Up until recently, I’d never block an ex on social media. Never.
If the choice had been between blocking him, and going skinny dipping in December on Brighton Beach, I would’ve stripped off and dived into those icy waters.
And why hadn’t I blocked an ex on social media up until now? Because I wanted them to think I was living the best life ever.
We are all guilty of it. You break up, you are unfathomably heartbroken and devastated, and your mum, your best friend and your pet dog tell you to delete him off Facebook and unfollow him on Instagram and block him on Twitter. And do you? Do you fuck.
If there’s one remaining thought we want our ex love to have of us after they shoo us out of their life, it’s that we are a fun, outgoing party girl with a zest for life.
In the days and weeks following the calamitous break up, you post a colossal amount of selfies, behemothic amounts of you pouting in red lipstick, wearing a low cut black lace top and holding a glass of wine. You want, no, NEED, him to think that he does not subsidise one inch of your happiness and how you two ending hasn’t affected you at all.
You need to post pointless snaps on Instagram of a cup of tea, or your dinner, or your new haircut, with an accompanying caption just so he believes that you’re posting about such menial things purely because you don’t give a shit that you two aren’t together anymore. You compulsively need him to view your holiday shots, of you in a revealing bikini at Ocean Beach Club, or doing a fishbowl in Malia or posing on a booze cruise in Zante. You crave the knowledge that he is viewing your accounts daily, and realising what an independent and gregarious girl you are.
I was the same, for so long. After break ups, it would add fuel to my selfie game and tens of hundreds of #ThrowBackThursdays would be uploaded of me pouting in a minuscule bikini on a balcony with a palm tree in the background, or holding a glass of champagne in a dimly lit nightclub, or a night out when my makeup game was oh so strong, and I’m peering into the camera with puppy dog eyes and a contour that couldn’t hold a candle to him.
After doing this more times than I could count on my hands, after each break up, and each heartbreak I got sick of trying to prove myself and prove that my life as a young, free, single extrovert was better without him. Because rarely, do they come crawling back after they see a photo of you wearing a £65 River Island kaftan, or a mirror selfie of you with a curly blow dry and 6 inch heels. All that emanates through their brains at that point, is that you’re probably worth one more text so they can fuck you again.
If they wanted to be with you, it wouldn’t be off the back of a photo of you in a club in Essex pouting with a bottle of Moët in a low cut bandage dress. It would be because they miss you, not your MAC lipsticked pout or thick fluttery lashes or strong bikini game. That’s a promise.
So I decided to block one of my exes. It was a step in the right direction – I sure as hell wasn’t ready to do it to them all, on everything from Snapchat to Whatsapp. But it was a start. It was the commencement of me realising I am more than a mirror selfie in a Zara ensemble, or a filtered flick of eyeliner. It was the prelude of me realising I am enough, without the constant selfies, and Facebook check ins at cocktail bars and airports. I am enough just being me.