Recognizing Love Bombing Signs

Love Bombed: My Story of Worship, Betrayal, and No Contact (Part 2 of 32,000,000)

The First Signs of Cracks (Denial & Self-Betrayal)

I didn’t want to see it.

I wouldn’t believe it, no matter how many times people told me. Friends who cared about me saw the signs, even based only on the things I was telling them. But I dismissed it. I justified it. I couldn’t recognize what was happening, even as I described it out loud.

Even when the devaluation started. Even when I felt myself grasping for his attention, for his validation, for the thing I thought we had in the beginning. I clung to the idea that we were different. That what we had was real.

But looking back, I can see the shift—the exact moment the love bombing started to fade, replaced by distance, devaluation, gaslighting, and control.

The Devaluation & The Desperation to Hold On

That’s the thing about love bombing. Once you’ve felt it, you’ll do anything to get it back.

I despaired when he started pulling away, while insisting he was not- when the devaluation began, I scrambled to keep him. I made myself smaller, quieter, easier. I ignored red flags. I suffered unbearable pain, anxiety, and shame. My need for him was the issue, my sensitivity, my trauma—-those exact things signaled him as to my suitbility as a promsing supply- a good prospect.

I told myself that if I could just love him better—if I could be more patient, more understanding, less direct—he would return to me. The version of him I fell for in the beginning.

But that version of him was never real.

Disclaimer: I am sharing my personal experience exactly as I recall it. This is my truth, my story, and my perspective~ to document what I lived through.

Addiction to Toxic Love

Love Bombed: My Story of Worship, Betrayal, and No Contact (Part 1 of 32,000,000)

The Illusion of Love (The Hook)

I worshiped him. Loving him was like a religion. Sex with him was a sacrament.

He gave me a glimpse into a life of love and fluid connection that made me want to stay on this planet like nothing else ever had. He showed me something that felt like love—something deeper than anything I had ever received from my parents or the man I married. With him, I felt seen, welcomed, safe, protected, treasured, and chosen.

And I know now—he wanted me to feel that way. Because that’s what cult leaders and love bombers do.

The High (Addiction & Trauma Bonding)

And I ate it up. I was beyond high from it- addicted, obsessed, in love.

I thought we were saving each other—pulling one another out of unfulfilling, disconnected, disappointing, and lonely lives. We had it all: laughter, easy connection, effortless conversation. It felt so expansive, so overflowing, that it spilled into physicality—physicality that felt highly rewarding, even sacred.

But if I’m being honest? It wasn’t as rewarding as I pretended it was. I knew my display of worship and responsiveness mattered to him. And I was desperate to keep him delighting in my postive responses to him as a desired man and a god.

Especially once I felt the shift.

Ralph E Owen Five Stones Church Love Bomber

Disclaimer: I am sharing my personal experience exactly as I recall it. This is my truth, my story, and my perspective~ to document what I lived through.

Breaking the Love Spell

With stunning clarity, I now see the man I loved blindly and hopelessly for over a year is not who he said he was. He’s what my friends cautioned me about- a love bomber and a manipulator. There are things I understand now which before I couldn’t —things I couldn’t recognize because they were foreign to me, yet oddly familiar patterns of abuse.

Maybe it’s sleep deprivation, or my struggle with executive function, attention deficit, or trauma. But I think I may be the least calculating person I know. I don’t anticipate, strategize, or predict outcomes. I’m stunned when people point out something done or not done deliberately—I don’t see it. I can’t fathom operating that way because I lack the capacity. Even in games, I don’t strategize. I win or lose by surprise. I’ve been programmed not to trust myself—to discount my own knowing, feelings, and needs—and to look to others for the truth. I end up believing what people say, even when it doesn’t align with my lived experience. And even after they have shown me time and again, they are not to be trusted.

So, for today, I see it.

This man—his scheming, calculating energy—is more real than the man who made me feel spoiled, chosen, treasured until he stopped. That was a scam, a trick, a spell. I am now aware of three other women in the past year—aside from his ex-wife and daughters—have fallen under and been broken by his spell, now legally charging him with abuse. He shows a pattern of preying on the vulnerable, disguised as a savior, fearless leader, a man who fears nothing.

His charisma is intoxicating. His confidence unshakable. No wonder he’s a wizard in donor development and lucrative partnerships- effortlessly raising millions. But his nonprofit– Smoke and mirrors. Five beds for survivors they can’t keep full. Yet they hustle, raising millions to construct a larger facility, more beds– greater salaries, bonuses, and perks.

He’s a rainmaker—dazzling always and only at the start.

Because I was conditioned to believe I’m unlovable and unworthy, I remain vulnerable to dynamics like this—until that wound is healed. For so long, I thought I was the cause of abuse. That I was imagining it. That maybe, if I tried hard enough, I could change it.

But the truth is, the best I can do is leave—though I never go easily. I stay until the pain makes it undeniable—when staying is no longer sane or safe–because staying makes me want to die. There will be no peaceful resolution, no shared understanding, because that would disrupt the power balance.

Now, in therapy and recovery, I’m learning to heal the parts of myself that invite and enable this debilitating, destabilizing dynamic. No contact is a tragic last resort. The work to heal is exhausitng and neverending, a process, not an event…no arrival or final destination. I’m tired of accumulating new things to heal from—injuries that will persist until I address the old wounds. I’ve broken, or at least disrupted, the cycle for my children, but I haven’t fully done it for myself. R al ph Owen Five Stones Church Carmel Baptist Church Waxhaw NC – narcissist liar cheater scammer

The Cure and the Curse

By design, it seems, he became my everything;  my comfort, my laughter, my peace, my joy. He is the place where I have felt the most alive, the most connected, the most whole.

And yet, he is also the thing which breaks me.

Like insulin to a diabetic, crack to an addict. I need him like breath, like blood, like something vital that I cannot live without-  he is both medicine and poison. 

When we are together, I have felt both calm and excited. For many months we were mutually in awe of our connection, each feeling both held and free. It is true that we spent an unnatural amount of time together, and that his showering me with gifts, adventure, and constant contact was intoxicating, spellbinding. It absolutely fits the bill of love bombing. And then, his decision to reclassify me matches what is described as the devalue/discard. It is true I beg him to stay and he does. When we are apart, I am unraveling. This love is both my salvation and my sickness. 

The truth is the truth even if nobody beleives it. A lie is a lie, even if everyone beleives it.

The Truth is the Truth

I’ve been nursing a heavy ache in my heart — one that’s hard to put into words. It’s about my boys, how they see me, how they see their dad, and the painful gap between what they witness and what they’re told.

I don’t know what’s been said to justify the way I’ve been treated. But I know my boys have seen me act with kindness and generosity — not because their dad deserved it, but because that’s who I am. They’ve seen me show mercy when I wasn’t given any.

They’ve also seen their dad — convinced he’s entitled and never wrong, punishing anyone who challenges him. They’ve experienced his coldness, his deception.

I believe they’ve been gaslit — taught not to trust what they’ve seen. And if my boys know anything about me, it’s that I am kind and incapable of pretending. I can barely remember things well enough to lie, let alone scheme or hide.

They’ve seen my hopeless choices in relationships. And they’ve seen how their dad surrounds himself with people — especially women — who elevate him. That’s why he chose me. He didn’t marry me because he valued me, but because I had more: more wealth, more friends. I made him look good. I gave him legitimacy — a wife, a house, a sense of status.

While he took from me, I gained nothing good from him. I didn’t marry a man who was kind or generous or wise. My life didn’t grow — it shrank. My circle got smaller. My bank account got smaller. My self-esteem, my energy, my ability to function — all smaller.

Before him, I had two great loves: my special-needs dog, King Simon, and my job as a first-grade teacher — both gave me purpose. But in that relationship, I spent so much energy silencing my feelings and needs that I had nothing left for the things I once loved. Teaching became impossible. I took a leave of absence because I couldn’t manage both my unhappy marriage and being the passionate teacher I once was. Even caring for my King (this incensed him- that I had a King and it was not him)— whom I adored — started to feel overwhelming. I remember wondering if putting him down early would be easier, just to have one less thing counting on me.

Yet somehow, it never occurred to me that the marriage itself was what I should let go of. Instead, I gave up everything else — friends, my job, volleyball — until all that remained was my miserable marriage, my pain, and the shame of still not being enough for my husband, my family, or the world.

The marriage didn’t create that belief — it just confirmed what I’d always feared: that I was unworthy, and every struggle was proof of my own badness. It felt like evidence for everyone who had ever been disappointed in me before.

Of course, I’m grateful for my children — born of our union. But that relationship? It brought me nothing but loss. If anything, it was my final lesson — a harsh reminder not to choose someone who would diminish me, betray me, and then make himself the victim.

I want to believe my boys will one day sort through it all — that they’ll remember what they’ve seen, felt, and know in their hearts.

Until then, I hope — hope that my love will be louder than the lies, and my truth stronger than the distortions. Because no matter what they’ve been told, the truth is still there — steady and waiting to be seen.

Little Wins

I’ve shared before about the mantra I use to punish myself: “Winners keep winning, and losers keep losing.”

Lately, life has felt like an uphill climb, made harder by a tangled mess of medications. With my memory and focus already a struggle, this recent medical event made it worse than I could have imagined.

So when this happened, it felt like a win.

I baked banana bread for the boyfriend who doesn’t choose me, and also for the one who does 😘. The first time, I forgot the egg and braced for failure — but – it turned out delicious. I tried it again two more times, no egg on purpose, and each time it was just as moist and tasty.

I’m pleased and proud. Now I have a recipe for a food item I enjoy and something I feel good at making — a much-needed win.

Today, I’m not the loser who forgot the egg — I’m a banana bread champ.

It was moist, delicious, and easy. I may only have about 12 readers, none of whom follow me for cooking tips, but I’m sharing the recipe anyway, just in case.

Preheat the oven to 350. Melt 1/3 cup of butter in a bowl. Once melted, mash in 3 bananas, 1/3 cup of applesauce, and 1 tsp of vanilla.

In a separate bowl, mix ½ tsp of baking soda, a pinch of salt, ¾ cup of sugar, and 1½ cups of flour.

Combine your wet and dry ingredients, then pour into a greased loaf pan and bake for about 53 minutes. Check with a toothpick to see if it’s done. Perfection.

Breaking Generational Chains

I look back on the girls and women I’ve known, and the difference is clear. Those with parents who were intentional and loving —who made them feel welcome, safe, supported, and protected, like they were beautiful and had what it takes—grew up knowing their worth. They had access to community, activities, rituals, traditions, and celebrations that allowed them to feel expressed, connected, and called in—not called out. And with that indoctrination, they readily built and chose friendships and relationships with people who loved them in nourishing, celebratory, and supportive ways- in which they continued to be who they were, not chastised or demeaned for it.

They weren’t asked to play small, stay quiet, or deny their needs, desires, or preferences. They weren’t made to feel like too much or an inconvenience. Instead, they learned how to show up in love, carrying healthy beliefs about what they deserved, what they could count on, and what they had to give in return.

I’m doing the work to heal. To unlearn the unhealthy core beliefs I was given. To rise from the brokenness, the shame, the lostness that was instilled in me like canon—decades of being taught by my own family to believe that I am a menace, a burden, worthless, incapable and unworthy of love, connection, satisfaction, joy.

But – No matter what sort of person I think I am, or they think I am. I have raised two boys who aren’t as sad, broken, or afraid as I have always been. And I take credit for that. I am the kind of person who broke generational curses.  Maybe I didn’t directly model security and self-worth I  did not have, but I quite intentionally didn’t snatch it from them, either.

The Art of Being Disposable

I had never been in a relationship with someone who both spoiled and protected me—who would fight for me, stand by my side, no matter what. Not my parents. Not my marriage. I have been “loved,” but never by someone whose presence felt unwavering and unquestionable—someone whose commitment was to stand with me without prompting, without condition.

Until him.

He loved me fiercely and generously, or so it seemed. He spoke the most magnificent promise:

“I love you. I would do anything for you under any circumstance.”

I clung to those words like an anchor—something I had waited my whole life to experience.

And then, suddenly, it was no longer true. Because he decided so.

Now, I am left with the hollow ache of unworthiness.

I am easy to let go of. Easy to discard, betray, abandon. Sometimes, I wonder if I was made for it—programmed to be left behind. Even my children, in ways that cut the deepest, have been nudged away from me, as if the universe—their father, my family—is working to erase me from their story.

And here I am, clinging to what remains of this relationship. Feeling loved much of the time. Unraveling in doubt and fear in the hours or days between texts and time together—willingly serving as a placeholder while he searches for someone more useful, suitable, worthy.

But I am working hard—in therapy, in healing, in choosing myself.

To not throw myself away.

Breaking the Cycle: A Miracle in Parenting

There are moments in parenting that bring me a deep sense of grief, moments when I know I’m falling short. I think about my boys, the love I have for them, and the ways I wish I could be more present for them—whether it’s something as simple as going out to eat together, attending athletic events, or taking a family vacation. These little things, which many people take for granted, have felt out of reach.

It’s hard to admit, but there have been times I’ve told them, “The best I can do is not to harm you. I may not always be able to provide what you need, but I promise I won’t betray or abandon you. I’m here to tell the truth, to protect you, and to make the best choices for you, even when I don’t always have the answers.” That’s the best I can offer. I wish I could do more. 

What really gets me, though, is that, in my heart, I know it’s a miracle that I’m even able to say this. When I think about the way I was raised—when I think about the abuse(harshness, lack of kindness, compassion, nurturing, and safety) I endured—it’s nothing short of a miracle that I have not passed that same pain and dysfunction onto my boys. I did not parent them the way I was parented. I did not abuse them the way I was abused. I did not make them feel the way I was made to feel, yes made. And sometimes, I want to shout it from the rooftops: I broke the cycle!

But then they’ll say something like, “You don’t get an award for not abusing us,” and they’re right. I understand that. Parenting is about so much more than just not being harmful. But to me, it is a miracle. It is a sign of strength and healing that I didn’t repeat the same mistakes, the same hurt.

And maybe, one day, they’ll understand that the love I give them, the way I show up, even in the smallest ways, is a testament to how hard I fought to be different, to give them a better life.

Maybe there is technically no award for it, but the miracle is there, quietly present in every choice I make which is rooted in my recovery. It’s in the love which doesn’t repeat old patterns. And to me, that could be worth celebrating, or at the very least acknowledging. 

I am aware that the pain I carry which frequently gets on them in a moment of struggle has been hard on them. But that is not a choice I made. It is the result.  The fallout. From decades of being degraded.  Cast out.  Persecuted.  Misunderstood.

Valentine’s Day: WTF

I didn’t expect to hear from my ex-husband on Valentine’s Day, especially after years of no contact. When his call came through, I assumed it was urgent—something about our sons. Given our history, I expected it to be disturbing, so I let him know I was on my way into a medical procedure and wouldn’t be able to talk until after the weekend.

When Monday came around, I texted, explaining I was managing chronic pain and that it would be easier to communicate by email or text. Imagine my surprise when he just wanted to tell me he was getting married.

I’m confused. Why tell me by phone, more than a month after getting engaged? Why Valentine’s Day? It is an odd choice, and not a coincidence, for someone who’s pretty calculating. I can’t know the reason behind his timing. Sometimes, people’s actions leave you questioning intent. I guess it falls right in line with his fiance’s need to message me in Pinterest for reasons I also could not make sense of. Sheesh. Why you so obseesed with me? lol