Soon enough, we had been broken up longer than we had been together. But still, the temptation was there, and I know stronger women than me have fallen prey to the torture of watching your ex move on via Instagram and Facebook.Įventually, the silence was the answer to all my questions. My pride kept me in check and prevented me from making embarrassing late-night phone calls and sending texts that I’d instantly regret if he didn’t reply. Was I that forgettable? Did he mean way more to me than I did to him? Why wasn’t I worth caring about anymore? What’s wrong with me? I cringe to think of how many sleepless hours I spent wondering why, exactly, my ex never got in touch with me after we broke up.
The proof was in the highly filtered pudding: He had moved on. Even after I unfollowed him on Instagram, I would pull up his account (it’s public) and study all the photos of him with his new girlfriend(s). I wallowed in the memories of the good times (pretending not to see the red flags that often present themselves in hindsight) and threw massive pity parties for myself that involved lying in bed for hours binge watching his favorite show on Netflix. I looked through my phone at our text history, at the cheesy selfies of us kissing or riding his tandem bicycle through the streets of Philly. If moving on came this naturally to him, and he was doing it so publicly, how could I possibly appear to care?Īs the months went by, I did what sad, dumped people do. This felt like something akin to being hit over the head with a frying pan forged from my own insecurities. Of course, less than six weeks after we split, he went camping in upstate New York with another woman and splashed it all over Instagram.
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