Getting past a relationship is much like getting over a bad hangover: time is the only healer. I question whether or not the length of time we mourn a relationship for is directly proportional to the length of time we spend tethered to another. Right now, I don’t think it is. I’ve got over live-in boyfriends in a matter of hours, and then drawn out an adolescent frolic for the best part of a decade.

Most recently though, it was a short, meaningless thing which I was only upset about for about five minutes. The rest of the recovery was spent marvelling at his apparent split-personality and fantasising about witty one-liners and sarky retorts I could coolly deliver if I ever happen to run in to him. So, so counter-productive. You’ll never get the opportunity to use these mentally-rehearsed quips and you know you are just giving them more of your undeserved time, but you can’t stop the bitter, resentful thoughts creeping in.

You see, much like that stage of a hangover where you can’t bear to move but getting back to sleep is a complete impossibility, there is a post break-up limbo where you are no longer upset but are yet to reach the end goal of “Hallelujah! I no longer give a FUCK!”-ness. I’ve found it; the holy grail of mental states. It’s actually really easy when you know how.

First, you pick a man who is totally unsuitable for you, then, when you stop seeing each other, it’s really easy to see his flaws because you never liked him that much anyway. Ha! But seriously, it’s hard to believe that a month ago, I referred to the guy I had just stopped seeing as “a great man”. So keen was I to self-flagellate, that I actually convinced myself for a few days that he was what I wanted. Great man?! How about “posturing little prick with an overdraft”?

In the cold light of day, I can see with absolute clarity that the only thing I was upset about was the amount of time I had wasted. I didn’t want to face up to the fact that I’d pissed away several months for nothing, that the whole exercise had been futile. For that ridiculous, masochistic week, I would have settled.

The great thing is, that while he has to walk away and stay him (shamesies), I get to walk away and be me. Yes, I did just paraphrase Carrie Bradshaw. She’s occasionally totally right on! The fact still remains - while I am growing and progressing and nurturing and learning, his life is like a certain Bill Murray film but with a higher %abv. Different day, same hangover. Let’s have a toast, to waking up and seeing through the bravado.

There’s only one thing more freeing than seeing someone else with utter lucidity, and that’s having a completely unclouded view of yourself. I have never been more sure of myself. I know exactly who I am right now and what I need. True, I’m not getting any younger, but when it comes to realising your worth and getting some standards, it’s a case of better late than never.

Born this way,

Hetty

The first flat I ever lived in was a big, gloomy basement flat on Bon Accord Street. The subsidence was insane: if you dropped a pen on my flatmate’s bedroom floor it would roll all the way to the other side of the room. My bedroom was the smallest. It had a patterned mustard carpet, like the kind old ladies have in their sitting rooms.

My bedroom walls were plastered with pictures of Primal Scream, Britney Spears, Interpol and Erlend Øye. There was a huge window in to the hallway, which I blocked off with my wardrobe. There was another window, high up above the bed which looked in to the living room/kitchen. I blocked this off with a copy of Pet Sounds by the Beach Boys on 180gm vinyl.

The three of us paid £125 a month each in rent, and we recorded music constantly. I mainly provided the handclaps. One of the things I remember most is the constant presence of cables, winding in and out of the rooms. One of the other things I remember was when the damp bathroom ceiling fell in.

Both my flatmates were convinced the place was haunted. A former tenant later told us that her stuff would be moved around in the night.

We spent the evenings watching Look Around You, Garth Marenghi’s Darkplace and Woody Allen films. One of my flatmates would tell me off for listening to “Moon Pix” by Cat Power too much. We had a huge pantry full of junk, including the top-half of a shop mannequin who was christened Barnald. He wore a hat and sunglasses; we were ever so zany.

We drank a ridiculous amount of Rosé and smoked endless Richmond Menthols (or Consulates, if we’d just been paid). Once we dipped into our rent for a trip to Buffet King (a cheaper and more authentic Jimmy Chung’s, which sadly no longer exists) but our ancient landlord, Mr Legg, didn’t bat an eyelid. Landlords can’t take umbrage to tenants being late with rent when you can poke holes in one of the kitchen walls. I eventually moved out because I couldn’t cope with the poor living standards. But it was the most fun I have ever had living anywhere.

Born this way,

Hetty