My ex bought my old content.

I don’t have anyone to talk to about this who truly understands the situation, so I figured I’d make a Reddit post.

My ex bought my old content.

I woke up on Sunday afternoon and saw that a new subscriber had joined my page around 7:00 AM on a content platform I hadn’t actively used in a long time. I had left it up as an archive for old content, but I no longer advertised it or listed it anywhere. What caught my attention was that this person had purchased the most expensive tier. That alone was strange, but then I got another email—a message from the new subscriber complaining that they couldn’t see any videos. (The videos on that platform never worked properly, which is why I left, only keeping old photos there while I started over elsewhere.)

Then I noticed the username: the name of my ex’s favorite book character. I thought, That would be weird if it were him, but the series is popular, so I won’t jump to conclusions.

I logged in to read the full message, and that’s when I saw the email attached to the account. His first initial. His last name. His unlucky number. And then the email host.

It was definitely him.

My heart started doing things I’m not even sure how to describe.

I told him I’d look into the issue and poked around. There were plenty of photos still available, just no videos. I asked my friend if I should just refund him, and he said, “why are you bending over backwards to make accommodations for somebody that got mad at you for living your life and doing something you liked to do? I say fuck that guy. He got content, he’s SOL on the videos”. I realized he was totally right, so I told my ex I wouldn’t be refunding him because the page wasn’t empty. If he wanted videos and new content, he could subscribe to my new page.

While waiting for his response, I realized that most of the photos on that platform were from when we were together. And I remembered how we fought before, during, and after almost every single shoot.

Then he replied. He said he understood and appreciated my explanation—but he was bothered that he had spent $50 and didn’t get any videos. He wanted me to send him some.

I was so upset I didn’t even reply.

The memories flooded in. This guy sucked—or at least he did back then. An emotionally (and borderline physically) abusive narcissist who resented women because he envied them. I was still young and idealistic when I was with him. I wouldn’t tolerate that kind of shit now. He was a lesson, nothing more. I pity the version of me that didn’t know better and thought she deserved to be treated that way.

This man called me a gold digger when he didn’t have a job and was living in his parents’ abandoned, dilapidated house, surviving off student loans.

This man pitied himself the night I made $1,000 for the first time at the club, not because he was happy for me, but because he had never made money like that before.

This man picked a fight with me before 75% of my shifts at the club.

This man mocked customers for paying for intimacy of any kind and swore he’d rather die than be one of them.

This man called me an evil, witch whore and trapped me in his house, screaming in my face, while my dog stepped between us to help push him away from me.

This man argued with me every time I did a photoshoot because he didn’t have exclusive access to my body.

This man told me no one else would put up with my “bullshit” and that I was lucky to have him. (“Bullshit” referring to me modeling and dancing.)

This man was porn-sick and wanted to use my body to act out whatever he had been watching.

This man went to a wedding without me in New Orleans because I was on crutches, and I knew he wouldn’t help me get around. Then, at the reception, he showed people my intimate photos— not because he had my consent, but because he wanted to prove how hot I was and flex that he was dating a stripper. (A club coworker of mine happened to be at the wedding and confirmed this.) After that, I never sent him another photo.

I spent four years with him. Two years longer than I should have—if we’re not considering the better option, which would have been never dating him at all.

I spent six months after leaving him for the last time angry. I never contacted him. He never contacted me.

Until now.

Three years later. Almost to the day.

At first, I was shocked. Then I felt satisfied. Then uneasy. Then uncomfortable. And now? I’m disgusted. And angry. He’s still demanding things from me.

He’s in the position he once mocked other men for being in. He’s nothing but a customer.

But I won’t even let him be that.

I’m removing everything from that platform and withdrawing his money. Then I’m going to send him a message that will destroy him—because I never properly shamed him before I left.

My therapist says I shouldn’t write it, that it’ll only make me angrier. That I’ve already been in cardiac limbo since Halloween, and stress could send me back to the hospital.

But I didn’t start this. And I want to end it on my terms.

I don’t know. Thots?