On the first day of the year, for one of my answers in a family questionnaire, I wrote that Phil was my best friend.

Sitting here now, thinking about our relationship, the one that has evolved in recent months, I realise that’s not true at all. Phil was my best friend when we were in a romantic relationship; he doesn’t act the same now. I don’t expect him to, nor do I want him to. When I wrote about my best friend, I failed to see the actual best friend in my life.

That friend – my best friend – is me.

I am my own best friend. I am supportive, loyal, kind, giving, caring, understanding, patient, fun and definitely present.

Of course, this is all a little tongue-in-cheek, but there is some truth in this, and who better to be your best friend than yourself. I believe it shows a great deal of maturity and high self-esteem that I don’t need anyone else to fall back on, that I can go within and a best friend is there. I very rarely feel lonely; in fact, I can’t remember the last time I felt that way. What I feel is a contentment I’ve never experienced before, and it’s wonderful.

I live my life for me and for the kids and not for anyone else. I have friends outside of the home that I enjoy spending time with, but I don’t need them; I enjoy their company on occasion, and that’s enough.