After a time out, involving a secondment in John of Gods, I’ve returned to my little corner of the internet. I closed my blog for some time to spare you angsty posts on the turbulent – and very emotional – time following my breakup. A break from writing probably did you and I the world of good. I created no cringe worthy posts. You avoided the awkwardness of reading them.
Single life has taken much getting used to. For a while after the split, I felt the need to rediscover myself. Yes, that sounds very Doctor Phil, but I felt unfamiliar to myself. I did not know how to be alone. I sought the counsel of friends. Some mates advised me to take time to lick my wounds. Other friends advised me to go out and lick other things … ehem. “Get back up on that horse!”, they cried.
I did various things to get me through the breakup. My first was a rebellious action. Two days after the breakup I splurged on a leather jacket. The original jacket ex-Boyfriend objected to cost €250. “I’ll show him”, I thought. Ex-Boyfriend must have felt a stabbing pain on his person when my debit card was stung for €350. In hindsight, the financial strain caused me an incredible amount of pain.
I did as some friends recommended and went on a few dates. Overall, they were pleasant experiences, resulting in nothing. However, my attempts to “re-saddle” ended, following a disastrous date. During one date, who was physically three and mentally twenty years my junior, I returned from the toilet to find the bastard had done a runner. This was a negative experience. I pray for his welfare that our paths do not cross in the next few months.
In an effort to rid myself of the negative-thought demons, I have taken to exercising regularly, disposing of excess flab in the process. I’m told weight-loss is a natural reaction to a breakup. I love the fact clothes now fit. My once fitted jeans are now baggy. While shopping in Zara one evening, a size 34 waist rose past my knees. Tears of happiness were shed there in that little dressing-room cubicle.
The biggest change I’ve enacted is my decision to get my teeth done. A month ago, I got braces. My teeth were not horrific, but they’ve always been something I was conscious of. It’s not fun to have braces at the age of twenty-seven. My speech is affected, I dribble in my sleep and food gets stuck. I might be limited in my activities in the boudoir (not that I have yet tested this). Despite the hindrances this might cause, I did it for me.
During the time of temporary closure of MyopicPsychotic, I ran the emotional gauntlet of dealing with a breakup by generally going mad and drinking aplenty. One night I was to be found at home, crying into a glass of red, wailing to Sinead O’Connor’s “Nothing Compares to You”. Another evening, in Keogh’s, inebriated to the hilt, I kissed my friend’s straight, former boss. Luckily, this has not damaged her career prospects.
Naturally, the last few months were an emotional rollercoaster. It was definitely for the best MyopicPsychotic was taken off the air for that time. I was unsure whether I wanted to continue blogging. I toyed with the idea of creating a new blog, deleting the many entries mentioning ex-Boyfriend. I now realise this was stupid. MyopicPsychotic will continue as it intends to go on.
It’s good to be back, people!