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e it gives them the one thing they need: space. I need him to miss my texts, my humor, my boobs, and my absolute adoration of him which fed his inflated ego.</p><p id="0fa0">I white-knuckle from writing to him because I know it’ll make things worse. There is nothing I can say that will make him want to give it a real chance, even for a week. He needs to see on his own that my one whole boundary of not dating others after our time together is worth it.</p><p id="6a85">This pain is temporary, I know. But I also know that when I love, I love hard. And I won’t be over this in a month or even three months. Being older than dirt in the dating world, I don’t have a year to spend on my own self-healing.</p><p id="4af4">I’ll slit my wrist if I feel this agony for more than a month. I know it will. I want to hate him. If a friend were going through this, I’d tell her she didn’t lose out on a guy who made her do all the emotional work and <a href="https://readmedium.com/when-should-i-have-the-dtr-talk-404568eceb68">wouldn’t try to move the needle past a nine-month fling</a>. I’d tell her that he’s a dick and not worth a single tear.</p><p id="3d9c">I watch TikTok breakup videos where people in their late twenties talk about how I didn’t lose anyone of value and there’s someone else out there who is better for me. Yeah, I’m not twenty. I’m not thirty. I’m not forty. I’m almost fifty. To quote Leslie Man in The Other Woman: “Last time I was single, I was 24, and the dating pool was everyone. And now it’s like, a shallow puddle of age-appropriate men who are old and gross and I don’t want to do that!”</p><p id="6d73">Men in my age demographic <i>are</i> old and gross. Well, except Jeremy. Perfect head of hair, effing gorgeous face, amazing body, and…sigh. I don’t need to remember his good points.</p><p id="0255">I made a list of his flaws, which is a habit I got into in high school to help with breakups. Except I barely got to ten. Up until the breakup talk, I was in elated bliss. Ending things for any reason wasn’t on my mind. We never had a single argument.</p><p id="b492">I want to be young and have time to process this. I want to be young and still have hope.</p><p id="031d">My house is purged of most of the reminders. I’m not throwing out a $350 blowdryer and I can’t get rid of a barbecue he built for me in our early dating days. I deleted his photos from my phone and Google Photos, knowing there is a thirty-day delay before they’re tossed permanently.</p><p id="d103">I deleted our initial texts from my Google Voice phone number. That’s permanent. I unmatched with him from Hinge. That’s also permanent. I deleted almost ten thousand texts from my main phone.</p><p id="6896">That’s not permanent. There are thirty days before my phone clears them out. I need to manually force the process because I continue re-r

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eading our last few texts. The thought of not seeing his name at the top of a text chain is a dagger to my heart.</p><p id="7599">I need to. But then I have to give up that hope. The last shred of hope I have. Hope is what keeps us going each day, whether it’s hope for children raised into healthy adults or a successful project at work.</p><p id="4312">Hope with Jeremy is all I had to make up for my sham of a marriage. It was my redemption. It was part of my healing from the grief of the divorce. I finally, <i>finally</i>, am granted a wonderful man that I genuinely like (<i>instead of the usual where mediocre men like me</i>).</p><p id="919a">This wallowing sounds pathetic. I get it. Writing is my only coping method when sleep isn’t available to soothe my aching soul.</p><p id="2ff6">Two friends are coming over tonight. I need to make an appetizer and snackables. Scouring Pinterest, nothing is appealing. The recipes either remind me of Jeremy (<i>pinned to make in the future when he’d be at my place</i>) or they don’t look good.</p><p id="7a65">Nothing looks good because I don’t want to eat. I can’t eat.</p><div id="7a92" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/no-contact-the-brutal-way-to-end-heartbreak-42e296eb06a6"> <div> <div> <h2>No Contact: The Brutal Way To End Heartbreak</h2> <div><h3>Love addiction is rough.</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/0*g4vdnfrNCEYXCTda)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div><div id="238c" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/no-contact-third-times-the-charm-d8b2c031b7f1"> <div> <div> <h2>No Contact: Third Time’s The Charm</h2> <div><h3>When you relapse by seeing your love drug.</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/0*K8oIonAsPFSavcyd)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div><div id="58e9" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/first-week-of-no-contact-d10d98dc1c27"> <div> <div> <h2>First Week of No Contact</h2> <div><h3>I’d rather eat glass.</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/0*oGzyROyUtrnNnGoR)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div></article></body>

Day 3 of No Contact

Clawing the walls in need of an emotional heroin hit.

For the record, I don’t smoke. (Photo by Kyle Cleveland on Unsplash)

Day three of No Contact with Jeremy, the amazingly wonderful and perfect man I dated for nine months.

I didn’t think I’d fall in love again after my divorce. He gave me hope despite that I always felt like he was out of my league.

My final text was Saturday morning, just a summary saying “Thanks for everything, no hard feelings, best of luck.” He wrote back three times with a series of one-liners. The last one was six hours later, which made me feel good knowing what I wrote was so impactful that he pondered over it all day.

No Contact is the only power I have. Jeremy wrote last. He’s used to me replying within minutes. It’s been three days.

Three days. 3 days. Trois jours. Thuh-ree Duh-ay-zzz.

It feels like weeks.

I try and sleep as much as I can because it’s the only way to relieve the agony. I schedule 45-minute naps between meetings. Sleep is the number one sign of depression and yet, it’s the only thing that provides emotional relief like morphine to the heart.

Jeremy is an Avoidant attachment type. We all fall under one of four categories. I know his type because I’m a Fearful Avoidant, which is a mix of Anxious and Avoidant. Jeremy turned my Anxious side to the full max. I want to apologize to anyone who ever dated me while I was in full Avoidant mode.

An Avoidant during No Contact will take months if they’re going to crack and reach out. I’m positive Jeremy is dating someone else and it contributed to the breakup. That means I’m relying on another female, who is probably blond and Southern California to the max, to be so bad that he thinks of me. Then his Avoidant personality will need more time to process, ponder, and miss me.

If he ever does.

No Contact is the best for an Avoidant because it gives them the one thing they need: space. I need him to miss my texts, my humor, my boobs, and my absolute adoration of him which fed his inflated ego.

I white-knuckle from writing to him because I know it’ll make things worse. There is nothing I can say that will make him want to give it a real chance, even for a week. He needs to see on his own that my one whole boundary of not dating others after our time together is worth it.

This pain is temporary, I know. But I also know that when I love, I love hard. And I won’t be over this in a month or even three months. Being older than dirt in the dating world, I don’t have a year to spend on my own self-healing.

I’ll slit my wrist if I feel this agony for more than a month. I know it will. I want to hate him. If a friend were going through this, I’d tell her she didn’t lose out on a guy who made her do all the emotional work and wouldn’t try to move the needle past a nine-month fling. I’d tell her that he’s a dick and not worth a single tear.

I watch TikTok breakup videos where people in their late twenties talk about how I didn’t lose anyone of value and there’s someone else out there who is better for me. Yeah, I’m not twenty. I’m not thirty. I’m not forty. I’m almost fifty. To quote Leslie Man in The Other Woman: “Last time I was single, I was 24, and the dating pool was everyone. And now it’s like, a shallow puddle of age-appropriate men who are old and gross and I don’t want to do that!”

Men in my age demographic are old and gross. Well, except Jeremy. Perfect head of hair, effing gorgeous face, amazing body, and…sigh. I don’t need to remember his good points.

I made a list of his flaws, which is a habit I got into in high school to help with breakups. Except I barely got to ten. Up until the breakup talk, I was in elated bliss. Ending things for any reason wasn’t on my mind. We never had a single argument.

I want to be young and have time to process this. I want to be young and still have hope.

My house is purged of most of the reminders. I’m not throwing out a $350 blowdryer and I can’t get rid of a barbecue he built for me in our early dating days. I deleted his photos from my phone and Google Photos, knowing there is a thirty-day delay before they’re tossed permanently.

I deleted our initial texts from my Google Voice phone number. That’s permanent. I unmatched with him from Hinge. That’s also permanent. I deleted almost ten thousand texts from my main phone.

That’s not permanent. There are thirty days before my phone clears them out. I need to manually force the process because I continue re-reading our last few texts. The thought of not seeing his name at the top of a text chain is a dagger to my heart.

I need to. But then I have to give up that hope. The last shred of hope I have. Hope is what keeps us going each day, whether it’s hope for children raised into healthy adults or a successful project at work.

Hope with Jeremy is all I had to make up for my sham of a marriage. It was my redemption. It was part of my healing from the grief of the divorce. I finally, finally, am granted a wonderful man that I genuinely like (instead of the usual where mediocre men like me).

This wallowing sounds pathetic. I get it. Writing is my only coping method when sleep isn’t available to soothe my aching soul.

Two friends are coming over tonight. I need to make an appetizer and snackables. Scouring Pinterest, nothing is appealing. The recipes either remind me of Jeremy (pinned to make in the future when he’d be at my place) or they don’t look good.