When we broke up, I didn't know what to do. I did all the things people tell you to. I cried, I journaled, I talked to my friends. I went outside and moved my body and forced fruit purées I could barely taste down my throat.
But it was too much for me to bear. We don't expect someone to keep their hand on a burning stovetop, so why is this any different?
So a few days later, I re-downloaded Hinge and started swiping. I matched with someone the next day - he was hot, a musician, also depressed. Perfect.
After texting non-stop for a couple of days, I went over to his house. I slept over, met his family, we joked about whose surname we would take after we got married. I could breathe again.
For the next few weeks, everything was good again. The familiar ups and downs of a passionate new relationship kept me afloat, allowed me to forget about my ex for a few hours at a time. I felt unalone again. Me and my new boyfriend spent all our time together, met each others' friends, developed routines, made plans for the future.
And four weeks later, he left me. Something about him being too depressed to be in a relationship. He walked me to the metro station after we cried and hugged for what seemed like hours, and I went home, barely able to breathe. I knew who I was going to text first.
As soon as he heard I was available again, my ex begged me for a second chance. I said I needed time to nurse my bruised and battered heart back to health. He said he understood, and called me every night, telling me how much he loved me and couldn't wait to make me happy for the rest of my life.
We met one week later. It was like something out of a movie: he came to my house at dawn, I ran outside to meet him and fell into his arms. I buried the nagging feeling that something was wrong deep down where it couldn't stop me from kissing him. He had brought me a sunflower, my favourite. We watched the sunrise and he asked me to be his girlfriend. I let him come over. While he was inside me, I whispered to him, "This feels so right".
We managed to play house after that for almost a year. I did everything I could do hide our unhappiness from him, to be someone he would want and need to be with. I let him move in with me for free so he could escape his abusive family while he was still studying. I took him on trips with me, let him develop relationships with my family. I became friends with his friends. Despite the language barrier, I made his family love me, too.
I cried myself to sleep a lot, but at least I could breathe. He fed me, physically and emotionally, and I needed him.
When he left again I thought I would die. I screamed into pillows. Every day felt like it would be my last. I let go of all semblance of self-respect and begged, and then pretended we could be friends so I could still be useful to him. I had a panic attack every time I saw him.
After about four months of this (including three months of EMDR therapy), I went to Morocco and had a three-day fling with a French boy. He was sweet and a bit of an outsider and I could tell he had problems. My stomach hurt and I kept getting up to use the bathroom.
He said all the right things. We made love on a hostel rooftop under a storm and felt raindrops on my back. I decided to move to France.
Three months later, I was in Paris to meet some friends before moving down to his city. We had spoken only a handful of times since he left me at the train station in Tangier, and I was losing faith that he would be the one to save me from myself.
The first friend I saw in Paris was someone I was in love with. This was the first time we were both single and in the same city together. When we finally had sex, the first thing he did was go down on me. It was sweet. I gave him a tarot reading the next day and he saw our potential future in it. He was moving to America in two weeks.
I didn't meet the French guy after I moved to his city anymore, so I went on Hinge instead. The first date I went on was with someone in an open relationship, and I knew nothing would happen between us. The second date was with a guy I couldn't really tell anything about from his profile. He seemed half-ironic, half-sincerely corny. We texted a bit, and he suggested meeting up. When I told my friend he was picking me up in his car, they thought I was going to get myself killed. I wasn't sure I was alive anyway.
I sat down in the passenger seat and immediately found myself unable to look him in the eye. My heart was pounding. My face was hot. I scrambled for something to say, but he seemed comfortable not saying anything as well.
We got drinks and I calmed down enough to make the kind of conversation you're supposed to make on a first date. What do you do? What do you wish you were doing? Do you get along well with your family? Do you like to travel? He told me he felt like he had no close friends, that he couldn't talk to anyone freely. I knew I could be someone he could talk to.
He bought us dinner (I could only manage a salad because I was nauseous with nerves) and held my hand. My heart leapt. Was he falling for me already? Could it be that easy?
He asked if he could come over.
I let him come, but told him I was on my period and wasn't sure I wanted to have sex that night. "We don't have to do anything you don't want to do."
I got bloodstains on my brand new bedsheets and we broke one of the slats in my bedframe.
I felt sick for weeks as I tried to figure out what this new French man wanted with me, but with time, we settled into a relationship. I took him to Italy. He told me later that when we kissed in a church, he knew he was going to spend the rest of his life with me.
Much like in my previous relationship, there were times I was truly happy, and times I felt hurt and scared and alone. When things were good, I was floating on cloud nine and I knew I would never come down. When things were bad, I wondered what I was doing with my life. Was there any point to any of this? Was I just cursed to either being miserable alone or being miserable but hopeful together?
My French man had problems with drugs and alcohol, and it eventually led to him cheating on me. It was one of those few times in my life I was forced to reach deep inside myself and locate what we call self-respect. He couldn't get sober, so I had to leave him. It devastated me, but it's his tear-streaked face asking me to "please don't leave" that haunts me.
Here I am, 6 months later. I haven't dated or kissed or flirted with anyone since then. I don't really know if it's better to be dead or alive, but I keep waking up every morning and feeling like I have no choice but to go on. I have to believe that eventually, I'll find someone to attach myself to again, because floating around with nothing to hold on to is no way to live.