This was someone who almost delighted in seeing exactly how far he could push me before I would break—and let me tell you that the worst thing in the world is to deny a junkie the fix.One night after break-up sex following the umpteenth split, he smacked me. I moved across the country shortly thereafter, thinking to myself, "This is ridiculous. That has to be rock bottom."Rock bottom, it turns out, occurred with the emotionally unavailable guy after him.I would fall madly for them, they would lose interest, and I would lie at home crying into my covers.I'd lament love and listen to depressing radio until some poor guy would pick up a pencil I dropped in English class and become my next unwitting pusher.That was how it started: I became a Rejection Junkie.The objects of my addiction took on many forms: the Misunderstood Artist, the Shy Musician, the Brooding Soccer Player, the Beatnik Fellow Band Geek.Giving up casual sex was one of the hardest parts of the detox. I took numbers out of my phone, I tearfully erased email addresses, IM names, whatever it took to make sure I had no way to take myself out of my soul-searching solitude. Determined to stay the course, eventually I began to like the calm and order. I discovered exercise, something I hadn't done in a really long time. I discovered I was really interested in wine, so I took a wine class.
I came into dating like a lot of young women with a challenged self-esteem from developing too early.
That is, until the night he pulled me aside and told me that he had cheated on me. The one guy I trusted to break the streak had betrayed me.
I dumped him and proceeded to date five more guys throughout college—all of whom cheated on me.
He said he would call me, he did and I remained interested. I had a real life boyfriend who took me on dates, gave me gifts and proceeded to treat me like a princess.
Except for the night he got so drunk in the frat house that he left me waiting in the lobby of my dorm, frantic that he was dead, I thought everything was perfect.