It happened late one night. Just few months after the divorce was finalised.
One minute I was scrolling through tedious pics of sonograms and #smashedavocado and the next minute I’m involuntarily typing his name into my Facebook page. There was honestly no rhyme or reason to it, other than boredom and desperately trying to resist raiding the biccie jar.
After months of systematically eradicating every memory of my ex, defriending him and making sure there was no visible trace of him to be found online or in reality, I’d managed to unravel all my hard work in a second. Well done me. The result of this pointless decision to look him up crushed me like I was the bottom brick of a Jenga tower.
There was the word: ENGAGED.
Sorry, what? ENGAGED.
Hadn’t he ended our marriage because he wasn’t the marrying type? Didn’t he give up because he was a selfish arse and wanted to take his new found career round the world living the dream – without a wife?
After my eyeballs fuzzed up by staring at that sickening word, I slowly found myself glaring at the picture accompanying the status. All smiles and sapphires. That bloody ring, I was outraged. Why did she need to point at it like that? It was the size of her head, I’m pretty sure her audience didn’t need any help with playing “find the engagement ring in this pic!”
I’d needed a microscope to see any hint of stone action with my two-for-one wedding band and engagement ring deal. I hated him in that moment. All over again.
Once the jealousy floodgates opened, there was no stopping the negativity steam train. In it came, bulldozing its way over all the positive affirmations I’d tried so hard to implement and believe since the break-up.
I questioned (again) what was wrong with me, I got angry (again) about my single status and I grieved (again) for the life we were supposed to share and the kids we were supposed to have. The last year of progress I’d made getting over my marriage to a self-proclaimed commitment-phobe suddenly felt like no progress at all.