MENtal problems

I can decipher hieroglyphs written 4000 years ago but I can't figure out the male psyche. And that just doesn't make any sense- they're were supposed to be the simpler sex, with their brains far too occupied with ball games, booze and birds (not the actual fowls- that's a somewhat common expression for the female sex) to actually come up with anything too elaborate. Yet... I just can't get them. I annually binge-drink my way through 10 months of Premier League and Champions League and FA Cup and Carling Cup and STILL manage to produce opinions, emotions and... well you know, stuff. 

What on earth is so revolting about someone wanting to spend the rest of her life with you? What the hell is so scary about someone wanting to take care of you; wanting to make you happy? I'm getting so bloody sick at shouting on this soap box of mine but do you people not get it?! That is the most important thing there is; the most notable achievement in anyone's life- having found someone who wants to be there for you- no matter what garbage life throws your way!!!

While it's undoubtedly a good thing that I now have a reason to crawl out of my bed in the morning, I still hate it. I dread leaving my home and facing the outside world with spring in its steps. I feel so fragile, so vulnerable- even in my new"happy-break-up-to-me-he-wasn't-worthy-of-me-anyway"- bag 

and "well-if-I-don't-think-I'm-fabulous-then-why-would-anybody-else"- earrings. 

Even my usual security blankets won't disguise the fact that I'm an empty shell. I'm scared that any random look my way might shatter that shell and reveal the full, ugly extent of my brokenness to the innocent bystanders. I suppose it's a good thing they did build that halfway-house around the corner- in the morning the only bystanders would be the halfway-comatose drunks making their way back from a night of merriment.

Is he feeling anywhere near this bad? Is he thinking of me? Does he even remember me (insert senility-related joke of your choice here)? Have I already been outsourced (that would be ironic, considering that's what he does for living) and replaced by a sulky Russian 8ft tall lingerie model with no gag reflex?

I have fantastic friends. One imports wine and another works for a chocolate manufacturer (with my post-break-up- dietary choices I'm surprised I still produce tears instead of just extracting Merlot-infused Snickers-bars out of my eye sockets). And my fantastic friends (who I should give more credit to) have done a wonderful job looking after me. Yet, even on a good day when I can almost crack jokes about my future as a crocheting, cat-collecting spinster the mere sight of his name instantly reduces me to a teary mess. Why,WHY do I wear my heart on my sleeve??? Can anyone recommend a dry cleaner who could get rid of it?