I’m Rebounding To Handle My Breakup Pain

Zero out of five stars: I do not recommend it.

I wrote about the dramatic first heartbreak since my divorce. There is more to the story but I’m jumping ahead a few days to babble about last night’s events.

For nine months, I dated the most amazing and wonderful man I could ever dream of: Jeremy. Handsome, successful, funny, and our conversations flowed easily. However, he never committed and I bent over backward to make it work. After having a conversation about blending families and our future, Jeremy told me he also wanted to see other women.

I flipped my shit and left. I still need to document the rest of the night but in the end, Jeremy and I are no longer together.

My heart is shattered. The divorce was a slow, agonizing pain symbolizing death. I cried constantly, grieving for the end of our life. After the divorce, my source of pain is not having the kids full-time. I’ve never cried missing my ex-husband; I’ve cried wishing we had never met.

This pain is different. This is the loss of hope. I never, ever thought I’d fall in love again after my divorce. Finding someone like Jeremy at my age in my town was a needle in a haystack, especially if I’m relying on dating sites. Unlike the endless stream of guys I dated before (no for real, I’ve dated more people in a year than ten people do in a lifetime), he’s the only one I wanted to see again, never got tired of him, and I was giddy with excitement with each interaction.

That hope is gone and I’m gutted.

With other people, I know that I checked off all the boxes. Thin, fake breasts, an inappropriate sense of humor, a good job, a house, and I can make a guy feel like he’s a rock star in bed. For every other guy, I’m a gem.

Jeremy dazzles wherever he goes. His kids are in sports; he’s around a million divorced soccer moms who fit the Southern California aesthetic. After asking a few male friends for advice, they agreed that he already has someone lined up given his behavior and ability to find women in his age demographic. While I appreciate their brutal honesty, it’s unbelievably painful to feel replaceable.

I cry nonstop. At the movies, I silently cried with my kids on either side of me, grateful for the darkness and Super Mario’s ability to keep everyone’s attention forward. I cry in the shower. I cry in the car. I cry when wandering my house, seeing reminders of him that I can’t throw away.

I’ve maintained No Contact. I won’t beg a man for me, despite that’s kind of what I did throughout the week-long breakup. But even I can’t accept sharing someone I love with someone else. As someone with a Fearful Avoidant attachment style, I know his attachment style is Avoidant. Going No Contact is the only leverage I have.

I don’t drink when I’m alone. I don’t do drugs. While my friends have been wonderful, planning time together is difficult when juggling everyone’s schedules. Sobbing hysterically on the floor, I decide it’s time for a rebound.

Opening Hinge is a whole other experience compared to even two years ago. I delete Jeremy’s profile because if I see him changing anything, I’ll feel worse. I also don’t need to check it constantly since that defeats the purpose of No Contact and breaking the addiction.

It’s not that I’m being overly picky with men. But none of these men are remotely attractive. The tolerable ones are either Trump voters or they’re plumbers (I’m not trying to be a snob but being in the same socioeconomic class or better matters). These are the leftovers from a month-long warehouse sale. Being single is better than one of these guys.

I rarely log into Facebook. During my divorce, it was too much for me to see happy families. I use it for the marketplace. Today, I remember there’s Facebook Dating.

“What if people I know have friends that are on this site?” I ask myself. I bite the bullet and give Mark Zuckerberg more of my personal information for him to sell.

There are few people on Facebook Dating within a driveable distance. Clicking through options is a welcome distraction while simultaneously making me feel worse. I’ll be a lonely cat woman forever. And I don’t even own a cat.

A few guys manage to catch my eye and I click the little heart icon. I chat with a few, including one guy who was an utter psychopath. Thankfully, I reinstated my Google Voice number for texting (after painfully deleting thousands of texts with Jeremy before our first date).

I engage in texting back and forth with a cute-ish guy named Ray. He lives near me, which is a refreshing change. Has a good job and lives in a detached house. Has kids. Seems pleasant while texting. After a day of texting, he asks me out.

As luck would happen, I’m free the next day (Monday). He calls me on the phone to talk and I suppose to see if we’re moderately tolerable for each other. His voice doesn’t impress me. My brain longs for Jeremy’s voice with his slight midwestern accent.

I’m eager to have an excuse to dress up and get out of the house. I figure it’ll be a pleasant night, Ray will slather me with compliments, and I’ll feel like less of a rejected loser. Then I’ll tell him there’s no connection and that’ll be it. Plus, I have a date planned in a week with another guy named Kris; not the full package like Jeremy but he’s another welcome distraction.

I wear a long-sleeved grey wrap dress and ultra-high heels because Ray is 6'3. We meet at a Mexican restaurant on a local, man-made lake.

Ray comes around the corner wearing a pink checked Ralph Lauren button-up top and jeans. I tell my kids that pink isn’t a girl’s color and the most confident men are the ones who wear it; Ray scores a point for wearing it. He’s got a receding hairline but the rest of his hair is thick with a slight curl. I hug him and see that he’s significantly better looking in real life than in pictures.

We sit at the bar. I miss Jeremy’s excessive drinking. I know that’s an odd thing to miss, but it meant we stayed longer wherever we went. My tolerance is a single glass; Ray gets a margarita and is finished long before I finish my drink. I feel awkward when he declines a second one and miss the days of free-flowing alcohol.

The conversation goes well. We’re laughing, we’re joking, he’s fine breaking the personal space bubble by touching my shoulder or resting his hand on my thigh. I follow his lead and do the same, putting my hand over his or grabbing his arm when telling a funny story.

“Want to go for a walk around the lake?” Ray asks. I’m not stoked with this idea; these shoes hurt like a bitch. I smile and agree. We talk and walk. There is a lull in the conversation.

A. Lull.

Not once in the nine months with Jeremy has there ever been a lull in the conversation. Our first date took us to three different places because we kept closing each one down. I’m able to fill in any blank space in conversations but today, I’m not in the mood to take up the slack for it.

Ray motions to a bench and asks if I want to sit. I make dumb jokes about the ducks. At some point, he leans over and kisses me. He’s a great kisser. My hand on the back of his head feels different; my fingers long for the familiarity of Jeremy’s hair and head.

Thankfully, making out is a great time-filler. After a while, he asks if I want to grab a drink at another restaurant in the little plaza. We sit in a tiny dive-y restaurant. I tell Ray that we can be annoying and sit next to each other in a booth.

Much of our conversation is around funny things that have happened on dates. Every time I tell him a story, I pull a fake Oh-Em-Gee-I-Can’t-Believe-I-Told-You-That spiel. Ray insists all night that he loves my transparency. “I divorced my ex-husband because I wanted an authentic life,” I tell him. His eyes light up and inside, I cringe knowing my reasoning for this date is as inauthentic as they come.

“By the way, I’ve had a stressful two weeks” I mention. “This isn’t my normal weight. I’m usually five pounds more. I want to get that out there.” Ray rolls his eyes. He also doesn’t care that he’s seven years younger than me. He tells me how women under forty don’t have their shit together and can barely hold a conversation.

Ray says, “You have a spark in your eyes when you speak and you’re intelligent.” Well-played. That’s not a generic You-Look-Pretty compliment and a little part of me melts.

We talk about a second date. His custody schedule is less than ideal compared to mine and I tell him the next date that would align is ten days away. “I can always swing by and bring you a coffee during the workday,” he tells me.

I’m not used to dating men who live near me because they all live by the beach. I’m also not used to a guy going out of his way to do a small gesture to see me and make me happy. The Avoidant part of my attachment style creeps up and paws at the bottom of my dress like a child wanting attention.

When retelling some of the funnier bad dates I’ve been on, I tell Ray how guys are always bold and grab under my dress even when there’s no connection. He’s shocked and insists he’d never do anything like that in public. In the past, I never wore a bra on first dates because I knew it was an easy attention-grabber and it upped my Hotness Score.

Tonight, I’m dressed conservatively. That means I didn’t look like a whore with my nipples poking out of my dress because I kept them up with a bra. I didn’t care about the date when I got dressed. Now I’m relieved I kept my sluttiness on the back burner.

Ray walks me to my car. We kiss passionately and I notice how much he bends over to reach my short stature, even with my heels. I’m used to Jeremy’s 5'10 height, which matched perfectly. He kisses my neck and I moan. Homeboy is probably fantastic in bed. But from what I can tell, he has a hairy chest. I hate that. Jeremy’s body hair situation was perfection.

He grabs my ass as we kiss. So much for not grabbing at my body when walking me to my car. Maybe Ray thinks outside of clothes is fair game as long as it’s not a finger under a dress.

“Which one’s your car?” I ask. He points to the electronic Honda CRV a few cars down. I drive a Honda Pilot; I suddenly feel like I won the dick-swinging contest. My brain thinks of Jeremy’s ginormous and immaculately clean pickup truck. These two men could not be any more opposite.

Driving home, I feel good for only a flash second. The usual list of red flags and irritations plays in my head. I forgot that was my MO after a date. Jeremy is the only date out of dozens upon dozens where I didn’t have a laundry list of negatives when driving home.

I begin sobbing hysterically.

I want Jeremy. I want him to text me. I want him to miss my absence in his life, despite how little I was in it. I want him to see that other women are the absolute worst and I’m a needle in a haystack. I want his friends to tell him he’s an idiot because I’m (allegedly) hot and funny. I want…him. I just want him.

This isn’t healthy. Trust me, I know.

After catching my breath, I tell myself that if I had met Ray and never met Jeremy, I’d be on Cloud 9 while simultaneously letting my Avoidant nature kick in.

This is where childhood trauma rears its ugly head. I longed for Jeremy’s approval and to hear “I love you” because my parents never did. Now, I’ve got a guy who would easily call me his girlfriend in a few weeks and treat me like gold. And it makes me uncomfortable.

I text Ray the obligatory “I had a lovely evening, got home safe, thank you for the food and drinks” message. I also text Kris because I sure as fuck am not putting all of my emotionally-wounded eggs in a single guy.

Kris is edgier and his child custody schedule is the same as mine. I couldn’t tell if he’s good-looking and he’s got a dog (I’m not a dog person…sigh, Jeremy had his dog occasionally from his ex-wife but that creature was well-behaved and mellow).

My new-ish job’s health insurance isn’t as good as my old one. I don’t have the cash for therapy. For now, this is my crutch until I can hit the thirty-day No Contact mark and finally lose that last shred of hope I have for Jeremy to tell me he wants me…and only me.