Big Love My Dating Life 

Another Crazy Update from the Facebook Stalker

8.5-minute read

I’m really angry right now. It’s quite funny really. I wasn’t that angry about it before. I actually laughed. But now I’m mad. I’m mad because I did that stupid stalking thing again, and because I reacted to what he’d shared … again. I should just stop looking. If only it were that easy.

Big Love shared a picture. That’s it, just a simple picture. A picture with her. The new girlfriend. Outside of OUR house. New vehicles, a new boat, it’s funny how he could never manage to afford that stuff when we were together. He tagged her in it. I’m irrationally angry at her even though she hasn’t done anything wrong, but I could actually punch him in the face. I wish this didn’t still bug me as much as it does, but it does. It really, really does. That’s my house. My furniture. All of that stuff, I picked it out. The art on the walls, the curtain wall I designed in the bedroom, everything. The entire house screams me. It’s all mine. My taste. My preferences. He didn’t even have any preferences of his own.

But now it’s all hers. That’s why he tagged her in it. All of those soft furnishings and quirky features that somehow allowed us to meet in the middle of his need for modern and my need for vintage, they’re hers now. Except she didn’t need to go through all the fights we had to go through to get it looking that way. Like the fight we had over the rug because it was way more expensive than we’d agreed to. I wanted it, so I bought it. We fought about it, but only for a little while. It didn’t take long for us to fuck all over it. We fucked all over that place. Literally all over it. I remember the first time we fucked in the big bed we were so proud to buy, managing to save close to $5,000 [CA] for the complete set that was the dark wood, gothic, extravagant bedroom of my dreams. We fought about that too. We fought about where to put the art on the walls that we’d bought, and how to arrange the living room and dining rooms so that they looked best. We even argued over the dining room table. I wanted something barrel-like, but he wanted something more traditional.

And the things we bought aren’t the only reminders of me in that house. I bet all the little holes in the walls are still there from when we had countless picture frames hanging there, each one filled with a picture of us looking very much in love. And I bet he still hasn’t fixed the big hole in the wall that I made by throwing a boot at him and missing. And what about the bump in the wall on the first stairwell, made when we struggled to get our new couch through the stupidly small amount of space? I bet they’re all still there.

How could he replace me so soon? He can’t have loved me. He wouldn’t rub it in my face that way if he did. He knows full well that I would be stalking his Facebook page, and yet he made THAT picture, tagged with his new girlfriend, his cover picture – the first picture I would see. How could he do that? It breaks my heart that he could be so heartless. I know it’s his Facebook and all, but really? Our house, our belongings, tagged with her in it?

When we first broke up, all I could remember was the bad times. All the things he did that I hated. All the ways he hurt me and made me cry. But now, almost eight months after we broke up, all I can remember is the good times. All the times he made me laugh so hard that I thought I might die from not being able to breathe. Like the time he pissed in the corner of the bedroom because he couldn’t work out how to open the door in his drunken state. It wasn’t funny at the time, obviously, but I laugh my head off at the memory now. And I remember the joyous, nervous laughter when he placed my very first pair of Christian Louboutins in my hands. And the way I’d laugh when his character kept dying in whatever Call of Duty game had been most recently released, both of us wrapped up on the couch in blankets and love. I used to love watching him play those games for hours on end. I didn’t even want to join in; I just wanted to lie there with him, watching him play, resting my head on his legs. It was my favourite place in the whole world.

Where have all of my bad memories gone? Where do they go? Why have they been replaced with all of the good memories that tug on my heartstrings and make me want him to come back to me again? And why do I give a shit when it’s very clear that he doesn’t? He wouldn’t be moving on so soon if we – me – meant anything to him. So, I can’t have done. I should just move on too. If only it were that easy.

I have this daydream in my head that I’ll just hear the doorbell one day and it’ll be him standing there, flowers in hand, jet-lagged from the two-day plane-and-train journey and asking for me back. But it’s just that: a daydream. It’s never going to happen. I know that. Deep down, I know we’re over. But I can’t keep having that stupid daydream. When I’m not being entertained by some other guy, it’s him in my mind. All the time. I want to tell him about things that have happened or stuff that’s made me laugh throughout the day. I want to run to him when I’m sad and just need a cuddle. I just want him back in my life, making me feel good. Without all the bad stuff, obviously, but I’ll take a bit of that to feel less of this sadness right now.

I really do need to stop with the Facebook stalking now. 

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