It was official. I had checked in to the Heartbreak Hotel – with my over-puffed eyes and my tub of ice cream signifying that I was definitely in the right place.
Despite my fun in the holiday sun having provided some temporary relief, it appeared that there was still more healing to be done. Still more Kleenex tissues for my snotty nose to get through and still more listening of Lewis Capaldi until I convinced myself that these songs were entirely based on my current situation and not his – cheers lad!
And while crying in my gloom wasn’t what I had expected as part of my Dubai experience, it was where I had found myself. Each day a new chocolate bar would be placed on my pillow with a sticky note love heart on it; and each day a new concierge message would be left with the reception asking ‘how was I today?’ – a never ending cycle of pathetic.
How had I got to this point? How had I allowed someone to have such an influence on my emotions, my thoughts and my life that they ultimately determined my happiness?
Having originally come out with the intention of being a single pringle ready to mingle, I had found my tub of Pringles still pretty full with the love bombing of Mr. Bluff having steered me right off course of me, myself and I land. I had become a victim of his explosion and the wounds they had opened were taking longer to heal than expected.
However, I had to get better. I couldn’t continue to mope around in clothes covered in varying shades of tomato ketchup stains, nor could I continue to hold on to the belief that one day he might come back; on the promise that he just needed time and hoped this would only be temporary.
No. It was time to face the facts and it was time to check out. And the simple facts were this: he simply didn’t like me enough. Oh, and that putting his dick in only one vagina was no longer a lifestyle that he wished to follow. Simple. And, unfortunately, in Dubai, and in any major city, and in any place where the male species can be found this was a common place outcome for a lot of relationships: men breaking down our walls, smashing down our barriers until we let them in…and then sprinting the other way when we finally reciprocate their love – a true modern day love story!
Anyway, with the first step of the checking out process being complete with my acceptance of the situation, it was time to move on to the next stages. To the rehab activities that all members of the Heartbreak Hotel must participate in if they wish to be able to fully check out without any additional fees (and being Scottish, and therefore cheap as fuck, that was something I definitely didn’t want) and first on the list was hair!
It is, for some reason, a right of passage that whenever a woman experiences troubles of the heart that she must instantly embrace a new hairstyle. And, despite my flat chest saying otherwise, I was a woman, and I was experiencing troubles of the heart therefore, when I found myself sat in the salon chair without any clue as to how I had got there, I did not question it. I knew it was the way of the Heartbreak Gods. My next step in my recovery.
Having worked my ass off to become blonde, a change in hair colour was not the route that the Heartbreak Gods intended for me. However, a change in style was. With the Dubai water producing more sand than a camel’s arse, my hair had become like many other Dubai expat ladies…thin and coarse. Therefore, with my route to recovery being funded by any means necessary, I decided that treating myself to hair extensions was definitely within budget (it was not but hey, that was future, thick flowing, stunning, constantly whip lashing of my hair me problem). And, as I looked in the mirror after the transformation, I knew that already I felt better. That already I was another step closer to leaving Lonely Street and checking out of my pain.
And, with another rehab activity complete, it was time to engage in another – the activity of keeping myself busy at every single minute of the day until my body was close to collapse. It was an easy one really. I took on more jobs at work. I redecorated my entire classroom. I signed up for optional CPD (that is when you know things are bad…). I went rollerblading, – I hate rollerblading – joined a book club, went out for breakfast, lunch and dinner, said yes to every social activity going, took up tennis and even offered to pick people up and drop them off. Yip, you name it, if there was an activity going then I was attending.
It was exhausting but it done the trick. Not only did I not have the time to breathe, I also did not have the time to think about Mr. Bluff. To run through every conversation we had ever had in my head. To fade into memories and stop living in the present. Nope. It was activity, after activity, after activity. Phase three of rehab complete.
And while there were set backs between each phase. Moments where getting out of bed felt too much. Moments where I would wake up and start crying without any way of stopping. I realised that that was all they were. Moments. Brief passages of time that went away as quickly as they came. And with that realisation came the light bulb moment that I had made it. That I was ready to pack up my things and leave the Heartbreak Hotel. I was officially checking out and while I hadn’t participated in the final stage of heartbreak rehab, I knew that I was on my way to being ready.
As we all know the old saying; the best way to get over someone…well, you know the rest.
