Im the Facebook boundary breaker, the private investigator clothed in a too-tight leather skirt, who will slyly break down the entire trajectory of your past relationship, describing dramatic, irrational conclusions while sipping a glass of champagne.
In my 30 yearsof attempting to survive this cruel planet, Ive done certain things Im truly, genuinely proud of.
For example, I got approved for a credit card. It only has a $600 limit, but hey, its a start. And I also scored a simulate gig in a Tampon print ad in the early 2000 s( I constructed $5,000 bucks to enthusiastically straddle a guys shoulders while pretending to be on the cloth ).
But those glittery little triumphs aside, Ive also done some really embarrassing shit in my lifetime.
I once took a Xanax instead of an Advil and entirely screwed up the biggest audition of my life because I was sedated the entire time.
Ive left the door to my automobile unlocked on a sketchy street in Burbank with a brand new, coveted, cream-colored Balenciaga motorcycle bag inside of it, right in plain sight.
Not merely was that gorgeous, buttery, leather heaven bag stolen, but also my windows were smashed and my passport was taken.
But nothing is quite as embarrassing as the horrific sins Ive perpetrated all in the name of lust and love.
In my day-to-day life, Im not a mental head case. Thats the worst part.
My bizarre relationship behavior is drastically out of character in my normal life.
I mean, Im British . I have stellar ways. I grew up in Connecticut . I wore white gloves to cotillion and waltzed in a floor-length dress with the grace of a swan( yes, I was stoned the whole period, but that doesnt negate my impressive fox-trotting abilities, it merely confirms them ).
But if you were to only know this one terrible side of me this dark side that get pulled out when I fall in love( or lust) you would think I was a reckless barbarian raised by a bubble-gum-smacking, mentholated-cigarette-smoking older sister.
It all started with this daughter I dated. Well call her Celia *.
I dont recollect the year, but I recollect the era.
It was the epoch in whichmy crossover to the~ dark side~ of preoccupation spiraled out of control.
It all started with Instagram. Instagram is the apparently innocent gateway medication to a full-blast stalking craving. I recommend you stay the hell away if you want to preserve your sanity( and your relationship ).
At the time, I was new to the Instagram game. And I was excited to look through my new girlfriends pictures. I was new in town, fresh off the boat from England, aroused to get some insight into baes past life.
So one night, Im sitting pretty at the bar by myself. I pull out my trusty iPhone, and I start to recklessly scroll through Celias pictures.
Ooh, she looks sooo cute in her flannel, what a cute little baby dyke! I drunkenly tell aloud, wondering what the hell #TBT stands for.
Aww, seem how gorgeous my girlfriend is! I shout to the bartender, shoving my cellphone in his greasy, irritated face.
She appears nothing like her mothers. I wonder if shes adopted? I whisper into my glass of wine, hoping the bartender doesnt cut me off because Im starting to become self-aware that Im acting like a lunatic.
Oh, thats cute. WAIT. My voice falterings. The suns dim. The music fades. The walls close in around me. The credits come up.
Who. Is. That. Girl?
A bizarre sensation overcomes me. Its one Ive felt before, but can never truly identify. A kind of fiery, mildly erotic inconvenience constructs its route into my stomach.
There it is: A clear-as-day picture of Celia with her limbs wrapped around a compact, muscular brunette.
Shes short and compact, like an acrobat. Long, wet-looking curls cascade down her tanned shoulders. I can smell her hair gel through the cracked screen of my phone.
Shes got warm, blue-green eyes, a round face and is wearing a tank top. Shes everything Im not.
And Celia appears so happy with tank top girl. And its not that I detest this random daughter who she clearly dated right before me, Im fascinated by her. Im intrigued.
Im abruptly fueled with relentless desire to know every single detail about her.
I want to know where she went to school, what her family dynamic is like, if she was traumatized as a child and if she wears a toe ring( she seems like she would wear a toe ring ).
I be considered that she surfs because shes so tan. Is she interested in politics? Is she a lesbian? Or is she bisexual? Shes radiating bisexual, unpolitical energy.
And the next thing I know, Ive fallen down the dark rabbit hole. Im on her Instagram, and SCORE. Its a public account.
I learn she has two dogs, both of which are rescues. My dog, a King Charles Cavalier Spaniel with bug eyes and a short tail, is not a rescue. I bought her, which makes this exa much better person than me.
Im irrationally infuriated to discover she rides ponies because I RIDE ponies, and there is only room for one pony rider in a womans life. And then Im on her Facebook.
Ive abruptly burned hours and hours and hours stalking my girlfriends ex, hours I will never get back , no matter how ferociously I wish I could.
And for the entirety of our relationship, I stalk the hell out of this woman. Girl, trust me. Ive done some things Im not proud of.
I found out where she worked and gazed at her through the window, massive black Chanel sunglasses resting on against the bridge of my delicate nose as I wondered how she was so good at balancing drinkings on a tray.
Through the vicious resource of Facebook, I found out what lesbian events she was attending and pressured my girlfriend to go just so I could run into her and observe her.
Its not like I wanted to talk to her, I just wanted to watch her. Its as ifshe was an exotic giraffe in a zoo.
She wasnt even particularly exotic or interesting, but I was sick with curiosity. To this day, Celia has no clue that I spent our six-month courtship stalking the hell out of her ex. Dreaming about her ex, even.
My next relationship was with an older girl whom I wasnt particularly attracted to, so for whatever reason, her ex didnt really concern me. But I still procured myself stalking Celia, who was now my ex-girlfriends ex-girlfriend.
Finally, I spoke to my best friend Owen about it.
Im crazy! Why the hell do I give a shit about this girl? Celia and I arent together, and I cant stop obsessing over her. Im imagining them having sex, making out, know where they exchanged I love yous for the first time and wondering who said it first, what they opposed about and where their favorite eateries are.
I spilled it all to my dear friend over one of our famous confessional develop rides to the Fire Island Pines.
Ugh, I do the same thing, Z! He pulled out his iPhone and presented me with screenshots he had taken of his ex-boyfriends ex-boyfriend.
I pulled the boxed wine out of my container and guzzled it like I was going to the electric chair. My believes raced faster than the suburban Long Island trees flew in a blur past our speeding train.
And I realized exactly what the obsession was: When you love someone( like, truly love someone ), you feel like youre falling in love for the first time. Even if youve been in love before.
Kisses willfeel brand new. When you have sex with them, youre being deflowered all over again.
Isnt that what love is? Being so alive, so fresh in the glorious moment with this gorgeous human, you forget youve ever felt this route before? Isnt that why its so intoxicating? Because its the refreshing feeling of newness.
So the idea that not only did your partner have a life before you, but also a girlfriend, is mind-blowing.
Its like getting punched in the sore spot. It feels like the brutal arms of reality shaking you by your frail shoulders, boldly reminding you that YOURE NOT THE ONLY ONE THEYVE BEEN INTIMATE WITH.
And love is intimate. And intimacy is so deeply personal.
The fact that your lover has brushed lips with another devotee is appropriate to drive the most sane woman to do wild, destructive things.
Plus, it builds us wished to know: Who is this mysterious animal who has fucked my lover? What did her voice sound like? What voices does she stimulate during sex? And most wickedly, how do I compare?
How does my partner love me when theyre ex was a fresh-faced California babe, and Im a Manhattan vixen with red lipstick and a personality disorder?
But you know what, Ive let girlfriends exes attain me crazy for too long. Life is short and fleeting, and we could die at any time. I dont want to waste time on such unproductive, gross activities.
So I took control of the craving before it took control of me.
Now, I no longer little longer as click on a girlfriends exs Facebook page. I want to know as little about her as possible.
Because Im a romantic, baby. I dont need to obsess about the girls youve been with. Im happy to live in the sparkly fiction that Im your merely girl.
Look, Im not thaaatttt insane. I know youve had girlfriends before I strutted into your world.
But it corrupts the innocence of our romance if I let her presence, her energy, penetrate into our precious, sacred relationship.
And thats what an ex preoccupation does. It lets another entity into your safe dynamic.
And for those of us who are monogamists, we dont need another person tossed into the mixture, especially if theyrea ghost from the past.
Because when youre preoccupying over the ghosts of the past, youre forgetting the most amazing thing in the world: the present.
Youre taking your vibrant energy and pouring it into something that is dead( a former relationship is DEAD ), when you really should be channeling that energy into whats alive: your partner.
Your partner is alive, kittens. Your partner is sitting across the table from you and looking into your eyes with so much love.
And if you dare to let go of the past and appear smack back into their stunning eyes instead, the past doesnt exist.
In that moment, youre connected. And youre the only one who has ever built them feel the way they do right now, this second.
And thats fucking beautiful.
The only way to have more and more of those moments is to put that telephone away, cut the stalking thats pulling you out of the present and hook into your partner, IRL.