That Moment When You See Your Ex’s Wedding Photo

I’d convinced myself that I was OK with him remarrying. That I didn’t give a shit. And I don’t, give a shit that is, in many ways. But to see how he’s moved on. To see how he has a new life. One that involves happiness, even if that’s not the only story. When I saw my ex’s wedding photo there is no denying that it hurt. It hurt like hell.

It often feels like my life does not involve happiness. I know that isn’t true. I know that I am, in many ways, one of the luckiest people alive (and certainly more lucky than the dead). My days often involve happy moments. But happy moments are different to a sense of happiness and contentment. They are very different.

Whilst I feel I have moved on, seeing that photo I’m angry. Not sad or regretful, but angry. Angry that someone can be so heartless to another human being. Angry that I chose a man who was, as it turned out, heartless. That anger that I’ve been trying so hard to quell is back with a vengeance. I’m jealous that I can’t be an emotional illiterate who doesn’t know how to treat people. If I didn’t give a fuck life would be so much easier. I’d probably be remarried myself by now.

But I’m not, that’s why when I suffer a relationship breakdown I go through this. Whilst he gets sunshine and blue skies and some woman who’s crazy enough to marry him.

I’ve kept well clear. I’ve wanted to warn her. Not warn her off you see, but warn her. Who would want another woman to go through this pain? But I don’t. Who would believe that it wasn’t just bitterness? Who would believe that it wasn’t just my way of warning her off? I’m sure I’d have thought the same if I was in her position. No doubt she believes it’s the start of a good relationship. It ain’t. I’ve been there. The relentless emotional abuse he will put you through sooner or later will not be good.

I have unmmed and arrhhed about calling it that, about calling it abuse, for years. But what else is it when someone tells you you’re a horrid person. That you have a bad vibe. That you are a no good mother. Over and over again. To the point you take years to recognise it as abuse and rather think perhaps you actually were just those things. When you’re still so quick to believe maybe you are those things. No-one is perfect, we all have dark sides, so perhaps that’s mine.

But I was nice.

And I am a great mum.

It makes it even worse to think that here I am, writing these posts about how I’m struggling. That I am actually struggling. And I shouldn’t be. Not that I should be doing it with him instead, this whole parenting thing. No. But I should be doing it with someone. That if I hadn’t said yes to that silly little question all those years ago, then I wouldn’t be here now. I wouldn’t be struggling. Or maybe I would. But for now I can believe that I wouldn’t be.

As I allow the thoughts to expand in my mind a feeling of sickness churns up inside me. How could someone who cannot function enough to have a positive relationship with his son, function enough to remarry. How could he not be trying to work on the most important relationship of them all. How could that seem like a valid way to prioritise his life.

Then, in the morning I am greeted with a toddler who, having been sick in the night, now requires the liquid like shit to be washed off his legs and PJs. And I remember, I’m a whole lot happier here, doing this, than there with those fake blue skies.

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