A year ago I ended a relationship that I had initially believed was the love of my life. I still kind of feel that way, even though being love bombed is technically not love. It is still my only experience of consistently feeling deeply known, completely seen, and ALSO safe and chosen. At long last, a glimpse of a life I wanted to live. I enjoyed more easy laughter, beautiful meals made FOR me — with full-on consideration for my likes and dislikes — more adventure and love and intimacy and actual joy in my year with that man than with anyone across all of my years. The Beginning of the Spell And this was a man I almost didn’t meet. We connected on a dating app and right out of the gate I told him I didn’t think we were a fit. Too short. An overall look I did not care for. Different politics. Born again Baptist preacher. Deeep South Georgia accent. No. No. No. He laughed a deep beautiful laugh at my very direct and repeated NO. Saying, what’s it going to hurt to just meet? If you don’t like me, no big deal. And he showed up in attire I didn’t love and a weird necklace and a gun in the back of his pants — and somehow I DID NOT CARE. Like fuck it. Be a short, necklace-wearing, gun-packing, Southern Baptist Trumper. Who even cares?! I feel like a million dollars in your presence. Free, beautiful, spoiled, protected, chosen. Because he spoke words and carried energy that dissolved me into something completely intoxicating. It was a spell. What It Felt Like to Be Chosen I remember telling him once, you are like a mega-dose of penicillin for me. Like some magical dose of medicine healing wounds that had been hurting for a lifetime. And he laughed and said, I don’t want to be penicillin. I want to be cocaine. Hysterical. Right? Wrong. Fully addicted to and reliant on him for THAT feeling that I literally could not imagine or want life without it. I see now — he wasn’t joking. To marvel was all I could do- at his gift for reading people. His natural attunement. Ease. Agility. Grace. With me, he tracked things no one had ever tracked. He noticed my sensitivities without me explaining them. He sheltered me from things that would overwhelm me or drain me, without needing credit or announcing it. He paid attention to my nervous system in a way nobody ever had. And since being sensitive and reactive is the thing I have paid most dearly for, to exist in a space where not only was that not the standard, I never worried about it. About being A Lot. And that felt like heaven. I never had to ask for consideration OR anything. I certainly did not have to ask twice. And it wasn’t just me. People lit up around him. Doors opened. Light followed him. But looking back now, it wasn’t light exactly. Maybe more like some kind of radioactive glow. Beautiful. Radiant. Compelling. Something people moved toward. Though leaving subtle but fatal erosion in its wake. The Pattern I Didn’t See Yet I knew of two other women who had been affected by his spell casting because he told me about them… in a very strategic way. Well selected clips of messages. Fragments. Probably how reality TV editing creates scenarios that never actually happened. He shared things in a way that made me feel fiercely protective. Assuming: They had mistaken his kindness for more and were problematic. Disruptive. He provided just enough incomplete truths and lack of context for me to draw the conclusion that the problem lay in that these women were deranged and unreasonable. Speaking unfavorably of anyone or anything is a thing he simply did not do. He appeared to be above that. Only an angel…… To say that I was moved by how he spoke of them with compassion while sharing things that made them seem terrifying, would be an understatement. Just enough for me to build “my own” conclusions. I remember thinking, what a good man. Steady. Calm. Curious. Benevolent beyond measure. Not of this world. Because the stretches of time we spent together, how present he was, I couldn’t have imagined he had time or energy to create so much trouble elsewhere. I couldn’t make the math work. One of the women had worked with him years before-whom he had removed. The other had received pastoral care for and support from him for addiction and related issues. There was enough context around them that if they ever spoke out against him(and that they did-relentlessly), he had pre-empted that with calculated actions which rendered them not credible, unreliable narrators, problematic. How he engaged difficult situations was breathtaking with so much ease and grace. No indication of feeling threatened or defensive. I experienced him as INcredible while recognizing them as clearly non-credible. From communication from them which he elected to share with me, I knew their full names and more. I was his lucky confidante. One day when he was behaving questionably on the heels of being taken to court, I optimized the power of Google, which with only a name and a city provided a cell phone number for the one, and boldly reached out. We spoke. The First Break in Reality I led with that I thought maybe we had similar wounds and experiences with (I provided only his initials). That we had each been made to doubt ourselves and our reality. She knew nothing of me while I had been strategically fed information about her unwellness, despair, addiction, suicide attempt, and repeated stints in treatment. Sensitive to her despair, I assured her she was younger and prettier than me, that I meant no harm, and that I would be stepping away for good. I genuinely believed I was being generous and helpful. Like, you are not alone. I’m not sure it had that effect. She shared texts and emails between them. And reported that the night before she had given him a large sum of money. Um ok. After hearing that, I didn’t tell him what I knew or pursue him for explanations. I didn’t allow for the opportunity for him to speak his beautifully crafted words. The End I Couldn’t Process Yet I blocked him and thought I might die from my utterly shattered heart…and withdrawal from the drug of my choice. HIM! Last night, restless and unable to sleep, I googled both women again. The first results were mugshots. And then one— the one I had engaged with—her obituary from December. Forty-five years old. Young children. Gone. And one of my first thoughts—unbelievably—was whether I had somehow contributed by reaching out to her. Typical: I am responsible for anything painful, difficult, or unfortunate. He probably hasn’t lost sleep over it. I would regularly say to him, shit, what if I am really no different from these women? I must in some way be similar. He assured me: You’re not like them. I pursued you. I never wanted this with them. They pursued me. The Meaning I’m Still Wrestling With I really did think I was the lucky one. And I suppose I was. Just not for the reasons I thought. Like I have not been dead or arrested. Yay me.
