Fucking with Self - Instagram, PTSD, and Sacred Places
Any dating coach who says Instagram is not important in the dating realm is a motherfucking liar. Maybe that was the case ten years ago, but at this point, Instagram is as regular as a calculator or a calendar. It has become a language in itself. And as much as you try to deny it, a new generation is growing up with Instagram as if it were their passport.
Likes, follows, stories—what you post, how, and when—are all data points that can reveal a lot about you and what you want to communicate to the world. It’s the perfect tool for narcissists and a deadly device for overthinkers.
Still convinced Instagram isn’t real and has nothing to do with face-to-face connections? Say that to people who have divorced over Instagram. Or to people who found the love of their life there. It’s easy for digital nomads to dismiss the importance of Instagram, but not everyone has the luxury of avoiding it. Many people need Instagram for business or to build a personal brand. Even accountants have Instagram nowadays. And your behavior there matters—just like what you wear, how you move, where you eat, live, and who you hang out with. Not only are data analysts interested in your online behavior, but so are your crushes. You don’t have to be a psychotic stalker to gather information—you do it, I do it, we all do it automatically.
Now that I’ve made my point, imagine being incapable of using Instagram with happiness or even neutrality, the way you use iMessage, email, or a camera. Every time you open the app, your hands get sweaty, your heart beats faster, and you’re braced for the worst to happen. That’s what happened to me—and that’s how my last relationship broke down. I developed something akin to post-traumatic stress disorder. I actually deleted all of my social media and started fresh to cut myself off from the drama of the past. But trauma isn’t something you can cut off.
It wasn’t even about the person themselves, but more about what that person had destroyed for me. I moved on from the heartbreak—I’m long over the relationship itself—but there are days when I still hate Instagram. I’m terrified of viewing stories. I’m scared of who is watching me. You might say, “Just don’t use the app,” but why should I let trolls and fear take away such an important tool in my life?
The image of the “Business of Pleasure” cap makes me want to vomit, every time it takes me back to the time and place that destroyed my trust. It became an obvious symbol of betrayal. I was alone on holiday in Italy, anxious, feeling that something was off. My boyfriend at the time—for the purpose of this story, let’s call him “The Clown”—was weirdly quiet. And that silence was way too familiar to me by then. This guy was insanely consistent in his inconsistency. Every time I forgave him, gave him another chance, he’d flip the script just to keep things “interesting.” He said one thing, but his actions rarely aligned. When you love someone, though, you forgive. You believe they’ll do better, and you take the blame on yourself. It didn’t start with the cap, but the cap was the inevitable end.
From the beginning of the relationship, Instagram was a third wheel with a psycho ex-girlfriend attached to it. Regardless, I was one of those skeptics—“It’s just Instagram, it’s not that serious.” I was always the “cool girl.” Not in the way you might think—I was always agreeable, non-intrusive, non-scheming, non-assuming. I would never dig through someone’s phone or spy. I gave full trust because I assumed people would do the same for me.
But I wasn’t just cool. I wasn’t trusting.
I was fucking dumb.
Finding clothes that weren’t mine around his flat? Not enough of a red flag. My shampoo running out at light speed (and the guy was balding)? Still not a red flag. Him liking photos of his ex? Nah, I’m a cool girl—I don’t care. The ex sending him nude photos? Nah, he’s not into it—nothing to worry about.
The first crack appeared when we had our first fight. I was devastated, crying over him saying, out of nowhere, that he just wasn’t in love with me. He tried, but there just wasn’t this lightning-strike feeling he thought he should have. Ten months of dating, seven years of friendship, and he expected some Hollywood sign of fate. On my part, there was an unexpected attraction and a sense of calm. I wasn’t ready for confessions. In fact, the possibility of full commitment was something I was still working through within myself. But I knew we just needed more time. It wasn’t that kind of love, and I embraced it.
And I could feel that what he was saying wasn’t true. I didn’t want to throw away the time we had known each other or the connection we’d built. So, I decided to let it resolve itself—to let him think.
That night, I opened Instagram for the millionth time that day as I was going to sleep. Scrolling through random friends’ stories, I saw a familiar-looking jacket.
Am I or am I not? Go back.
There it was. A familiar jacket, a familiar frame—sitting with none other than the psycho ex and her friends. I rewatched the photo so many times I lost count, trying to deny what I was seeing. A wave of dread swept through my body.
Don’t go crazy. They’re just friends. They have mutual friends. Don’t be a psycho.
He wouldn’t do that.
The next day, we saw each other. I was glad I hadn’t made a big deal out of “nothing.” The Clown was back to normal, but I couldn’t shake the unease. Deep down, I knew something was off.
The second crack was a gigantic hole that woke up the psycho version of me. We all know the inner psycho. There is no better detective than a suspicious woman.
He went on a trip with friends to Budapest for Formula 1. At this point, we had decided to call it off, take a step back, and keep seeing each other without the expectations of a relationship. My only condition was exclusivity. If he wanted to keep enjoying my company, I wasn’t going to share. I had been in an open relationship before, and it was a mess—I wasn’t happy to go back to that. If he wanted to explore and have fun, he had my blessing, but I wasn’t going to be part of the equation. First, it’s unhygienic. Second, you can’t go from being together to being casual friends at the snap of a finger. Especially since we had both acknowledged that we had feelings for one another and valued the connection we had. We both wanted to work on it. I thought I was being rational. He was the one saying he made a mistake, wanted to apologize, that I was so important to him, that our connection was amazing, etc., etc., etc. And I know he meant it.
Why wouldn’t he? We could talk for hours, felt comfortable with each other, and there were no games or insanity. It felt like the right thing to do.
So, when he told me about the trip, he said it was a last-minute idea where they flew a private jet because it was a birthday gift from his parents.
No suspicion. I was living my life, thinking everything was good. I was glad I had stayed calm and kept my emotions in control. It all felt almost like a business deal.
It was an insanely hot day in the city—during COVID—so you can imagine the sweaty thighs, wet face, and humiliation of living back at my parents’ house because I couldn’t find a well-paying job in my industry. I was scrolling through Instagram, clicking on his story, genuinely excited about his trip.
And then my heart stopped.
I saw a glimpse of long blonde hair in his video carrying HIS Off-White backpack.
No, it can’t be his. It’s a popular backpack.
But my brain was already in overdrive. I watched the video a hundred times. I battled my thoughts—do I text him? Do I not?
Research. More research before making hasty decisions.
So, I did something I had never done before with any guy. If he was, in fact, dating someone else and hadn’t told me—or worse, was seeing the crazy ex—there had to be proof of it on Instagram. They likely followed each other.
The ex was clean. She wasn’t in Budapest. Keep searching.
Found it.
It felt like I had seen someone getting hit by a bus. And that someone was me.
She was tall, pretty, with long blonde hair. Cool. She was one of those girls with her phone glued to her hand, taking mediocre pseudo-aesthetic photos of a luxury lifestyle. On her stories, she was wearing not only his backpack but also his shirt and his douchey Balenciaga sunglasses. She had posted all of it.
Betrayal is a horrible feeling. Not because you love someone so much or because they’re so amazing you can’t live without them. No. It’s because you wanted to be fair. You thought you were treating each other with respect. You had a certain image of the person you trusted, and they played you. My biggest fear was right in front of me. And despite trying to be the bigger person—falling for the guy I thought was a safe option—I GOT PLAYED.
I couldn’t handle myself anymore. I sent him a million text messages calling him a motherfucking asshole, saying I only asked him for one thing if he still wanted to keep seeing me.
He responded in the most chill manner: “What are you talking about? She’s just a friend from the group”.
I mean, how much can you tell from texting? I tried to call him, but he didn’t answer.
I was acting like a psycho girlfriend—but I wasn’t his girlfriend anymore. I asked him why she was wearing his clothes. It was a difficult question to ask because it meant I had found her profile. It probably looked like I was stalking all of his friends, keeping tabs on his every move. But I didn’t care at that point. I needed the truth. And he was lying to me.
I wanted to believe him, though. I couldn’t forgive myself for being so foolish.
In my head I had an image of my mother when I was about twelve. We were on holiday—Turkey or Greece, it doesn’t matter. My father’s behavior was always the same regardless of the destination. He would drink through the whole trip, get into fights with my mother, and very often not return to sleep in our apartment at night.
We were having breakfast, fatherless as usual since he decided to party all night at the pool and wasn’t done yet.
My mother was wearing gigantic black sunglasses, as if she wanted to shield herself from the world, to cover tears in front of her children. I was chewing on my pancakes, helping my little sister with her plate. Suddenly, I didn’t feel like eating anymore. Seeing my mother cry, probably for the first time I recall so vividly, I wanted to give her a big hug. I didn’t want her to cry.
And I felt like I wanted to kill my father.
He was my dad. He took care of me. I should have respected him. But at that point, the little me was filled with pure, raging anger. As if I were choosing sides in the conflict. And maybe I was only twelve, but I was a very angry twelve-year-old. I wanted to burn him alive just by the power of my thoughts. But you just keep going. He gets sober, hungover, lavishes us with gifts later. My mother gets back into her powerful position. No words, no apologies. We keep living as if nothing happened.
When The Clown assured me that the girl I saw in Budapest was just his friend and that the reason she was wearing his clothes was because she lost her luggage, I believed him. If it was a lie, it helped me sleep.
I wanted to call him to talk it out, to apologize for my erratic behavior. I wanted to explain that I wasn’t a creepy stalker so we could laugh about it. But he said, “Sorry, no vibes for talking.” (Seriously, I dated someone who talked this way.)
I felt like I had fucked up. I was embarrassed. I felt like I had abused him, and I felt abused myself. I felt like a total idiot. And my intuition was screaming that something was off, that I needed to protect myself. But the embarrassment was stronger. He probably hid his stories from me, which only solidified my feeling of stupidity. We never talked about it again, but the image of the blonde haunted me.
Deep down, I knew the real reason he didn’t want to be with me was because I felt bad about myself. And he made me doubt myself even more.
I had never been with anyone who would criticize the way I looked or openly talk about what they considered "hot." Honestly, the first time he made a comment about another girl, saying, “That girl is hot”—someone who looked nothing like me—my ego took a hit. Coming from him, a man who looked like a cross between a lizard and Timothy Chalamet cosplaying Travis Scott, I thought, “Wait a minute, this is so wrong.” But it hit me.
And to be honest, it’s totally okay for a girl to want to look a certain way, to aim to look her best. But I didn’t feel like her.
I had so many priorities: building a career, trying to be responsible, and still enjoying life. I had never felt insecure about my life until that point.
But that’s just the middle of the story.
The best is yet to come.
As my insecurities grew, he became more and more distant. I felt ugly, poor, like a piece of shit. I felt like I was nowhere near being able to love someone or be in a relationship.
So, we called it quits.
Within a year, I transformed my life. I finally had well-paid projects. I was working relentlessly and barely had time for friends. When I did have free time, I spent it shopping and pampering myself.
I lost weight. I bleached my hair. I spent the majority of my paychecks on designer clothes and my dream of owning my own place.
I was thriving. And I needed to thank the lizard cosplaying Travis Scott for it.
There wasn’t much to change—I was already tall. Underneath the slight chubbiness, I had my mother’s bone structure. Even when I was heavier, I was always considered pretty. But now, I actually looked the way I felt inside. I was stunning.
When we met a year later, the look on his face was priceless. He barely recognized me. One of his friends introduced himself to me despite knowing me for years.
The dance of apologies began again.
And I forgave him.
I think I already mentioned this in another essay, but for context: You might ask, What was so wonderful about him? Was he giving me money? No. Was he lavishing me with gifts? No. Was the sex amazing?
No.
He looked like Eminem, was uncultured, and his love language was bringing me coffee in the morning and playing awkward rap love songs.
But he put in effort when he wanted to. He was hardworking—or at least I thought he was. His helplessness around the house was adorable.
We cooked together, talked, watched movies. I introduced him to wine, food, and soul-level conversations. He went along with anything I liked, which was endearing.
I didn’t think I would ever have feelings for him; we were from two different worlds. But falling in love with him felt like a safe choice. The stakes weren’t high. I saw him, and he saw me.
Sharing vulnerability is binding. It also shines a light on insecurities. And automatically, the stakes get higher anyway.
So despite the fights, stupid comments, and fear, you want to save something you consider "ours." The time, the shared moments, the mutual friends, the intertwined lives.
And I still loved him. I don’t think you can stop loving someone as a human. It will always be locked in a certain moment and time.
During our time apart, I got better. He got worse.
He was partying more than before. I almost wasn’t sure if I wanted him back.
But at the time, love seemed non-negotiable. I wanted to try again, knowing that my own blocks were under control.
Part of me was insanely happy. Another part felt like I was selling myself short.
I was the one who made this relationship interesting. He wasn’t giving so much of himself. He wasn’t challenging me. His interest in my interests wasn’t genuine, so I felt more like a teacher than a girlfriend.
He was awkward around me—like a 15-year-old. I thought becoming hot and more confident would spark something, but it only made him withdraw more.
It felt empty, and I still felt like it was my fault. Like I wasn’t enough.
It was as if our connection only moved when things were either up or down. Any sense of normalcy made him uncomfortable.
His specialty was grand apologies.
I was seeing him, but there was always a cloud surrounding him. Was he actually seeing me? I thought so at first. But later, he just stopped looking. A part of me almost laughed at the absurdity of us being together. Every time we parted, I felt anxious and unfulfilled. I could feel him drifting away. The closeness we once shared became a curse. For the sake of that closeness, I wanted to hold on.
And then came the final act—the cap.
He left his douchey MISBHV cap at my place. As I was leaving for my trip, I took it with me. It was a perfect companion for salty beaches—later for salty tears. The message found me even when I wasn’t looking for it. A random video popped up, and I saw a glimpse of the cap I was wearing on holiday. Everything in my head spun.
My knees went weak.
I replayed the video, trying to find more details. Was I wrong?
Anybody can have the same cap.
But how was it possible if I had it with me and the video was new?
I saw a peek of familiar hands with familiar rings.
I put my phone down, deciding not to give it any more thought. But it wasn’t my decision to make. My subconscious was already connecting the dots. I needed to know the truth.
I did a little digging.
I specifically decided not to view his stories while on holiday to protect my peace. He went to the festival he said he wasn’t going to. He partied with none other than the psycho ex and her crew.
He flexed in the videos like an ASAP Rocky wannabe, wearing that stupid "Business of Pleasure" cap.
He looked like an idiot.
Apparently, it was easier for him to get himself a new cap than to have an honest conversation with me and end things properly. I wasn’t going to be swayed this time with dumb excuses. I knew what it all meant. And my mind couldn’t comprehend:
How?
How can someone be such a liar?
How could a guy who looks like a lizard play me?
The first familiar wave of betrayal hit me. Your worst nightmare pulling you into the ground.
I was the ultimate dumb bitch.
And the fact that I was confident, hot, had a good job, and was happy didn’t fix anything. I wanted to kill him. Burn him with my thoughts. But instead of creating petty drama, I texted him.
“We need to talk.”
“Yeah, I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” he texted back.
“Okay. I’m back in the country. We can talk right now.”
Silence.
He was silent for a month.
At this point, I knew it was long over. But my heart was broken into pieces, and I had this awful, rotten feeling in my soul.
Something that shouldn’t be there.
I knew I was being watched on Instagram by mutual friends. I knew the psycho ex and her girlies were stalking me, dancing on my grave. It was such a high school performance, yet we’re talking about people in their late twenties and early thirties. Not only was my heart broken, but my pride and dignity were bruised. I couldn’t speak to anyone about it because I knew what they’d say. And I couldn’t say it out loud. There was one person I was willing to talk to: The Clown.
And I decided to destroy him.
He finally gathered the courage to propose a meeting to finalize our breakup. I had my weapons ready. The main one: the dress.
I wasn’t searching for it, but when I saw it in a suggested ad, I was sold.It was long, sheer, with a blue print that barely gave any coverage but didn’t make me look completely naked. It had long gloves. Perfect for the end of summer—and the end of a man’s life. And it was also from MISBHV. I call it poetic justice.
I curled my hair and ended up looking like a cross between a viper and a mermaid. As I was leaving the house, I put on combat boots and a long leather jacket to cover up my ass in the restaurant.
I arrived 40 minutes late—on purpose—to make him even more nervous.
I saw him at the table.
He looked like shit.
He was high as a kite. His eyes were red, full of fear and embarrassment.
He could barely face me.
I tried to have a civilized conversation, but I completely lost it when I realized he hadn’t come to apologize or take accountability for anything. When I was done roasting him, the kitchen staff was laughing, and The Clown was crying.
Not saying a word.
A fuckboy, a liar, and a coward. What a combo.
When I got home, I put my brave face down and cried my eyes out. I was throwing things, taking the shit he left into a box, and tossing it into the trash. The next morning, I realized I had thrown away clothes worth a couple thousand.
I ran back to retrieve them (I could’ve sold them), but the cleaning service had already taken them.
It was gone.
A few months later, I didn’t feel anything anymore. In fact, I reached this state quite fast after the breakup. I didn’t want to talk about it. I just moved on with my life. Nothing made sense to me anymore. I didn’t know what else I needed to fix within myself. I was disgusted with The Clown and had lost any shred of respect I’d ever had for him. The thread of our dead connection lingered, like a corpse following me. I wanted to start dating again, but I was an emotional train wreck.
I didn’t want anyone to touch me. I slowly lost contact with all of my friends. Instagram made me hyper-aware of all the accounts that kept watching me. I had a constant fear that when I opened the app, something terrible would hit me out of nowhere. I deleted my account, losing all my business contacts. I deleted all of my photos from the past three years. I wasn’t planning on coming back.
I was biking across Amsterdam on New Year’s Eve, leaving a rave club right after midnight.
My bleached hair was dyed with a red box dye. I was wearing the revenge dress with knee-high platforms and a matching leather jacket my friend Lucian gave me. It was freezing, but I didn’t care. I was listening to The xx album, drowning in sound. The feeling of being unable to communicate with others stayed with me—it was like being behind glass.
I was fucking miserable.
After that trip, I went to a psychiatrist and was diagnosed with depression.
I took time off from life. I stopped using social media entirely.
When I started feeling happier, I decided to return and start fresh, which was kind of exciting.
It was like I’d died and become a new person, with a new personality.
It felt like a luxury to start over.
Mental health and social media are crucial, but it’s so easy to get lost in it. You can rebel all you want (I’m talking to myself now), but Instagram is part of regular life.
It’s part of dating—liking or not liking, viewing or not viewing, how fast?
Did he respond?
He left me on read?
Does being a “close friend” mean you’re a close friend?
Is it like The Sims—our relationship has two green smiley faces?
Are we a pink heart or a red heart?
To post or not to post—that is the question.
Back to my ex, the asshole.
Having a new identity didn’t stop him from finding me. Despite having like 50 followers at the time, he popped up on my feed, unwanted. I was terrified of seeing him somewhere on other people’s profiles.
I couldn’t help it.
And it wasn’t because I loved him—I didn’t.
Some days, I wished his penis would fall off. Other days, I felt blissful neutrality. But when I saw his avatar liking some random girl he didn’t even know—and wouldn’t stand a chance with—it triggered the fuck out of me. Instantly, it took me back to all the times I felt unwanted, unworthy of truth and love.
Fat.
Not cool.
Just not enough in general.
It made me so nervous I’d skip a meal or not eat at all until the end of the day.
Me, for example—I don’t like and drool over random dudes’ photos. My standards are high. It’s fucking pathetic, fishing for attention from every attractive girl. My “like” has meaning. I don’t give it away left and right. (Memes don’t count.)
Maybe what fucks me up is that despite how hurtful his behavior was to me, he remains sneaky, sleazy, an idiot.
Maybe I’m angry at myself because I thought he was “a good guy” and gave him a chance, thinking I’d be safe.
Why?
Why?
Why was I with him?
It all hurts so much because I was fucking with myself. Despite what my intuition told me. Despite my actual desires. I lowered my bar to the max. I wasn’t honoring myself in the name of something that never existed.
So, are sacred places real?
Everyone has one.
It’s the part of yourself that only you know, a part you might never truly share with anyone. It’s the connection you build with someone. The part of your brain that becomes theirs, and theirs that becomes yours. It’s where you lose the sense of separation.
You’re building something that is “ours.”
It’s trust.
Intimacy.
Tenderness.
It’s the language only the two of you speak. It’s wanting to share that sacred place with someone—a piece of your soul, your vulnerability. It’s beautiful, special, and ultimately something we all want, but not everyone is brave enough to take it.
The stakes are higher.
The hurt might get worse.
But keeping the stakes low doesn’t keep you from getting hurt. No love gives guarantees. No love is safe. But some love can make you feel like you transcend places, time, even yourself. There’s no logic to it. You can’t rationalize it. You can’t reduce it to data:
Likes. Follows.
Are they consistent? Do you know their middle name?
How long have you been dating? Are we in a relationship now? Is it time to make the next move?
You can’t measure love.
And so much of love happens when you’re apart from each other. Locked in your own heads. Locked in fears, expectations, and fantasies. Even in a committed, stable relationship, you can still fuck with yourself. The doubts. The strategizing. Your hopes and dreams. You desperately want the other person to match those thoughts, to not let you down.
You think you’re resonating on the same wavelength, orbiting the same planet. The data speaks for itself. Then a major disappointment hits. It leaves you broken, wondering what you could’ve done better. It leaves you lonely, realizing you were lonely all along.
You didn’t get played.
You played yourself.
Love is insanity. The best kind. It feels insane to go beyond logic, to just trust your intuition and believe in the unseen. You only feel. Feeling is something you can’t cheat. It’s maddening in the best possible way. It will challenge you. It might break you. It might heal you. Love and connection aren’t commercialized products of modern times.
They’re forces your soul and body will always seek, no matter your circumstances.
It’s a natural human right.
A force stronger than any limitation.
