 8pm. It was dark, raining, hailing and the winds were in full force. I chose to go at this time because I knew the roads would be quiet. I could remain inconspicuous. No judgemental looks, no remarks and no vehicle ogling. I felt safe, which was ironic given that it was dark and there were no street lights. After a few runs in the evening, I progressed and braved my first daylight run on a Saturday. You know what... It wasn't so bad.

After I posted yesterday's blog entry, I went to bed feeling like a weight had been lifted off my shoulders. I poured myself into that blog post, as I do with my blog in general, and I felt better about things. I know deep down that I won't ever get any closure or explanation from him about what happened, so writing about it is my version of self help... My therapy... And something to inevitably allow me close that chapter of my life.

My thoughts, feelings and emotions were out there for everyone and anyone to read. And for him to read, if he so wished. I closed my laptop and then I slept.

I woke up this morning to an almost overwhelming response of support from friends, readers and Twitter followers. Some shared their own struggles with the resounding words "you're a good person, you deserve more". Some commented on what a good read it was and how sorry they were. And others shared their experiences, which were, rather alarmingly, similar to mine.

I opened up my DM's and found a message from a follower who I had never spoken to before:

"Morning. I know you have no idea who I am but I follow you and a handful of other dating bloggers and tweeters after my own dating experiences... So when I saw the picture crop up of who you were dating a while back, I was slightly surprised as I had the pleasure of him this time last year. I just read your latest blog post and I am so sorry it happened... Because it happened to me...".

Ok.

It continued:

"I met him on POF. Looking back it was farcical... No more than 6 weeks or so, but so much happened and didn't happen. It was quick, all lovely, promises and treats. Thursday night was date night, but he let me down on two occasions due to work commitments. Looking back, I don't believe that was the case but I went with it. I met his family and his daughter, I spent the whole day with them... Then, after, I never saw him or them again. The next day, he didn't read my last message and he blocked me on whatsapp. He wouldn't pick up the phone or just admit that he lost interest. I was fine with it, but I just wanted to know where I stood because he said he wasn't like the others. I texted him to ask why I was blocked, and he said he was avoiding speaking to me because his granddad was gravely ill and in hospital. I never heard from him again, until he appeared on your timeline".

I just stared at my phone. I almost laughed as I thought back. Is this for fucking real?

So not only did he cheat on me, lie to me and then offer me no explanation or apology before disappearing into thin air... He has a history of this type of behaviour. Question: what the fuck did I, or her, or in fact, any other woman do to deserve the distressing consequences of your actions? Was it a game for you? Do you get off on lying and cheating? Does your ego need nurturing that much, that you don't give a shit about who you hurt? Did you not realise that I have feelings? Why did you say that you loved me, when clearly, you don't even love yourself? Did you pick me because you thought I was vulnerable? What did you actually want from me? Did you just want attention? Did you then get bored of me? Was any of it real for you?

These are questions that I will never get an answer to... And that is hard. I am happy being single. I am content. I accepted it before I met him. I accept it after him. Of course, I always wanted to fall in love with someone who would be my best friend and, maybe one day if I am lucky, have children with him. But it's not the be all and end all for me. I don't serial date. When I do decide to go out with a guy, he is usually someone I have a reasonable amount of interest in, because I don't want to waste my time.

Going through shitty experiences, and being given false promises, makes you question yourself as a person. It makes you think... If this keeps happening to me, maybe I am the problem? I must be doing something wrong. Perhaps I am not enough for any guy. So what can I do to improve myself?

However, I realised today that I am not the problem. I don't doubt that there are things about myself that I can improve on, that goes without saying... But it's not me, it's him.

I didn't set out to manipulate someone. I didn't set out to tell someone that I loved them and that they were the one, when I had no intention of staying. I meant it. I didn't cheat or lie. I didn't make excuses to avoid seeing them. I didn't run when shit got a bit serious. I wasn't a coward. I didn't make promises that I couldn't keep. I didn't mess about with someone's mind, heart and emotions. All these actions came from someone mature, who is 40, with a career. Someone with strong family values who describes himself as a Christian. A single father with a young daughter. Someone who should ultimately know better.

If you want to mess about, fine... Mess about. If it makes you happy, cheat and treat people like shit. Be that person. Pretend that you're happy, hurting people and playing the trickster. Be angry and take it out on people who are genuine and good. But think carefully and consider the repercussions. Consider who might be on the receiving end. Because one day, you might find yourself being the one who hurts, or even worse, comforting someone that you love, who hurts.

Sleeping. It's all I can really think about at the moment. It's the only way that I can escape the reality of all the things I am thinking and feeling. All the sadness. The analysing. The lack of closure... Except I can't sleep. And when I do, I wake up again. Your body is supposed to repair itself when you're asleep. You are not supposed to feel the pain. Yet, it's all I am feeling and I am exhausted.

It's been four days since I last spoke to him. Four days since I found out that he took someone else out on a date. Four days since I learned that he kissed her. Four days since I asked him whether he had met someone else and he said no, he hadn't. Four days since he unfollowed me from all social media, and four days since my last whatsapp message went unread.    

"You don't deserve that at all".

I reflect back to when it started a couple of months ago. After a week or so of chatting on Twitter and then whatsapp, we met on a Thursday night in a pub off Baker Street. He was sat at the back of the pub, reading, at a table for two. As I approached him, I just thought "Yes. This man". He looked up at me and we both paused for a few seconds, taking each other in, before finally saying hello. I said from the outset that it wasn't a date. Not because I didn't want it to be, but because it was better to have low expectations as we might not like each other.

As soon as I sat down, we clicked. It was easy, effortless. We laughed all night. Half way through a bottle of wine, he asked me whether we were on a date. I said yes and we smiled at each other. We kissed. We talked. And we laughed more until it was time to go our separate ways at Baker Street station.

In the weeks to follow, things moved quickly but it wasn't frightening. I blogged about how being in love frightens me... But at that point, I decided I was going to leave all my shit in the past, where it belonged because otherwise, I'd never move forward. We had more dates, more fun, more laughs. We made plans. We FaceTimed. We sent each other stupid videos and voice clips:

"You're the one. You're the one I have been looking for, the one I thought I'd never meet. When you meet my friends, they will tell you. I always assumed that I would end up spending the rest of my days alone and I was ok with that. But then you came along. You have found someone that truly loves you".

I replayed the voice clips over and over... Because I couldn't quite believe that this great guy had unexpectedly come into my life. I wasn't looking for him. But he wanted to be with me and I wanted to be with him. Sure, I was worried that I wasn't enough for him, but that's more my old insecurities than anything else... Right?  

"You need to realise that I am not going to hurt you. I don't know what your demons are, just that you have some. I am not going to treat you the way you have been treated in the past".

We talked about meeting each others families, the prospect of which was daunting but exciting. I was looking forward to meeting his daughter. Everything just felt right. There were a couple of occasions where we couldn't see each other due to work commitments and we missed each other. They say that absence makes the heart grow fonder, and it did, in some ways.

Things started to take a downturn just before Easter. He was a little distant with me but I put that down to being off work, out of routine and away for the holidays. I didn't mind because he still reminded me that he loved me and missed me, and I knew how we were when we saw each other. I hadn't seen him for two weeks when he had to cancel our date night due to unforeseen and urgent circumstances which I won't go into... Needless to say, the reasons were personal and something that I understood.

This brings me to last week. He asked to FaceTime me on Monday evening and I could sense there was something up.

"I have to talk to you about something... It's something that I have known about for a week or so and I need to tell you so you know the situation. I am going to be away a lot for the next two months with work. Me being away is going to coincide with our date nights and when we can see each other".

Looking back, I think maybe he wanted me to end it. Perhaps he didn't want to be the one to upset me or be the bad guy. He said he didn't know what I wanted to do... Whether I wanted to cool things for a couple of months or work through it. I asked him if he wanted to be with me, and he said yes. He said we could make it work and it was only going to be a couple of months anyway. So that was what we agreed.

It was naïve of me to assume that this chat would bring us back to where we were. I had this niggling feeling and no matter what I did, I couldn't shake that there was more to it. Something had changed.

Thursday's was our usual date night. He told me that he was working away and would be in head office during the day. I didn't push him to meet me, instead I chose to just hold back and I asked him to let me know his schedule. I didn't sleep well that night.

On Friday morning, I was catching up on my social media when I noticed that another dating blogger had tweeted about going on an amazing date the night before. She then wrote about it, citing that the guy in question was a Twitter follower. A sinking feeling came over me... But I thought "no... It's just me being stupid... It's too close to home". I was messaging him at the same time and I just thought... I can't spend the next few months feeling like I am in limbo and not knowing where I stand. So I called him.

"I am not sure whether it's work or whether it's because we haven't seen each other for a few weeks... But I am not sure what my feelings are anymore. And that's perhaps not a good sign. Logistically, I don't know how this is going to work. I can't have you feeling angst, not knowing where you stand".

I said to him that if his feelings had changed, there wasn't really anything I could do about it. I was sad, sure... But I can't force someone to love me if they don't. I couldn't make him love me. And I didn't want to waste my time, not knowing what he really thought. We agreed to take some time to think things over. I asked him whether he had met someone else... "No. Of course not. If I had, I would just say".

But he had met someone else. The night before. On date night... Except I wasn't the date. Another dating blogger was. After I put the phone down, messages started coming through which told me all I needed to know. He lied to me, he had cheated on me and it really was over.

And that was it. I've heard nothing further from him.

My opinion of him as a person hasn't changed. I still think he is a good man and father. I don't hate him; far from it. I don't even dislike him. In fact, I miss him. I just hate what has happened and I hate what he has done.

If I slightly hate anyone, it's myself for feeling this way. I sometimes wish that I was a vengeful person. I wish I was really angry with him, to the point where I would lose my shit and do things to upset him, to get a reaction. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, and all that. But I am not that person and I never will be.

I hurt. I retreat. I leave. That's the way it is.  

I hate that I put my trust and faith into someone who's let me down, especially when I believed in him. He promised me, early on, that he wasn't going to hurt me. He said that he wouldn't break my heart. I let go of old demons, old relationship hurt because I was so confident. I feel cheated out of something that started off amazingly, something so full of promise and had the potential to be amazing. Especially when I was happy with being single.

Maybe he didn't love me. Maybe it was just infatuation. Maybe it was the idea of someone being there for him. But if that's the case... Let me go. Let me go before you become infatuated with someone else. Let me be loved by someone who will think I am wonderful, and won't look for someone else. Someone that will say I am enough and mean it. It's cruel to use someone for your own selfish needs.

It's hard not to take what has happened personally. What did I do wrong? How can I do better in the future? I don't have any regrets about how I acted or how quickly things progressed. I would do it all over again with him. Sometimes you have to be vulnerable, be naïve, even stupid, when it comes to relationships... Because the constant fear of being hurt will never leave you if you don't open yourself up now and again. Of course I have learned things, I always do in every situation I am faced with.

The fact that I haven't heard from him, hurts. I haven't had an apology or an explanation. There seems to be no remorse. Perhaps it was over for him a while ago and that's fine... But what about me? I guess I should be used to that by now... Someone having such little respect for me that I am not a factor in their thought process. But that's such bullshit.

I didn't realise just how strong I was until this, and I am proud of myself. I will never beg a man to be with me, and I will always walk away from someone that doesn't deserve me. It will take me some time to heal, but that's ok. I have picked myself up before and I will do it again, with a little help from my friends.

Was the question I asked my boyfriend this morning. I know. What a weird question to ask someone before 10am, especially when the answer should be obvious. We were both at work, far away from each other and the comfort of pillow talk or spooning, but I asked him because I wanted to know the answer. Obviously.  

Less than 24 hours before, I had been having a catch up with one of my friends in the office. She has been married for over 3 years and has a little boy. We were having a general discussion about men, food, diets and then about our bodies - the usual shit chat that women talk about. As the conversation progressed, she started saying that she feels awful about herself and that she hasn't been intimate with her husband since last year. She doesn't know why but she cannot stand the reflection in the mirror and she doesn't want to be touched. She is completely off with herself.

Her words hit a nerve with me because I could totally resonate with what she was saying. I spent years there, on and off. And I still have moments back there. Even still, I was kind of shocked at her blunt honesty. I don't know why I was so taken back at the time. I thought about it afterwards and I think it was because she is married. Maybe it was a bit naïve of me to assume that once you get married, any body related confidence/attractiveness issues falls slightly to the side of importance and priorities. Perhaps it does for some. I can't speak from a married perspective.

Feeling shitty about yourself is literally that... It's shit. It's the worst feeling. And the feeling doesn't just go away. You might be able to shake it off for a few hours by distracting yourself, but it comes back. It runs deeper than a cover up.

My confidence and self worth issues have mostly stemmed from my body issues. I have always been a bit fat. I have been fat since I was about 12. I knew that I was fat because I was made aware of it by other people. Whether it was a stranger shouting from his car, the girls at my dance school, the boys in my class or shopping in town with my friends, I was aware of it. I was so aware of it, that it was what I thought about constantly. It affected many aspects of my young life. For example, I developed weird eating habits. I wouldn't eat in a public place unless I was in a restaurant with a big group of people or with my family. I refused to go into a McDonalds because I was picked on by a group of boys once. My friends would go in and get food whilst I waited outside... This went on for years and I was no older than 14. 

The older I got, the worst I felt about myself. I made bad decisions and my weight fluctuated. There was a time when I only ate apples for a week because I hated my body and I did not respect it. I wanted to punish it for letting me down and being such a piece of shit. Boys at school didn't really fancy me either, and when I was told that they did, I automatically assumed it was a joke. Once, a guy I had a crush on kind of liked me back. It was when I had my first mobile phone so he used to call me late at night. One evening, we had been speaking when a withheld number called me after. It was a girl in the year above. She had called to tell me that my crush fancied her younger sister... She could barely contain her snorts of laughter as she shouted "look at my sister and then look at you. Why would he choose you?".

I was 15 when I had my first 'proper' boyfriend. He was toxic and a compulsive liar. He used to tell me that the guys in his school would talk about how fat I was and that they couldn't believe he was dating me. It was all a load of shit of course, but I was young... Why would I have reasons to doubt what he said? He was right. As a result I gained a lot of weight when I was with him... Out of sadness I think. Sadness and a lot of self-hate.

Various incidents happened during my teenage years and when I was in my early 20's. Those incidents drove me to more body hate and more self destruction. It didn't matter what I did, my body was a constant factor... A constant problem. A problem for me and a problem for others. Back in the days of MSN, circa 2005, my boyfriend at the time sent me a message which said something along the lines of:

"I don't know if I should tell you this... But I feel like I have to because I care about you".

He went on:

"I was with David and Melissa last night... And basically they kind of asked me why I was going out with you. I told them because you make me laugh, we get on, I like you, but they couldn't understand it. They said that I could do better... Because they said you are not that pretty and you're a bit fat. Obviously I don't agree but I wanted to tell you because you have a right to know".

David was his best friend. Melissa was David's girlfriend. I cried for about 2 hours after and I continued to loathe the body I was in. It didn't matter what I did, how funny I was, how nice my face was... It wasn't enough. I could have starved myself for weeks if I wanted to, or taken laxatives daily just to feel more comfortable and confident. But ultimately, it was never going to change the way I mentally felt about myself.

Things dipped to an ultimate low right before I moved out of Manchester. That was around 4 years ago. I went through a phase of not going out. I avoided seeing friends back home because I was embarrassed about my appearance. My mum had driven up to see me for the day. When she left, she sent a text simply saying "you've lost your sparkle". I was lost but I knew I needed to find myself somewhere.

A little while after I moved, I started to pick myself up and do the things that made me happy. From going for a country walk, to buying a brightly coloured item of clothing. All small steps. I begun to realise that I was the one holding myself back. By not doing the things I love, not seeing the people I care about, I was really only hurting myself deeper. I was depriving myself. It wasn't easy and it has been a slow, continuous journey. One thing that really helped me, was the discovery of things like plus size fashion, blogging and realising that I was not alone. That was the most important thing. There were other women out there who felt the same way about their bodies as me... And what's more, they had been through similar struggles and in some cases, the struggles were much worse.

The small steps turned into bigger ones. With each small step, I started to feel good about myself. I dressed differently. My lipsticks got brighter. The curls in my hair got bigger. I wore a bikini. I started to repair myself. I would sit in front of the mirror, sometimes naked, sometimes in just underwear, and I would have a few words with myself. I would tell myself what I liked about my body. I embraced every detail about it. If I had a shit day, I would put on the outfit that made my body feel good. I still have bad days where I don't feel good enough about some things... But all the self loathing I had when I was younger, is healing.

I can't say whether I would have felt differently had I been in a content relationship at some of my lowest points. All I know is, my happiness, my confidence and my love for my body, has had to come from deep within me. No one could heal my body issues but me. I do think that having that special someone in your life can bring you confidence when you don't have any. People work differently. But for me, I had to get my own happiness before I was able to appreciate and accept what someone else could bring to it.

I am often asked "where do you get your confidence from?". There is no textbook answer for it. My confidence comes from turning years of self-hate to self-love, step by step. It really is the little things. This is the advice I gave my friend. Small steps.

Do I think I am sexy? Yes. Does my boyfriend think I am sexy? Obviously.

I keep writing, then deleting, then re-writing this blog post. Whether it's an update on my life, a disastrous date or an old story, when I write a blog post, I have an idea of what I want to say and I just go with it. No story, in my opinion, is a shit one... There is always something to say and something to learn. And if I happen to be hilarious, well, that's just a bonus.

Sometimes after I have written a post, I need to take a step away from it before I publish it, especially when I don't know how to end it or I need time to digest it. I found this with Israeli Guy Part 1 & 2. Those posts were quite difficult to write. I have dealt with what happened, however, seeing it in words was more upsetting than I had anticipated.

I write because I am not always good at telling people how I feel. I often keep my worries to myself and I let my brain manifest them. My blog is an open diary of thoughts, feelings and circumstances which have led me to my current state of mind. I started this blog because I had some outrageous stories to tell. I never thought that it would become a form of therapy and a way for me to digress, handle and project myself.

I love being in love, even with the limited amount of times I have experienced it. But it also scares the shit out of me. I am frightened of loss, being vulnerable and living life with regrets. I am also afraid of unrequited love, not being enough and fucking things up... I actually think there is more fear, in some ways, for being in love than being single.

I have recently started dating an amazing man. When I say dating, I mean I am in a relationship with this man. I am no longer single. When you date, you sometimes forget that you may meet someone who is amazing because it happens so few and far between. You don't always see the end goal because it more often than not will take you by surprise. That's cliché, but things do happen when you least expect.

I tend to act on gut instinct, and when I met this man, I knew that there was something special about him. We clicked and it felt effortless. It continues to feel effortless. I have always thought that you should be happy and content on your own. When you introduce someone new into your life, it should enhance you and your life. You can't rely on one person to make you happy. There has to be some element of doing that by yourself.

That being said it is a new relationship, so it is safe to say I am shit scared. But... Sometimes you just have to go with it. Be and feel vulnerable, be all the things that may scare some guys off, be open with your thoughts and feelings... Because it may turn into something spectacular. This is something I am learning to do.  

I also am learning to accept and trust that this man is not the same as other men which is easier said than done. When you have been through some shit and been in some shitty situations, it is really difficult not to tarnish new relationships with the old paint. I once read that you shouldn't build a new house with old bricks. I am leaving my old bricks behind in the rubble and I am not taking them into my new relationship because otherwise I will end up building the same shithole house.

So I come to the end of the blog post and I don't know how to end it... Except to say that I am happy and excited. I could drive myself nuts with the self destruct button in thinking negatively, but it won't get me anywhere. And actually, I don't need to do that. I will, however, always keep my wits about me. There is no point in being fearful of things that may never happen, but, I also should not fear the things that are happening.

Getting into a relationship is full of risks because ultimately you want to protect your head, your heart and your hurt. Thing is, if we don't take risks, where does that leave us? I would rather go with my gut instinct, jump in to the newly built pool and see what happens...

Dedicated readers may remember Rugby Boy. He is the guy that I have wanted and want. He gives me the zsa zsa zsu, the butterflies and the desire to purchase new underwear to ruin... But I can't have him because... Well... He's Rugby Boy.

After we met at Easter last year, the silent standoff continued for a month or two. He qualified as a teacher around June time, so I messaged him to congratulate him. He didn't reply... Until the weekend of my 30th birthday:

"Thanks beautiful. What are you up to tonight? x"

Did I miss something? What was he thanking me for? Oh yes, the well wishing text I sent three weeks prior. That just goes to show you how high up on his level of non priority and respect list that I am. Yet, I still lust:

"I am on my way to the airport to collect my friend... It's my 30th birthday on Sunday x".

He replied:

"Oh wow, Happy Birthday. Where are you now? Which airport? x".

That went on for a little bit whilst he established whether or not I could see him on my way to collect my friend. I couldn't, of course, because my priorities do also have an order of ranking. As with the usual games between us, he realised I wasn't free and dropped me quicker than a sack of shit.

We were forced back to a silent standoff until the bank holiday weekend at the end of August. I had just returned from a 3 week trip to the USA with a wicked tan, bags of Reese's Pieces and a "fresh from my hols" attitude. I wasn't prepared to take a grain of shit from his sack. A message popped up on my phone:

"Hello you. What are you up to tonight? x".

Here we go again. I replied and said I was at a wedding. He divulged deeper to find out where the wedding was, and then when he realised it was 250 miles away, is contact diminished again... Until he saw what I was wearing at the wedding. Our flirtatious texts continued into the early hours and that was that.

I don't remember much about what we talked about, given that it is over four months on, but I remember him saying "you don't make things easy for yourself". I think he meant my behaviour and he is right. Whenever he messaged, I turned into a toxic and needy mess... I am surprised that I didn't just say "PLEASE LOVE ME" because that's what I wanted from him... To be loved. 

I realise that even to the illiterate reader, my interests in Rugby Boy were nothing. It was always going to be nothing. So why do I, or did I, care so much about him? I don't know, is the honest answer. When I go on dates, I don't always feel instant chemistry or connections... I did with him. I have read that an instant connection burns out quickly, so perhaps it's better to have a slow burner in the long run and accept that not everyone gets an Oscar winning rom com love story.

If I have learnt one thing from dating in 2015, it is that if someone is legitimately interested in you, they will make that quite clear. They won't let you go without hearing a genuine reason. Rugby Boy was a physical fantasy and there was something there, at least on my part. I did like him. If he had any kind of interest in pursuing me, I am quite confident that he would have done so. I have to accept and I have accepted, that he is just not that into me... And I don't think he ever really was.  

I hate to break it to you reader, but I do. In fact, I don't just enjoy it, I love it. And you know what else I enjoy? Flings, one night stands and casual sex. I also love sex when I am in a relationship. I don't always have one night stands or flings, but I have done and I may do... And there is nothing wrong with my decisions.  

Newsflash: If you're a woman who enjoys half night stands, one night stands, flings or casual sex... Guess what... IT'S PERFECTLY NATURAL AND OK. There is NOTHING wrong with you.

The background to this fucking (wahey) revelation is this. I had just finished a glass of Malbec on Sunday night when this outdated tweet from a dating blogger popped up on my Twitter page:

I felt like I had been catapulted back to 2003, when I was 18 and doing my first 7am "walk of fame" (that's likely "shame" to you, Weller)... Now commonly known as the stride of pride. Her tweet(s) gave me "that" feeling of shame, that sense that I was about to have to justify to a disgusted audience: where, when and why I have dared enjoyed a quickie or three. And of course the question that everyone is always so concerned about... "Did you use protection?". I didn't like it.

It has become apparent to me over the last few years that slut shaming is a thing. Slut shaming, for those who are not so familiar, is defined as:

"... the act of criticising a woman for her real or presumed sexual activity, or for behaving in ways that someone thinks are associated with her real or presumed sexual activity...".

Casual sex wasn't something to be proud of when I was younger, and if Weller's remarks are anything to adhere to, it is still not something to be proud of. I am a skank if I have ever had sex on a first date (FYI, I have) and I ruin(ed) dates for other women with those (all) men.

Here's the thing: who's business is it if you chose to have sex with a guy on a first, third or tenth date? Why does it matter what you do? Also, how can you say that because one woman had sex with him on a first date, he will expect it on all first dates? Do not tarnish all men, and women, with the same brush. Do not judge others by your own standards, rules or requirements. Do not insult me on my past, present or future decisions. Why the fuck does it matter to you what someone else chooses to do?

I will always support people who want to have casual sex or who enjoy one night stands because I have done it. And I have no shame. I also will always support people who don't want to have sex until a third date, or commitment, or marriage... Because you know why? I am not a prick and your life decisions do not affect mine. You do you, I'll do me. And I'll probably do Tom Hardy.

I will forever support women.

Weller has blocked me from following her on Twitter now, but I honestly couldn't give a shit. I don't need to read her judgmental, outdated smut. I have, however, seen what she has been tweeting since the debate which led me to conclude that she is a bully. And a bitter one at that. There's always a reason for when women bring other women down... Jealously maybe?

I won't encourage any hate on Weller, but I will leave you with this:

But not after goading someone who was quite happy and content with being sexually active with no commitment to a man:

And then the final message from her... Which, ironically, is the point:

"... I hate it when you're not around, and the fact that you didn't call. But mostly I hate the way I don't hate you. Not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all..."

Perhaps one of the most romantic poems from a classic, trashy but great rom com film. Sadly, it also serves as a harsh reminder that time and tech has changed. Gone are the days where a guy would write an "I can't live without you" poem to perform in front of your English class. Instead, you're left stood on a sweaty, damp London tube, waiting for 3G to come back so you can keep on swiping.

I really like the concept of Tinder and I think it is a great, easy starting tool for online dating... However, I hate elements of it and more precisely, I hate the way that people use it. Not one swiping session goes by where I don't think "you twat" or "urgh, kill me now". It took me one swiping session to think of just 10 things I hate about Tinder and the contents of it... And I am sure there are more.

1. Swiping away pictures of cats, children, landscapes and screenshots.

You love your cats. You love your children. You once went to Peru. You're a "Lady in the street but a freak at the buffet"... Oh... Ahem, please excuse me. I must have pressed "edit profile".

I love animals. I love children. I love ancient ruins and being ruined (strictly buffet talk), BUT, you get to choose six pictures and you only have one of your actual self? I get that people want to disclose that they have children, and I personally have no problem with dating guys who have children. I would just like to selfishly see more of the babe and less of the baby at such an early stage.

2. Group pictures.

So many hunks, which one are you? Oh actually, I am desperate so... *swipes right*. Seriously though, it's like a virtual and one sided game of Guess Who. I think group pictures come from a lazy place. You don't need lots of selfies or solo/gym like pictures, just a little hint at which of the squad you are would be great.

3. Mutual interests and common connections.

If you're interested in Bombay Sapphire and Dominos, then we, love of my life, might as well get down to H.Samuel for our 9 carat gold's now... Ding dong ding. Oh, my Dominos has arrived.

Mutual interests don't bother me too much as I don't have that many... That's why I am single... It's the common connections that I have a problem with. It's bad enough having to swipe left to your school's rude boy, who enjoyed watching you scream in maths class when he planted a snake skin in your bag (true story). I also really don't want to have to swipe left to my brother's BFF, who's seen the extent of my eyebrow game history since 1998.

It's also disappointing when your common connections are ex boyfriends or even worse... Ex dates. The only upside of common connections, is screening that guy with the friend in common.

4. When you don't put any bio.

And when you do, it's something original like "if you don't look like your pictures, you're buying the drinks until you do" or "I got great bantz. If your a sort, add me on IG and Snapchat : BigJohnHatesCondoms87596 #LAD". Like I have time to search for that.

5. Having to decide whether to swipe right or swipe left to your friend's boyfriend.

This is a true story and they met on Tinder. It is also a bit awkward when your married second cousin pops up. Fallback sunshine, fallback.

6. Swiping left but going a little too high to "super like".

Seriously Tinder, unless it's Tom Hardy, I am only super liking profiles using fake and famous images. The super like is soooo close to swipe left, it has led me to be guilty of number 8.

7. Getting a match and no message or reply.

Did you die, babe?

8. Getting a match and then an unmatch.

Who am I going to take to Nandos now? *insert hand in face emoji*.

9. Moments.

Now I am guilty of a moment or two... I find it refreshes my Tinder and more often than not, I get a few messages after I post a moment. What I can't cope with, is the amount of dick pictures in a moment... I am not talking about a fully erect shlong in the bath with the words "hangover horn" because you know, quite literally, where you stand there. I am talking about the hidden gems... The discreet bananas hiding in gym shorts, the misplaced bottles of deodorant behind a towel. This isn't Pictionary lads. Just post what I want to see... Pictures of what you had for dinner.

10. The questions.

After all the trolling, the swiping and the rage, when you finally get a match with someone cute, it really is a hurrah moment. Until you get a message...

"Hey, wanna meet for a fuck?"

"Anal?"

"Why is it that it's always fat chicks who harp on about body shaming?".  

So I rejoined Tinder after I quit it in the summer. I know, I know... It is a terrible app and I don't know why I thought I might get better results now than before. Maybe it is the hopeless romantic in me? I thought I would give it whirl again... If anything, it keeps up my dating momentum.

I came off the app not long after meeting Ibiza Boy. It is not because of him that I quit, but after realising I had no weekends free for a few months, I wasn't prepared to waste weekday time on multiple men. Also, I think deep down I thought there would be some longevity with Ibiza Boy... At least more than two dates anyway.

I have been mega busy these last few months which has been great. After the holiday incident with Ibiza Boy, I didn't really hear much from him until I joined SnapChat about a month ago. He started following me then instant messaged me to say how much he was enjoying my Snaps. I am fucking hilarious. We got to talking... Talking and flirting (I still want to bang him and his tomato plants). I figured that I had nothing to lose... So I said what probably makes me sound desperate (that's my name..):

"Why didn't you ask me out on a third date!?"

He replied with:

"I know I can be aloof and elusive sometimes. Most of the time it is unintentional. I honestly can't give you an answer to that. Absolutely no reason why I wouldn't at all... Was it not fairly close to the time I went away? Might have contributed to it. I guess the only other thing is that I really don't know what I am looking for at the moment, so that probably doesn't help either xx".

FYI it was a month before he went away. His response only really proved two theories.

1. It wasn't me. I didn't do or say anything wrong.  

2. He does know what he is looking for, and it isn't me.

I thanked him for at least giving me an answer because he could have just done another disappearing act. Perhaps there was more to it and he took a cowardly way out, but I can rest knowing that I literally didn't do anything wrong... There is no problem with my views, my opinions, my sense of humour... I just wasn't for him. And that's fine.

Him not being interested in me still hasn't stopped him from trolling my Instagram photos. Anything for a bit of tit eh? I don't mind that he does that now because I know there are no mixed messages and it is what it is.

I do think that there is something to be said for when a guy says "I don't know what I want" and it quite often depends on where they are at in their lives. Historically I tend to meet guys that say "I don't know what I want" when they are playing the field and are keeping their options open. They love being single, dating about and having no commitments. Often the idea of a girlfriend does not fit into their busy, single, LAD schedules.

For the "I don't know what I want" guys, I am a good time gal. I am not, however, usually quite what they are looking for but "I'll do". There is always a chance that someone better might come along. It seems like I am putting myself down here which is not intentional... It is just the way it is and the way it has been. Having said that, quite often the guy who doesn't know what he wants, still doesn't know what he wants, way after wanting me. I actually don't want to be with someone who doesn't know what he wants. I will always want to be wanted. At least I am starting to figure out what I want.  

I recently matched to a chatty guy via Tinder... A rare gem in the sea of topless selfies, no bants and "can we Netflix and Chill" (fuck off, bro). He works for a major British confectionary company (I am Dorothy and I found my Oz) but as I didn't want his identity to be discovered, I have named him Chatty.

Chatty and I had a lot to talk about, ironically, and were very similar in some ways. He made me laugh. Physically speaking, he wasn't a usual type for me but he had something I liked. I was really impressed with him and for the first time in ages, I felt a bit of a spark. He told me from the outset that he was looking for a relationship so it was great to finally speak to someone who knew what they were looking for. After a few days of talking we agreed to meet last Thursday for our first date.

It got to Wednesday afternoon and we had been chatting. I said to him that I was looking forward to meeting him the next day and he said:

"Wait, is that tomorrow? I double booked... Don't worry, I will sort it".

I heard nothing from him. Not willing to just let it slide, I sent a message the next day (date night) with the whole lame "something I said!? I hope you're ok".

A few hours later, my phone beeped:

"Getting raped at work".

*Sign*. Ok. I left it and just said I let's reschedule if he wanted, as it wouldn't be a problem. He then said:

"I have to go to Birmingham tonight, just been told about it. You alright?".

Are you for real? You know what, shit happens, work happens. Despite there being no apology, no offer of rescheduling, Chatty seemed like a decent guy so I messaged back and said to let me know when he is next free. I also wished him a safe business trip.

I had a bit of an inkling that something wasn't quite right. Gut instinct prevails. Fortunately he was still a match on my Tinder, so imagine my fucking surprise when he was only 8km away from me until about half 10, and then about 24 km from me until 7am the next day (hint: I live no where near Birmingham).

That was enough for me. Maybe Tinder was broken? Maybe his trip was cancelled? Maybe he just didn't fancy the date? Maybe I put two and two together and got "dickhead"? Whatever the reason, there is no excuse for no apology or an explanation. I thought things would end there with Chatty, but he drunk text me on Friday night and then wanted me to entertain him on Saturday whilst I was at a wedding.   

A needy me might have catered to it for a little longer, if only for the attention, but I just said I wasn't here for his entertainment. Get a fucking TV, bro.

I haven't heard from him since.

I always learn something as I continue to proceed down Yellow Shit Road. Don't date a guy who doesn't know what he wants.  

He arrived back to Israel safe and sound. He apologised for the way things were left and hoped that things would be ok between us... "But you need to realise what you have done".

Our contact diminished in the months to follow as he threw himself into work, qualifying as a property lawyer. I, on the other hand, made the difficult decision to give up my life in Manchester and move back towards London. It was probably the best decision I made although I do miss my northern life.

I got myself back on track. I landed a good job, filled my diary with lots of social events and I started dating which was something I had never really done before, mostly due to lack of confidence. By 2013, I was feeling the best I had ever felt and after meeting "the one that got away", I realised I no longer needed justification from a guy that I was desirable or worthy.

The Israeli Guy made a reappearance towards the end of 2013. He set about making it his business to apologise for everything that went wrong in our relationship... He said I was one of his best friends, his only friend and that he missed me. We got to talking again although I kept my distance, not wanting to get too involved with him. It was nice to have him in dribs and drabs.

In the months to follow we would have the odd chat, but nothing consistent. He was not someone I relied on for support. I fell into a relationship early last year which was sadly short lived. It had a pretty bad effect on me when it ended and I was having more low points than high. I had told Israeli Guy about the break up and that I was hurting, without going into too much detail. I explained that I didn't really trust men. I felt used, lost and alone.

He probably felt supportive but he wasn't. There was no comfort or reassurance, no "You didn't do anything wrong... He cheated... It's not your fault". But instead "Guys still want to fuck you... I want to fuck you". I can take a validation from a guy that I am attractive, but I don't need it or necessarily want it... His words didn't mean anything to me. They didn't reassure me that there were still good guys out there and that I had just had a bad experience. It was not the response I craved.

It set motions about in my mind, "Is this really all guys see in me? A quick and easy fuck? Is this what my ex thought about me? Oh there goes her, I can get her, look I got her and I can drop her... And watch her cry over me". The churn of the doubtful words in my mind ate away at my confidence and security.

It took me back to a moment in my life when I was 17 and on a girls holiday. It was the middle of the night and I was asleep in my room. I had stupidly I left the door unlocked for my friend who was out partying, when a group of four guys burst in. Two of them mocked me, trying to pull my bed sheets off me, wanting to see my body. Seeing that I was visibly upset, The Protector of the group gave them his orders and got them to leave the room. After, he proceeded to force me to give him oral sex, citing "don't worry, I am used to fat bitches like you, my girlfriend is fat... You can thank me for getting rid of them... You are what I like... I find you attractive... Not many guys do". It lasted no more than a couple of minutes before I got away. It's funny because now those events replay in my mind in slow motion, which often lasts longer than a few minutes.  

I got over my break-up with The Perfect Man although it did take a while. Israeli Guy was biding for my attention more and more. He constantly asked me for pictures of my body because "it got him hard". It got to a point where I just had to tell him that I wanted love, a relationship... I didn't want to send him pictures or sex texts... I wanted and deserved more. It did nothing for me. Wanting more was something he could not offer me, and as I came to realise, I didn't want more from him.

Naturally Israeli Guy was pissed off. He said "I can't be friends with you because I want us to flirt, it is harmless... Why are you so frigid?". His idea of flirting was for me to send him pictures of my breasts for his enjoyment... I didn't get anything in return. He would always tell me what he wanted me to do to him... "Imagine how good it would feel for you to give me a blow job? Would you like to give me a blow job?". It was totally one sided virtually and I imagined that it would be physically. I hated it. I avoided his messages or I tried to change the subject by asking him how work was. It made me feel uncomfortable and I told him so. He stopped speaking to me.

A month or two later, and early into 2015, he sent me multiple Facebook messages saying he needed to speak to me. I probably should have left it alone judging by what he classes as important, but essentially he said that he was in love with me:

"You are all I think about. I can't have relationships with other women because I just think about you... I want to be with you. I think of you as girlfriend material and I never thought I would say that to you".

These words perhaps came way too late. Maybe a blessing in disguise.  

Whilst I had loved him, I didn't love the idea of being in love with him. I wasn't in love with him. The love I had for him was for the history... The old days at summer camp, the innocent messages where they didn't focus my body, things pre-London. I didn't love his attitude towards women and I hated his temper. I hated the fact that if I refuted his "affections", he took it personally. He would often remark that I was making him seem like a "sex pest". I wonder now whether he sent the messages because he thought it was what I wanted to hear given my recent break up... That it was a way back in. He seemed to have a habit of this... The niceties, the interest in what I am up to, to then bring it back to what he wanted to really talk about... Sex.

It was around the beginning of May when I was out for a hen do. He was whatsapping me constantly for attention. He knew I was out and I said I would speak to him later, but then the guilt tripping started... "Don't you have time for me anymore? I always have time for you... Send me a picture". Then, for the first time ever, he sent me a dick picture, "Look what I have for you... Don't you want it? Does that make you horny?".

I had enough. I was polite as possible and said I would speak to him another time. A week later I started to receive a tirade of abusive messages calling me ungrateful because I sent no follow up. After all, he went to the trouble of sending me a dick picture and I hadn't bothered to tell him how much I appreciated it. After some angry message exchanges, I got brutally honest and told him straight. I didn't want the picture... I didn't appreciate it. We didn't talk again for a few weeks until he whatsapped me to inform me that our friendship was over. One of his closing texts to me read:

"You used to be the bigger person when we fought, now you just give up in a heartbeat. I am disappointed but I get it now. I wish you all the best being thin and cold. I personally liked you better when you were fatter but nice and warm. Bye."

Since this text, he has deleted me out of his life... I feel nothing except grateful. Grateful for the history, but more grateful for the lessons learned.

As predicted at the start of the year, my dating life has taken a bit of a backseat as I navigate my way through 2015 with social meets and major functions. It's been fun but as I approach the latter part of the year and things quieten down, I can afford to turn my attention back to dating.

You will recall my most recent post detailing the demise of the short date-life span with Ibiza Boy. As predicted, following my emotionally slutty texts after the wedding, I heard nothing further from him... That was until a few weeks later, when he started to like my Instagram pictures whilst on a business trip to the Middle East (admittedly my pictures were mostly food and bikini shots... What's not to like?).

My heart went into my mouth when that first like appeared... What is going on here then? Stone cold silence after a week of "I am busy" bullshit messages from him and a "I like you" text from me... What a fucking cheek. After some deliberation on Twitter, a conclusion was made that the man was breadcrumbing me. If you don't know what breadcrumbing is, let me give you this basic but on-point explanation from Urban Dictionary:

"The act of sending out flirtatious, but non-committal text messages (ie "breadcrumbs") to members of the opposite sex in order to lure a sexual partner without expending much effort.

Kelly started breadcrumbing early in the evening in the hopes that one of guys she'd been working might show up for a late-night booty call."

Essentially there is no inclination of a relationship or even a couple of months dating with Ibiza Boy (we had not even had a third date) but he was giving me just enough attention to question. And it did work... For a few days at least.

Sure enough a few texts then followed... None of the texts apologised for the radio silence. There was no explanation or attempt at grovelling. Nothing. And I didn't ask... When is the right time to say to someone "Oh by the way, we haven't spoken for three weeks but tell me why you said you'd make time for a third date and you then disappeared? Please explain to me why you were and are a prick?". Breadcrumbs don't fill you up. They don't contain the substance of an answer.

It was like normal but not normal. The texts were quite flirty, as they would be, especially as I was on holiday and he was travelling solo on a business trip. Time on our hands and we were both alone. A day of flirting passed and throughout the holidays, there were a few texts here and there... Most likely when he was virtually alone, bored or his other chicks had fallen asleep due to conflicting time zones.

I had a week of my holiday left when I knew that the real test would be when we were both home. It has been almost a week and the only contact I have had is a drunk text on Saturday night to see if he was back in the country. He was. Of course I knew he was. It was just my subtle way of seeing if he would suggest meeting. No mention of a meeting, a third date, or any time and attention.

With that being said, and as much as I fancied Ibiza Boy, it's time to leave that where it is... Dead in the Dubai waters.

You have to ask yourself, especially with the grey area, dead water guys, would I choose to be with someone who is not excited to be with me? The answer is fuck no, because excitement over a date and/or partner = butterflies... And with no butterflies, that is just so-so. And I don't settle for so-so. I also don't get treated so-so by a grey guy.

Is there a right time in a marriage, a relationship, or when you are simply dating someone, for you to be emotionally slutty? And if so, what are the possible consequences?

I can't help but think about the Sex and The City episode with Bobby Fine and Bitsy Von Muffling's wedding in The Hamptons. The episode mainly focused on whether single people should settle for a so-so relationship or whether they should hold out. Hold out for that one person with the zsa zsa zsu, the one that makes you refuse to settle for anything less than butterflies, that one.

Carrie had recently met writer Berger, but had put her feelings about him to one side after discovering he was in a relationship. On the way up to the wedding, they bumped into each other at a fast food restaurant where Berger informed Carrie that he was newly single. They then met up for what seemed to be a first date. Sat on the grass, they started to talk about previous relationships when Berger suddenly jumped up, ran to his bike and sped off into the night leaving nothing but tyre marks on the road. Carrie discussed this with the girls stating:

"I know what I did. I revealed too much, too soon. I was emotionally slutty".

To which Miranda replied: 

"That's not like you".

It is not like me, but I did it, have done it and I can't say I won't do it again. Let me explain...

I met Ibiza Boy on Tinder around three or four weeks ago. We matched in March and had been chatting since then. There was a dip in communication between us which meant we didn't speak for a month or two, however things picked up again towards the end of May. To be completely honest, I wasn't sure about him... Which usually means I am sure, but also not. I just don't want to admit it to myself that I might like someone just in case.

We had our first date in a local bar. Four drinks in and four hours later, I knew I wanted to see this guy again. He was flirty, down to earth, fun and there was a chemistry. It also helped that I wanted to mount his face. We kissed and agreed to meet up again. After a bit of text tennis, we arranged a second date for the following week... I have to say that I did pin him down for the date because, well, I know what I want but also, it doesn't hurt to ask a man out every now and again.

The second date was even better than the first. Conversation and chemistry growing, he invited me back to his. I popped in for 10 minutes as he showed me around his flat. We grabbed the opportunity to have a bit of a passionate embrace and I left his looking forward to the next time I would see him. Due to busy schedules, no third date has been arranged. I wanted to take a bit of back burner and wait for him to come to me, but I did broach the subject with him on Friday. He said:

"I am extremely busy with work and my social life at the moment, however I do want to see you. I will make time".

His words seemed sincere and I thought I would just leave him to it. On Saturday morning, I woke early and made my way up to Lake Windermere for a glorious wedding. The sun shone, the church bells rang, the rain came and so did the wine. And then I got hold of my phone and started to drunken text Ibiza Boy.

Now I did review the messages on Sunday morning and they were not bad, although I have since deleted them so I cannot keep reviewing and analysing. I essentially admitted to Ibiza Boy that I was interested in him. I then backtracked on what I said, citing to ignore me because I was being a drunken dick (that part is true). He responded, telling me I was gorgeous but I needed to go to bed. He didn't say that he liked me back though.

I spent Sunday and Monday in complete despair, giving myself such an unnecessarily hard time about it all. I kept replaying it over and over in my brain, the circumstances leading up to the texting, and wishing I could turn back the clock. Of course, I did not hear from Ibiza Boy on Sunday.

I was an emotional slut. I revealed too much, too soon. I admitted to a guy, two dates in, that I liked him... Something I rarely do. I have learnt that when dating, particularly someone that you like, you have to keep some things close to your chest. Some men prefer a woman that is emotionally guarded to start, but not only that, it is a way of protecting yourself from being hurt in the long run. 

After listening to the advice of some blogger babes, I planned to let it run it's course. I didn't want to make the first move, break the silence... Also, I thought "if he is really that interested, he will come to me and not let some emotionally slutty behaviour, be used as an excuse to break it off". Do I really want to be with a man that would do that?

But then after further conversations with some male perspective, I was told to essentially bite the bullet, apologise and smooth things over... So that was what I did. Ibiza Boy basically told me to not apologise, I had done nothing wrong, but I was just incoherent at the time.

I feel better for clearing the air with him, however I can't help but wonder whether that is it for us. It is not because of my actions solely, I know that, however I do truly believe that when you like someone, you make the effort to see them and this has been slow coming. Also, I can't promise that I won't be an emotional slut again... Not when there are butterflies. If that is not for him, then I am not for him.