About a month ago, I came across an old photo at my brother’s house that I’d never seen before. It was from his wedding in 2013. In the photo, i was sitting at a table, face red and swollen from crying. And next to me was my ex. He was sitting there with his arms folded, and smiling all smug. I remembered the moment exactly. He was trying to get me to leave the reception early to go pick up his car. That car that broke down every other week and controlled our lives for about 2 years. I remember the shock and confusion I felt as he argued with me outside the venue. He had somehow spun it into me being a nagging girlfriend wanting a ring.
That photo hit me so hard because it yanked me straight back into a version of myself I’ve worked hard to leave behind. I remember that was the night that changed everything. That was the night that I realized after four years I was just a placeholder. I wasn’t someone he wanted to build a life with, I was just the foundation he was willing to walk all over to build his next chapter.
He used to say his ex before me “ruined” him and that’s why he couldn’t trust anyone. Meanwhile, he isolated me, accused me of cheating every time I left the house, gaslit me, manipulated me, and convinced everyone I was unstable. I started to believe it, too.
When he left, he moved on with this coworker (I found out before we ended that he was sleeping with her) almost immediately and have been together ever since. It’s been almost a decade now. For years, I thought that meant she “won.” That she must’ve been easier, prettier, more lovable. I twisted myself into knots trying to understand why he chose her.
2 weeks ago, before I deleted my Instagram, her face popped up in the “people you may know” section. And I recognized her right away, and just her face, but the expression. Puffy face and swollen eyes, and this expression that felt so familiar to me. It wasn’t a smile, or even a smirk. It was definitely a forced mask that you wear when you’re constantly pushing down the truth.
I didn’t feel rage, I felt guilt. She’s the woman he cheated on me with. So instead of anger, I felt this heavy, weird ache. My therapist told me it was survivor’s guilt. Because I know that look, I used to live in that look. I used to smile like that while slowly falling apart.
I’m not saying I know what goes on in their home now. Maybe things are different. Her profile picture reminded me of what it was like to be stuck in a relationship where my self-worth eroded every day, and I didn’t even notice it happening until I was too deep. It reminded me of how much of myself I had to give up just to not “be difficult” And how numb I let myself become, just to survive it.
I brought it up to my therapist because it honestly triggered me. I’ve done the work, healed, and built a new life. This man hasn’t had real estate in my heart for a long time but seeing that photo,then seeing her dragged up something I didn’t expect: not grief or jealousy, but this weird compassion mixed with sorrow. She’s still in the house I barely escaped.
The night he left, I slept 13 hours straight. My panic attacks disappeared. I haven’t had one since. That alone should tell you everything.
I don’t want him back or even an apology. I don’t want revenge. I just… needed to say this out loud I guess? Because healing is real, but sometimes it sneaks up on you with a sharp reminder of what you survived.
Thanks for reading if you made it this far.