However, blame it on a full moon, or a frazzled heart, or one too many "WTF is going on with my love life" scenarios, and I decided it was time to let this person in, and perhaps give me some hard truths.
Because, if I'm being honest with myself, it would appear I've been madly, deeply in love with a man for the past four years. He would show an interest for a month, and then ignore me for a couple of months, and then swing back into my life for another month, and then pretend I didn't exist for another month or so.
It's been torture. I've shone under his approval and been crippled when he has ignored me. And don't get me wrong, I'm terribly ashamed to admit it. I'm that friend who will rant at you to "dump the f*** boy" if one of my ladies is getting mucked around.
I'll stomp my foot and cause a scene if any guy dares to treat one of my friends badly. I'm known for taking no BS. So how did I find myself in this position? For four whole years?
The funny thing is, that anyone dating me during that time will nod their heads, and go, "ahhh yes … the bloke you just couldn't get over".
I've tried everything to get over him. I remember stumbling into a therapist office two years ago and stating "I just need you to give me the tools to get over this bloke!" and she did … for a little while.
But, as a sucker for punishment, he would throw one flattering text my way, and I would hand over my heart with big puppy dog eyes. "Here you go good sir, my heart on a platter. Please stomp all over it with glee."
After the therapy didn't work, I then subconsciously decided to give the ol' self-sabotage trick a go. I would promise myself that the next time we were together I would tell him how I feel. But as a chronic anxious avoidant, it would seem that the idea of exposing myself, and sharing my feelings was just too much. The only way I could do it was by going three Martinis deep. So rather than an intellectual, heartfelt conversation. It would turn into a whining, shouty declaration that went down like a lead balloon.
I would wake up with hangxiety through the roof, but weirdly a sense of relief. Oh well, I've scared him off. Maybe that's the end of that.
The problem was, it wasn't. He'd text a month later, and I'd be stoked that I hadn't mucked it all up. Time for round 562 of this ridiculous relationship/situationship.
So hopefully now you understand why I've always avoided psychics. Because if they told me that after all these years of hope, it was all for nothing, well … I would be crushed.
However, for the last six weeks I've been seeing a new therapist. A French lady, who suffers none of my BS. (She's scary and fabulous). So I've done the work. I've grown a backbone and I'm ready to tackle the outcome of this situationship head on.
So when I decided to chat to a psychic on my podcast this week, I took a deep breath and said "OK, could you please tell me … is anything going to happen with this man in my life." Her response came out in one word: "Toxic".
And from the bottom of my gut, I knew she was right. In fact, if I'm horribly honest with myself, I've known for quite a while. She told me my new mantra needs to be "release, release, release" and each morning I must envision a samurai sword, and mentally cut the connection.
It was honest, a tad brutal, and exactly what I need to hear. The best thing was, it came at a time when I was ready to hear it.
So tonight, when he called, and we had a merry chat before he made some dodgy excuse and cut the phone call short. I knew what I had to do. I sent him a final text. I told him I'm done and I genuinely meant it from the very fibre of my being. It wasn't one of those texts that's calling someone's bluff just to get a reaction. I. Genuinely. Meant. It.
So, I sit here crying, and I'll probably be sad tomorrow as well. But it will also be the first day of the rest of my life, and I'm honestly excited to see where it takes me.
