I couldn’t stop stalking a former friend on social media. Then she caught me

I did it without even realising half the time – my fingers acted alone, from an instinct that should have alerted me to how frequently I was doing it. I would unlock my phone, open Instagram, navigate to my secret account and be typing in her username before I had even processed what I was doing.

There was usually a buzz of anticipation, almost adrenalin, at the sight of her profile picture. But this time – nothing. No familiar icon, just a list of other accounts with similar names. How strange. Had she deleted her account?

I logged into another account, an old one I never use. I searched her name, and there it was. Adrenalin dovetailed into shame. She had blocked me. Not even me – the fake “me” that was presented by my burner account, which was somehow even more embarrassing because she had likely put two and two together and realised who I was.

Becky (not her real name) and I shared one of those friendships that burned bright and fast before burning out entirely – hastened along by the artificial conditions of the pandemic. We found each other through a mutual love of horse riding, and for a good few years there, we were very close. Our break-up was technically hinged on one bad day (a disagreement over a shared space and how we each used it), but really it had been brewing for a while. After the initial blow-up, when my attempts to talk it out were ignored, I blocked her on social media. I was reacting out of hurt, but I also don’t like keeping the false impression of online friendship with people I no longer consider friends.

That principle was not strong enough to stop me from wanting to know what was going on in Becky’s life. At first, it was for obvious reasons. Was she talking about me? Was she sad? Or worse, was she happier now I was gone? But as the years passed, it became more of a lazy habit. I would occasionally drop by her account during a regular scroll session. She seemed happy. I was glad that things were going well, I told myself. So why couldn’t I just log out of my burner account and leave Becky to her happy new life? What was wrong with me?

I know I’m not alone in turning to social-media stalking as a way of processing negative emotions, especially in the context of friendship or romantic break-ups. In 2020, Facebook reported an estimated 448 million accounts were false or duplicates, and that doesn’t account for Instagram, arguably the more sophisticated stalking platform. The issue with Instagram is that a user can see who has viewed their stories and on TikTok, you can even see who has visited your profile.

So it’s a common behaviour, but that doesn’t change the fact it’s also the single most toxic thing I do, and I need to stop.

Stalking people on social media is a fundamentally negative act because it’s rare to go to the effort for people you genuinely care about. For me, it’s reserved for the people who have wounded me. Why? I have no idea. It doesn’t make me happier to see them celebrating life milestones or posting memes. Instead, each stalking session is like picking the scab off a freshly closed sore.

And not only was I stalking my former friend, but I also guessed she was probably stalking me. This meant my social media presence quickly became about constructing a version of my life that was specifically for my haters.

Each story I posted of my social outings or craft projects was published with the intent of “Look how full and wholesome my life is!” When I shared the occasional picture of my son, the subtext screamed: “Motherhood is going GREAT actually!” When I travelled overseas, I spent more time choosing how to portray my trip to my Instagram audience than I did actually experiencing another country.

I am a grown woman. I am entering my middle age. This behaviour is frankly sad, but I didn’t realise just how pathetic it was until my stalking was interrupted by being blocked. I don’t even know if Becky actually knew it was me, or was just creeped out by the weirdly anonymous account that religiously viewed her stories. Either way, it was a wake-up call.

So while I felt bereft in the moment, I am glad Becky took the steps I was too weak to take myself. Her life is now a mystery to me, as it should be, and I’m back to having only my memories of our brief friendship to reflect on, instead of a drip-feed of her life updates that no longer include me.

Zoya Patel is an author and freelance writer from Canberra.

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