If anyone ever had a reason not to get back with an ex, I did. He was the quintessential on-and-off Bad Boyfriend and not only were all my friends painfully aware of this fact, when he dumped me on the same day my father died (think Jessica and Tony birthday sitch x 10), then again after a similar life tragedy, it had finally become clear to me as well. I moved on fast. Literally days after he'd hit me with yet another, "I can't do this anymore," I somehow managed to enter into a relationship with a man who was easygoing and ridiculously sweet, so I hardly had time to mourn. I wouldn't normally recommend rebounding as a heartbreak cure-all, but in this case it definitely helped remind me that the ex was Not. For. Me. My work was exciting, glamorous and rewarding. I was in my early-to-mid 20s. I had amazing friends. I lived in New York. Things were kind of perfect. I was so much happier without my ex. Read: Is Having Sex With Your Ex OK?
That's when he began to stalk me.
It began with emails here and there, MySpace messages and texts. Then the phone calls started rolling in, first on my cell, and then at work. I never answered any of them, and told mutual friends that I did not want to speak to him, that I'd moved on, and please let him know that it was a case closed and I was not remotely interested in any contact whatsoever. Magical words to a man obsessed, I suppose. The mix CDs and flowers started arriving. One day he stood outside my office with signs, a la Say Anything. I rolled my eyes and pulled the blinds down. Read: Can You Really Be "Just Friends" With An Ex?
I'd love to say that in the end I walked away from all this, but the constant attrition started to get to me.
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Written by Erin Flaherty for The Frisky.
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