How Many Day Ones of No Contact Can I Have?

I’m pathetic.

I was doing pretty well with No Contact. I got to Day 6.

It felt like years.

The TLDR is that I was dating a fantastic guy for nine months but he wouldn’t commit and, despite not having a single argument yet loads of fun, he wanted to see other people. In the same conversation where he discussed blending families.

I felt better when I found Jeremy on Hinge (an online dating app). It meant he didn’t have a woman already lined up to build a life with, compared to my notion that a hot soccer mom at his kids’ practices was his target.

I went No Contact after amicably ending things (with a brief day of telling him off for his lack of integrity and not manning up). It hurt. It hurt like a motherfucker.

But by Day 6, I felt a little better. I liked knowing that Jeremy was suffering with online dating because it’s exhausting and disheartening.

At the end of that No Contact day, he called. The conversation made me feel good for barely twenty-four hours. I laid firm boundaries and made it clear I wasn’t waiting for him.

I’m back to Day 1 of No Contact. And it sucks.

My brain can’t stop thinking how he knows full well he could lose me and he’s not doing anything about it. Jeremy called to verify if I was still his seat warmer for someone he found better. It’s the worst feeling in the world: feeling replaceable.

I also made it clear that his lack of making a choice is the choice. And I’m not a choice.

It hurts so damn bad for him to think that there could be better options out there. The same guy who spent almost half of the 2.5-hour conversation complimenting me.

Day 1 is the day when all unhealthy habits happen. I didn’t hold back.

I spent the morning in depression in bed and finally got up to shower because I need to run a few errands. Tonight I’ve got a date so it doesn’t hurt to blow dry my hair and get my makeup done anyway, right?

I pick out a white floral wrap dress with little blue flowers. Not my usual kind of dress but it’s pretty. The sort of thing one would wear to a fancy brunch or baby shower. I tell myself it’s because you never know who you might meet when you’re out in public, what if Mr. Right comes along?

Also, dressing up should make me feel better. Spoiler alert: it didn’t. I still felt like a dopey schmuck as if I were unshowered and wearing a potato sack.

First stop: dropping off Amazon packages for return. My brain tries hard to keep its cool but I associate (from my marriage) being in the car as a safe space to cry. The clerk at UPS knows me and must have wondered why I was so dressed up and why my eyes were red.

Next up: an Ulta return. I consider shopping for more makeup but I know I have plenty. Retail therapy won’t hurt my heart.

The final return is to Home Depot. Since I have to go to Costco…which is near Jeremy’s place…I opt to swing by the nearest Home Depot to Costco instead. I tell myself that Home Depot is the ultimate place for women to find men but deep down, I know that I’m hoping Jeremy will be there.

Driving there, I begin sobbing. I scream as I smack the steering wheel, hoping I can transfer this pain to my car. It’s my first weekend since our breakup where I’m alone and don’t have the kids. It’s fucking lonely because my friends are in Family Mode on weekends as I used to be when I was married.

On the way to Home Depot, I pass by Jeremy’s gym. My brain flips a switch and I get into Psycho Stalker Ex mode. I turn and drive up the hill to the expensive, ultra-posh gym. I’m not sure what I think will happen because I won’t go inside.

The gym is at the top of a hill and parking is in a fancy parking structure. You can’t get more Southern California than the clientele visiting this gym. It’s like a requirement for membership is flawlessness. The women are all cookie-cutter versions of the same blond woman in Lululemon leggings and crop tops.

I stupidly drive into the parking structure. What if I did run into Jeremy because I accidentally got into a car accident in here? My brain quickly fashions a lame excuse. I drive around and see a white Toyota pickup truck. My heart feels like it’s going to explode despite not knowing Jeremy’s license plate. But this is a Tacoma and he drives a Tundra.

“Geezus fuck you’ve stooped to a new low,” I berate myself. This made me feel so much worse; how are there so many gorgeous, rich women in this town?

I cry some more. Home Depot doesn’t make me feel better after I swing by the Returns section. I normally like wandering the Garden Center looking at flowers I’ll never buy because they’ll die within a day of my ownership. I think plants commit suicide once I adopt them.

Back inside my car, the final stop is Costco. This isn’t a coincidence. I know this is roughly the time of day he might go and this is a kid-free weekend for him. There’s nothing that I need from Costco. This trip wasn’t necessary.

The nicer it is outside, the more people are inside Costco. This strange observation never ceases to amaze me. When I walk up, there are only two shopping carts left in their massive shopping cart corral.

I look ridiculous. Everyone’s in standard Costco shopping attire and I’m wearing a dainty floral dress.

Their Woozoo fans are on sale so I pick another one up. A guy is standing next to the display, reading the box. He doesn’t have a wedding ring. I know I need to get better at speaking to strangers because ever since the start of the pandemic and remote working, my in-person social skills are garbage. I have a quick chat with him about how amazing the fan is and how it’s my fifth purchase. Maybe I hoped this guy would see how cute I am and begin flirting.

Nope. The fan is more interesting. This is ridiculous.

I end up with the smallest Costco purchase in history: a bottle of wine on sale, the fan, a wheel of brie, lotion, and a box of almond milk.

The almond milk saddens me because Jeremy used to buy those in mass quantities for me when he swung by Costco. I’m down to my last box at home (I started with twelve six-pack boxes).

As I stand in the checkout line, my eyes scan for him. I know exactly what he’d wear. If he were here shopping, he’d be the hottest guy by far. Does he go through life experiencing the privilege of being extremely handsome, even in Costco?

I lug my shopping cart back to my car. It’s almost 1 pm and I haven’t eaten anything all day. The cheese I purchased needs refrigeration. I curse myself for my lack of foresight: I could have packed my Kindle and had a cute lunch somewhere by the ocean.

Instead, I drive home and cry. And cry. Oh yeah, I also cry.

After shoveling cheese and crackers down my throat, I sit on my floor and sob some more while watching TikTok videos reminding me that No Contact is the only option. The algorithm also shows me videos attempting encouragement during a breakup but they’re depressing. The theme is always the same: if he walked away, let him. You need to be with someone who will enthusiastically choose you.

I loathe the notion that if they walk away, they weren’t one of you. What if the handful of guys that are “right” for me aren’t in my town? I’m older and I work from home in a place riddled with people who look like supermodels. What if my person is in another state? When people say “There are six billion people on earth, that guy wasn’t the only one for you!” they don’t factor in that only ten of them are single, quality men within driving distance of my zip code.

I change out of the dress and put on an oversized hoodie and sweatpants, even though it’s almost eighty degrees in my house. It’s the uniform of depressed humans.

Rather than ruminate, I should pour my heart into a Medium article (spoiler alert: it’s this one). One sentence in and I’m too mentally drained to form words. I toss the laptop aside and curl up in bed. Sleep is the only reprieve I get from the pain. I understand drug addicts’ desperate need to feel better from whatever ails them. If I could pop a pill to stop the hurt, I would.

Wait, didn’t I have a date tonight with a new guy named Kris? We’ve been texting all week but he only mentions the date before I pass out for my nap, asking if we can reschedule for tomorrow night for blah blah blah reason. I tell him I already have plans (with a girlfriend, but I don’t tell him that) and offer up lunch instead. My only interest in him is that our custody schedule matches perfectly so dating him would be easy.

During my pathetically dumb day of crying and errands, my phone has been buzzing with nonstop texts from Ray. This man is incredibly sweet. He responds to texts right away. He’s eager to see me and isn’t hiding his feelings. His only flaws are his weird custody schedule, his body is meh for someone who works out regularly, and that he’s eight years younger than me.

Eight years is a long time. Men I date are typically older than me, which means they’re more established in their careers.

Nothing brings out childhood trauma like an adult romantic relationship. Because Ray is openly expressing his interest (and this is no doubt a guy who would have no problem saying “I love you” if it got to that point), in my mind he lacks credibility and is less interesting to me. I seek men who won’t easily give their heart to me in the hope that they eventually will and my parental wounds will heal.

I know, I know. I’m not in a mental space to date a wonderful man like Ray. It’s still early in the dating game that it’s safe to date other people so I’m not leading him on. If I could go six days of No Contact like last time, then I can get to a point where I’m not a bawling mess.

I’m giving myself the delusion that after thirty days, I’ll be fine. Thirty days of No Contact brings me to Jeremy sobriety.

Fuck me. Day 1 of No Contact feels like my heart is slowly twisting in a vice grip. My brain won’t STFU and I can barely breathe. Everything feels dull. I’m lethargic and my care factor for anything else is zero.

Everything hurts.

Everything.