This is sort of depressing, and liberating, at the same time. After a series of failed relationships, most of which involved one or all of the following –
💔 dude didn’t have time for me
💔 had to handle everything on my own
💔 had to get my own birthday cake and pretend he’d gotten it for me
💔 talked to myself when I was upset because he seemed to think I was a psycho (which is probably true, I scare myself sometimes)
💔 dude would character analyze me to the point where he’d have given my shrink a run for his money
💔 getting upset because other women had perfect boyfriends that seemed to understand them –
I found myself a perfect partner. Me.
Seriously, I’ve never been happier. I’ve got nobody to give me a lecture about how “You’re the strongest person I know,” over TEXT, not even bothering to call, and then going offline immediately like they couldn’t wait to get back to what – or who – they were doing.
I don’t judge myself.
I give myself compliments in the mirror every single day.
I buy myself sunflowers when I’m upset (and I’ll buy myself a ring too when I’m ready).
I buy myself cake and presents every birthday.(Side note: I must, because nobody remembers. Not that it’s important and I’m an old bag.)
I read to myself when I’m sad.
I have deep, long conversations with myself in the mirror. Again. Thanks, reflection.
Someday, I’ll whisk myself away to Harry Potter studios, London, because I can. Maybe. Just not yet. But I want to.
So yeah, I’m insanely happy. Whoever said you need a man, or a woman, to be happy was wrong. Obviously you can be alone and happy. As long as you’re not lonely. I don’t think I’ll ever be. There are a billion demons in my head, speaking in Latin, and I’ll keep busy translating.