I’ve Been Happily Married for Four Years—so Why Am I Suddenly Checking My Ex’s Facebook Again?

It had been nearly a decade since I’d taken a free fall into the rabbit hole that is an ex’s Facebook page. I’m a happily married 35-year-old woman for crying out loud. One who does very adult things like pay bills on a house and a car and fall asleep watching true-crime television at night. But that’s exactly where I found myself, glued to my laptop one Friday afternoon.

I’d been working on an essay about an ex and his mother, who shared much wisdom with me, such as the fact that orange isn’t my color, as you do when you love someone. Telling friends about the story, I thought I'd pull up photographic evidence, which I didn't have because our relationship ended nearly five iPhones ago. That's when I turned to Facebook—and came face-to-face with pictures of his wedding.

The news of his marriage was not a surprise; I’d bumped into him on the subway a few years back, and he told me about his new love and cohabiting in Brooklyn—which I felt was really my borough, even though I’ve since moved to upstate New York. But who's keeping tabs? Later, I had heard he proposed. I was married by then, and was genuinely happy that he'd found a love that filled him up.

But unexpectedly stumbling upon irrefutable proof jarred me. One particular image—her grinning radiantly, him gazing at her from behind—made my stomach lurch. I brushed it off and sped past to the photo I'd been trying to show my friend, an old one, which happened to be just above pictures of us together. She scrolled through, laughing at the incongruity of me before she knew me.

That afternoon I sat down to continue my essay, but I couldn’t shake what I’d seen. I went back for more. We were so happy, I thought, scrolling through pictures I hadn’t looked at since our breakup nearly nine years ago. I thought about making pizza together in his small Hell’s Kitchen apartment—him tossing the dough up in the air and me snacking on toppings to his chagrin—and eating our dinners in bed; the drunken kisses in grimy East Village bars; stopping during road trips to have sex in the backseat of his car, and every other pristinely archived snapshot I’d filed away.

I had to snap out of it. I had no business sitting around sulking over an ancient breakup. If my husband knew that I’d spent a whole afternoon unstitching old wounds and wondering, even if for a fleeting moment, What if?, I’d feel like a real asshole. I kind of felt like one even without him knowing. A friend arrived for dinner, and as I told her what I had done, we laughed about how happy we were to have left our twenties behind.

But had I?

I dreamt about my ex that night. It felt as though he were intruding in my subconscious, and I spent the next few days feeling guilty and unsettled, like I was nursing some sort of nostalgia hangover. I knew I had brought this on myself.

Something else I brought on myself around the same time was a bit of hormonal melee, since I recently went off the Pill for potential baby-making. This manifested as an urgent sexual need one particular day when I was home alone. As one does, I grabbed my vibrator and cued up what I thought would be a tasteful adult flick.

A few minutes in, the film took a somber turn; I was distracted from the action by a gorgeous, intense classical song. Vibrator still in my hand, I began to cry. What’s happening to me? I wondered, and then the connection clicked: another ex, the first person I ever slept with.

We were passionate, dysfunctional, and vulnerable, so we grew explosive, jealous, and obsessed—hallmarks of young love. For twentysomething me, the intimacy had been too much, and too beautiful, to bear. It was the last time I had been so overcome with emotion that I cried during sex.

Lying in the warm flannel sheets of my bed, which I happily share with my husband, I realized I wasn’t upset that my ex was married. I wasn’t missing my first ex-boyfriend or the sex that had brought me to tears. I was seeking the other half of those relationships: myself. The girl so vulnerable her emotions were just always at the roof of her mouth, ready to tumble out to anyone at any time; the one who’d open her chest to let everyone inside; who was so playful, so whimsical, and so carefree—she couldn’t exist anymore. Not in the adult world I now occupy.

I shut my laptop and lay there, the unwelcome sadness opening up like a hole in floor. I used to live with abandon, and loved with a ferocity that could have sparked flames from twigs and sunlight. I was raw and unfiltered. I believed that with a little elbow grease and a lot of hard work, I could accomplish anything. There was immeasurable time for reinvention, frivolity, and lightness—and none to waste on the undying worry of being self-employed or how to afford the house or when to try for a baby. I thought I had been propelled by my youth this whole time, and I didn’t even realize it was gone until that moment.

But my fierce twenties were a fearsome time too; I felt inadequate to other women all the time. I was riddled with insecurity over my ability as a writer, a friend, and a woman. I was frustrated by my lack of willpower when it came to men, and annoyed by my complacency at a desk job I hated. I hardly had a voice in the world yet.

Sometimes I joke that I don’t feel old enough to become a mother, to own a car, a house, or to work full-time for myself. But I think a lot of us have imposter syndrome when it comes to growing up. One day we’re kids yearning to be adults, and then, in a moment, we see we’ve gotten our wish. I just happened to come to that realization during a strange porno symphony and a craven afternoon on Facebook. But here I am.

I love the woman I’ve become. I’m still learning, growing, and becoming, but I’m a woman nonetheless, with my 10:00 P.M. expiration each night, fine lines beginning their descent into crow’s-feet, and a metabolism that’s slowing to a crawl. I married a remarkable man who is my equal, not some emotionally out-of-reach object on whom I’ve written impossible meaning. I have flexibility and autonomy in my work, which is something I could only dream of back then. And I still get to have pizza in bed.

I like to think that my youthful traits have evolved for the better: My former flippancy segued into easygoingness, my wanderlust made me a more curious explorer, and my fiery, passionate, creative side is still there; it’s just more even-keeled (barring the occasional meltdown brought on by an iPhone commercial after two glasses of wine, or, you know, during a tasteful adult film). But the girl I used to be—and her rag-tag collection of fun-back-then boyfriends? She’s gone. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t still mourning her a little bit, and experiencing growing pains as I expand into the space she left behind. But I wouldn’t be where I am now without her, without all of them.