There it was again. Every time I opened my newsfeed, I saw the photo of the champagne bucket in front of a hotel window overlooking the city and I’d curse Facebook. I mean, it had figured out that my soon-to-be ex’s posts were something I’d wanted to see in the past, so why couldn’t it figure out that we were going through a rough patch and now I didn’t want to be bombarded with pics of him moving on with his life?
Of course, that’s what I was really mad about – that I was so emotionally hurt, I could barely get out of bed in the morning while the person who caused the pain was popping bottles in a hotel penthouse. That an individual who was so calculatedly mean could be allowed to walk away from the metaphorical atomic bomb he detonated and go on to have the time of his life. That he looked so normal from the outside that nobody who encountered him would have an idea of the destruction he left in his wake.
But then when I stop to think, I consider, what if he didn’t even know the extent of the damage he’d done?
And I can’t keep playing the victim all the time. What if I don’t understand the damage I’ve done to people? Who have I hurt? Who is watching me walk around nonchalantly while they lick their wounds? How would I even know?
So this is how pain really looks. One person looking in from the outside at another person who can only see their version of events. Can only see themselves. Something like a two-way mirror.