Part 1
The Handsome Love Bombing Sadist
(The names have been changed to protect privacy)
I met Chris Wight on Bumble; he had been lingering in my matches for a while. I am not a fan of dating apps and will never go on another one for as long as I live; however, I had recently moved to a new town and wanted to meet new people and, yes, hopefully find love. I had been on the app for a few months without success and was about to cancel my subscription, but before clicking that “delete” button, I decided to peruse my matches one last time. Chris’s profile popped up again, and this time I looked more closely.
I hesitated to message him when I first saw his profile because my initial impressions were mediocre at best. He was a good-looking guy with a nice body; he obviously took care of himself physically, but he looked short. He was a kickboxer, and I’ve always liked fighters; as aggressive as their sport is, fighters seem to have an inner peace that laymen don’t often possess, but he had a few images where he looked angry, maybe even sinister, and in my experience, a man who looks angry often is angry and is not someone I’d like to get to know. He was in his mid-thirties, never married, and had no children. I do generally prefer to date men younger than me; however, 9 years younger was a little ick, and if he ever wanted to have children, that would be problematic given my age and belief at the time that I couldn’t conceive.
Why did I change my mind? His profile listed him as 5’10, which would have made him over an inch taller than me. Not ideal, but certainly not a dealbreaker. What convinced me to swipe right was what he wrote in his profile: he said he was attracted to intelligence. I thought that warranted a chat, so I swiped right, and the situationship began, although I wasn’t aware that this would be a situationship until it ended.
We first met in the summer of 2023 on an afternoon walk. I suggested we meet at a local lake where we strolled through the wooded trails with my dog Winston. My first impression of Chris matched my first impression of his profile. He had already arrived at the lake when I pulled into the parking lot and recognized me in my car. I parked, and Chris walked up to my car before I could get out, and Winston started barking. His protective instincts kicked in, and he was barking in the backseat like a feral beast. It was a strained, awkward first meeting: as I tried to say hello, Winston went nuts, and I got overstimulated, rambling like a nervous weirdo as I tried to be welcoming and calm my dog down at the same time. The first thing I noticed was his height. He was not 5’10. We were about the same height, about 5’8; I would even wager that he was a smidge shorter than me. I was disappointed, more at the lie than the height itself. Aside from that, during this first chaotic minute, I caught Chris’s microexpression. For a split second, he had that same angry expression that I had seen in his photos.
I pocketed that observation, let Winston out of the car, and gave him the “OK” to be friendly. Winston proceeded to jump all over Chris and me, and I ushered us to start walking so that Winston could finally get into a flow and we could all enjoy the walk around the lake.
As soon as we started walking, the rhythm of our conversation beat like the bass in Kool & The Gang’s “Hollywood Swinging”. He was smart, witty, charismatic and funny AF. I felt at ease in his company, and we riffed off each other flawlessly. After our tour around the lake, we sat in the grass and chatted some more, laughing and learning. The date ended, and I left his company feeling happy to have met him and hopeful that we would meet again.
A week went by, and I didn’t hear from him, so knowing how dating apps work, I assumed he wasn't interested. Admittedly, I was disappointed, but we had no history, so I went on with my life as usual. To my delight, a week later, I received a text from Chris asking me out for a second date. I said yes.
On our second date, we met for lunch. We scheduled a 1 pm meeting, and on the day of our date, around noon, I got a text from Chris saying he’d arrived an hour early by mistake and asking if I could meet him sooner. I was ready to go, and only a 10 min drive away, so I said yes. I was wearing a cute white maxi with a dropped waist and a navy cropped button-up. I looked good, and if you asked any of the men sitting at the table when I entered the restaurant, I think they would have agreed.
I found Chris sitting out on the patio, and when I saw him, there it was again: that initial expression of anger. Other than that initial strangeness, the date went swimmingly well. We talked, ate, drank, laughed, flirted, and, best of all, riffed. We were on fire. Our combined intelligence and quick wit felt like a scene from a brilliant Rom-Com. I noticed the people sitting next to us stop to listen to our conversations, which triggered the performer in both of us, and we were in flow again. Regardless of his height and angry microexpressions, I was enamoured, and our dating adventure continued.
I thought everything went so well, yet when we left the restaurant and he witnessed the entire table of men turn to admire me as we walked out, he made a strange comment on how schoolmarm-like my outfit was. I knew I could never be with a man who needed to put me down to feel good about himself, but I wanted to believe in this, so I tabled that one too.
Looking back, there were several flags, whether they were red, yellow or orange; I was so smitten with all the green flags that I chose to ignore the others. A few weeks in, we had already expressed a deep affection for one another. He talked about our connection like it was destined. We spent hours gazing into each other’s eyes, watching our pupils dilate, and I started to talk about being exclusive. Despite his professions of affection, he didn’t want to commit and kept dating women online. I appreciated the honesty, but my heart was starting to crack, one small piece at a time. I couldn’t understand how two people who got along so well, with magnetic chemistry and attraction, and had similar values and life plans wouldn’t choose each other, and to get over him, I also continued to go out on dates.
I came home one night drunk as a skunk after a date with a strange little man who I was convinced was trying to date rape me. In my drunken depression, I decided to eat some mushrooms, not a good idea given my mind space. The trip began and turned crazy, and in my mushroom madness I broke down. All my loneliness and unworthiness and trauma came to the surface, and I texted Chris telling him that I had been roofied. In my defence, I did think that I was roofied at the time; in my drunkenness I had forgotten that I had just ingested mushrooms. I also didn’t think Chris would respond, let alone show up, and maybe, subconsciously, I didn’t want him to. He wasn’t committing to me, and as much as I wanted to be with him, I didn’t want to stay with someone who didn’t choose me.
God only knows how long later, there he was at my door, feigning concern, playing the knight in shining armour. I bought it, hook, line and sinker. He took care of me. Watched me as I cried like a lunatic, snot pouring out of my nose, eyes puffing up, ridiculous self-pitying diatribes vomiting out of my mouth. He stayed. He held me. I told him he could leave. I apologized for being crazy. I told him I understood if he never wanted to see me again. He said he’d seen worse. He let me be crazy. He let me cry like a lunatic; he let me rant on and on about my fears and loneliness and pain. Eventually, he took me to bed, not to take advantage of my state but to hold me tight as I fell asleep in his arms. I fell in love with him that night.
The next day I expected to watch him walk out of my house for the last time. As an ex-military man, he had an innate sense of duty, and I assumed that’s why he stayed the night. I thought for sure he would leave and never come back. After all, what person would continue to see a person who had such a ridiculous breakdown? We still barely knew each other. I would later come to find that my breakdown was indicative of the kind of woman he did indeed want to be with: broken, traumatized, lonely, desperate and weak. Chris needed to feel in control, and a pathetic woman is a controllable woman.
And so he stayed…sort of. He still wouldn’t commit and kept dating online, but he also kept dating me regularly. He treated me like a girlfriend that he was falling in love with. He told me he saw an orb connecting our hearts, like in the movie “Donnie Darko”. We played, laughed, and talked about everything. I had a wild physical attraction to him and an intellectual attraction, and best of all, we were both silly weirdos. He was the first man I’d ever dated who I let see my weirdness. Not only wasn’t he bothered by it, but he also joined in, showing me his weirdness. I felt loved by him and free in his company. This was the most confusing part to me. He was pretty much always available when I needed him, and we made regular plans to hang out. We shared beautiful moments, words and time. He expressed deep attraction and affection, telling me how much we had in common, how connected he felt to me, and how rare this kind of connection was. We laughed together all the time. And yet he still wouldn’t commit.
As a first attempt to end it, I started a conversation with him about children. I asked him if he wanted to have kids, and he smiled and said yes. In retrospect, he was probably telling me what he thought I wanted to hear. My heart felt relieved because I thought that when I told him that I wasn’t going to be having babies, he would end it, and I wouldn’t have to make that decision. But rather than end it, he laughed and said that he thought he was infertile anyway. He mentioned his other long-term relationships and that there was never a pregnancy. I took his response as an incentive to continue with the relationship.
One of the orange flags was how he spoke about co-workers, colleagues and his roommates. He once had a job surrounded mostly by women and said so many of his co-workers had developed unwarranted romantic affection for him. I asked him if he had ever dated any of them, had a one-night stand, or flirted with any of them and led them on. He said he didn’t; he said this was a phenomenon that happened to him throughout his life. Random people developed romantic feelings for him when he did nothing to suggest he was interested. He talked about his roommates, a gay couple in an open relationship. He said that one roommate was in love with him and that his boyfriend was jealous. I asked him why they would be jealous or openly crushing if he’s a straight guy, and he couldn’t answer that. He had mentioned these romantic crushes on so many occasions; finally, I asked him directly, “Is that what I’m doing? Am I misinterpreting your affections as false?” He said no, and once again I was led to believe that his affection was genuine.
Throughout all of this, there was another flag that fluttered to the surface, and this one was red hot. We had a few intimate chats. Chris had talked about some of his desire for BDSM play and mentioned how he preferred to be dominant and had exes dress in gimp outfits, used gag balls, gimp masks and extreme bondage, which is out of alignment with my desires in intimacy, although I never told him that. I believe that if you get aroused by causing other people shame, pain or discomfort, that is a kind of mental illness and not something that I want to participate in.
Even though I developed deep feelings for him, I didn’t want to violate my boundaries by participating in BDSM and in the end, that and the non-monogamy were my reasons to end it. I told him my feelings had grown too deep, and I couldn’t keep seeing him if he was seeing other women. It was too difficult knowing that no matter what he said or how he behaved, he was still searching for someone better. There it was again, that sliver of anger, passing through his face in the split of a second. At the time, I interpreted it as disappointment, but I think it was more likely anger that I ended it with him, not the other way around.
I had been working on some art that he was interested in, and he asked if I could email him progress shots. I later realized that he was trying to keep a leg in. After I ended it, he messaged me and told me he missed me. I missed him too, and soon thereafter, we started hanging out again. I thought he had realized how special our connection was and would choose me. But this time was different; the energy had changed. He was more affectionate and passionate, but his anger was more prominent, and he started to make hurtful comments. When I told him his comments hurt, he would smile, like he felt happy at my pain. It was a surreal observation; one I will never forget.
The second-to-last time we spent time together, we got day drunk. He told me he loved me. I told him I felt love for him too, and the anger twinkled in his eyes once again. I ignored it, and we went on with the night. We laughed, we ate, we drank; he got mean, I teared up, he smiled. I recognized how drunk I was, ignored the hurt feelings, and continued with the evening. We eventually went home and passed out. The next morning, he left. I didn’t see him for a week, but I didn’t think anything of it because he had been so affectionate and attentive otherwise. He had earned my trust; he never told me about dates with other women, even when I asked, and I assumed he wasn’t having any. I thought he was going to choose me. I was wrong. He just wanted to get back at me.
During that week away, he visited with his friend in another town. We were texting, but he was cold and removed in his responses. He texted me a picture of his friend giving the finger. It felt off and cruel, and he brushed it off as his friend being hungover. I'd let so much slide by then, and in retrospect, I imagine it really was his friend flipping me the bird. He texted me when he was back in town and asked me if I wanted to go on a walk. Not an unusual request. I said yes, not thinking anything of it and looking forward to seeing him.
He came to pick Winston and me up, and we drove to the lake and started walking and chatting. He was excitedly telling me all about his visit with his friend. He told me a few stories about their experiences over the couple of days, and we chatted for about 20 minutes, give or take. He got quiet, and his energy shifted. Something in him changed, and we walked in silence for a while. Finally, I asked him, “What else? What else do you want to tell me?” He replied, “You know me so well.” And I said, “Well, yes.” And smiled affectionately. He told me he had met someone new. He had gone on a date with her and developed a deep connection with her. My heart fell into my stomach. He kept talking, but my mind wandered for a few minutes. Anxiety combined with shock and heartache took over, and he sounded like Charlie Brown’s parents. All I heard was “Wa wa wa wa wa.”
I came to as he was describing her as such an interesting person because she was a kickboxing accountant who owned her own paddle board. He enthusiastically said he knew nothing about accounting, so it was fascinating, and he mentioned her paddle board like it was the most important character trait a woman could have. It wasn’t just that he had chosen someone new after one date, or that he made being a kickboxing, paddle-boarding accountant sound like the most glamorous type of human, but the way he said it. He was talking to me like I was his buddy, his pal. He was telling me about her like he hadn’t just professed his love for me a week ago, and like he hadn’t spent the previous weeks telling me how amazing, special, and rare our connection was.
My last question was the most important. You see, Chris and I never actually consummated our relationship; although we were physically intimate, we never had sex. I told him that I didn’t want to be physically intimate without a monogamous commitment. He told me he was never quick to sleep with someone; he didn’t do one-night stands and didn’t sleep with anyone on the first date. So even when I knew he was dating other women, I believed he would tell me before he slept with someone that it was over between us. I thought he cared about me enough to be dignified. And because he had come back to me, I assumed he was choosing me, and he stopped talking about dates, brushed off the question and made it seem like he wasn’t dating anyone.
When I asked him if he had slept with her and he said yes, it felt like a complete betrayal. My heart fell out of my body, and I grabbed Winston and ran home. 5 minutes down the road, I checked my phone and saw his texts. We texted several messages back and forth. I called him out on his bullshit, accusing him of being either a coward or a liar. He said he never lied about how he felt about me and then deflected with manipulative psychological jargon. I told him he was deflecting and that he still hadn't addressed the points I was making or answered my questions. He wrote back a ridiculous, rehearsed statement, thanked me for my input, said he would read through it and consider it, and then blocked me. I was devastated. Absolutely heartbroken and dumbfounded.
I don’t hate Chris or resent him. I don’t feel anything for him anymore, except maybe pity. To spend that amount of time and energy lying to someone to make them fall in love with you so that they sleep with you is insane behaviour. Believe it or not, I am grateful, in a few ways. He showed me what it feels like to be loved, cared for and taken care of, even if it was all a lie. He also taught me how to listen to my boundaries and not make any excuses when they are violated. I can now recognize his manipulations and mental illness. God bless him; he did me a favour by ghosting me, because if he had come after me like I thought he would, I would have gone back with him, and that would have been the real tragedy. I thank God for saving me from that experience; I was graced and will forever be grateful.
The heartbreak didn’t go away quickly. It lasted a long time, and a few months later I met Rodger Earl, whom I went out with as a rebound from Chris Wight.
Part 2
The Possessive, Control Freak, Psychopath.
Rodger Earl was a tall, stereotypically handsome British soldier who came to Canada to serve in the Canadian Army. He was over 6 feet tall, with poker-straight dark brown hair, beady brown eyes, a button nose, and giant chiclet teeth hidden behind very full lips. His skinny-fat frame, hidden by his stature and attire, had chalky, pasty white skin. He was clean-cut and preppy, usually in khakis, a button-down, and an overhead knit sweater. It was fall, after all. He came to work for the Canadian Army on a three-year contract one year before I met him because his then soon-to-be ex-wife worked in AI in San Francisco. A far cry from Eastern Canada, but it was the only place on the continent that would hire Rodger. He had applied at every base between San Francisco and New Brunswick, and our military base was the only one that hired him. Oh, Canada.
I met Rodger in November 2023 in Chapter’s Self-Help section, which should have been an indication of what was to come. I had been hired as part of their holiday staff and was stocking books when I caught him in my peripheral vision, sniffing around. I walked around the corner to find the spot for Marcus Aurelius’s “Meditations,” and there he was, waiting, with a cheeky little smirk on his face. I gave him my sales-rep smile and asked if he needed help finding anything. He said yes, and I assumed he was looking for a book.
His first question was, “Do you like dogs?” I said yes. Then: “Do you like zombie apocalypse movies?” I said yes. I can’t remember the third question, but I do remember answering yes, so let’s imagine he asked if I drink coffee; I said yes. Then he asked for my number. I paused because I knew exactly what he had just done and, to be perfectly honest, I wasn’t all that interested. As stereotypically attractive as he was, I didn’t find myself drawn to him. Obviously, by this point, I realized he wasn’t looking for a book. He was playing a psychological trick. It was the three-yes rule, a persuasive technique. Ask a person three yes questions before you ask the question that you’d like a yes to, and they will likely say yes to the fourth question, even if they might have otherwise said no.
In that split second, I thought, Fuck it! I want a distraction from my heartbreak; I’ll give him my number, and maybe I’ll go out with him, or maybe I won’t. I had to admit, I was impressed that he had the guts to ask me out in real life. That was the last time I was impressed by him.
A few days passed before I received his first text at 9 pm on a weeknight. I had forgotten I had given him my number, didn’t remember who he was, and was annoyed that some stranger was messaging me at 9 pm. Remembering Rodger from Chapters, I replied the next morning. He didn’t answer me until 8 pm that night; again, I didn’t respond until the following morning. The third night, he messaged me at 7 pm. It was clear that he was looking for a late-night booty call, so again I didn’t respond until the following morning. He was trying to schedule a date, but the only time he wanted to meet was after 8 pm in the middle of the week. I wasn’t about to go out on a late-night date with a stranger who obviously was only looking for a fuck friend. He'd have to be respectful and ask me out for a proper casual meeting in daylight before I ever said yes to an evening date. He finally got the hint and called me after work around 4 pm. He asked me if I would like to go for a walk with our dogs. I said yes, unfortunately.
Like Chris Wight, I met Rodger at the lake. It was one of my favourite places and the perfect spot for a first date. The trail was long enough to get a good impression of someone and not so long that you were stuck if it wasn’t a match. Rodger was confident and witty. He had a nice British sense of humour, and I enjoyed his conversation and company. But I wasn’t feeling that romantic pull. I had no attraction to him. We finished our walk, and he asked me if I’d like to get a hot chocolate at Tim’s, which was not far from the lake. I thought, why not and Winston and I hopped in his car, and he drove us to Tim Hortons, where we sat in the drive-thru engaging in more flippant, witty banter.
I’m usually somewhat strict with my diet; I eat sweets but not fast food, nothing ultra-processed or chemical-ridden. Tim Hortons is Canada's fast-food coffee and donut spot. I’ve enjoyed a Medium double double now and again and had their egg bites after a workout, but that’s about it. Because this was a first (and, in my mind, likely a last) date, I decided to be a little lax and let myself have a hot chocolate, knowing full well it had zero cocoa and was probably filled with high-fructose corn syrup among many other toxins.
Before we pulled up to the speaker, he confirmed I wanted a hot chocolate, then asked if I wanted a cookie. I politely said, “No, thank you.” Toxins aside, Tim Hortons cookies are about 500 calories each, and I had a delicious, healthy, homemade meal waiting for me that I didn’t want to replace with a chemical-laced cookie. He scoffed and said, “Ohooo, come on!” in his thick British accent. “What kind of cookie would you like?” “None,” I replied, hiding my annoyance with a little giggle. “Of course you want a cookie. Come on, what kind is your favourite? Everyone needs a treat sometimes.” “No, thank you, I don’t want a cookie.” We were at the window, and he gave me this mischievous little smile before putting in his order. “Yes, Hellooo, could I have two medium- you’d like medium, right? - two medium hot chocolates and, ahem, hehe, two double chocolate cookies, please.” He looked at me with his giant teeth in a stupid grin, and I said, “I’m not going to eat that.” He kept smiling, certain I’d cave, because when we got to the window, they passed him the hot chocolate first, and he passed one directly to me, then the cookies, which he again tried to pass to me. I put my hand up and said, again, “I don’t want the cookie!” When he finally stopped pressing me, we pulled out of the Tim Hortons parking lot and headed back to my car. I was frustrated and annoyed by the whole exchange and looking forward to finally being free of his company.
At that point, I doubted I’d ever go out with him again, so I asked about his spiritual beliefs to solidify my decision. I asked him if he believed in God. He said he was an atheist. I told him that I had deep spiritual beliefs, and he asked me if his atheism was a deal-breaker. I said I didn’t know. I needed time away to process what had just happened with the cookie.
We arrived back at the lake. He parked next to my car. I thanked him for the date, got Winston, and got out of the car. He opened his door, and I thought, a gentleman, he’s going to see me to my car, but no. I grabbed Winston and was about to turn away when he reached his long arm over the hood of his car and tried to pass me the cookie: “For later when you’re feeling peckish.” I couldn’t believe it. For the last time, I said, “No. I don’t want it. Bye.” and got into my car and drove off.
Two things were obvious that day: Rodger was a control freak, and I had zero attraction to him, likely because he was an atheist and had no soul. He was probably just a skin suit for demonic entities.
And yet…I did, in fact, go out with him again—several times.
It's a totally reasonable question why I kept dating Rodger, given how annoyed I was with him. Firstly, I’d like to remind you that I was heartbroken by a man whom I thought was my soulmate. Aside from that, I was incredibly lonely and overwhelmed from moving to a new province and navigating the town, my work, new friends and the health care system, trying to micromanage my mom’s wellness, as well as my own. I cooked, I cleaned, I ran all the errands, I grew my own food in the warmer months, I took care of my mom, bathed her, fed her, ran her errands, took her to medical appointments, micromanaged her rage outbursts, made sure she left the house once a week, and was trying to build my career back up from scratch. I was desperate for my partner and thought if I had someone to do life with, it would be so much easier.
In Rodger’s defence, he wasn’t all bad, just mostly. He did have a good sense of humour when I wasn’t the target. He was up for just about anything and liked being active, although he couldn’t be still. He was relatively intelligent, albeit his British accent made him sound more intelligent than he was. Funny how that works.
Rodger was a strange, controlling, cruel, manipulative man. He believed humans needed to be controlled and that he was the one who would do the controlling. He helped people not out of kindness, but so he could boast about it later. He had an inflated ego; I once caught him admiring himself in my full-length mirror in his underwear. He was sucking in his fat gut and smiling at his reflection admiringly. He admitted he always saw himself as excellent. He never really saw any flaws. He was prone to bouts of weight gain and told me that it wasn’t until someone pointed it out that he noticed. In his mind’s eye, he was as close to perfect as a person could get.
He practiced yoga, and I had my yoga teacher training certification. He fantasized about holding me hostage in his basement while he was at work, where, in his fantasy, I would do yoga all day, waiting dutifully for his return. A seemingly innocent fantasy, but I later found out that he genuinely desired to possess me, like a prisoner. I think he thought that I’d think it was sexy. When he asked me to teach a class for him, I put together a lovely sequence focused on building his core because he had mentioned a minor injury in his lower back. He had such a mushy core that I knew some muscle would help. Initially, it was all cute and sweet, him telling me that this was one of his fantasies, his girlfriend being a yoga instructor; however, when the flow progressed to the floor and I had him doing core exercises, he tweaked his back. His shout in pain was followed by him shouting at me, accusing me of being stupid and trying to hurt him. I’d never been shouted at like that before and was stunned, then said, “I gave you these movements to help with your back.” He shouted angrily, “How is working on my core supposed to help my back?” I told him that strengthening your core will build support for your back. As someone who’s had back pain most of my life because of my scoliosis, I learned how to strengthen my core to alleviate the pain in my back. Once the pain eased, I started strengthening and rebuilding my back muscles, hoping to reactivate atrophied muscles.
When Rodger and I first started dating, everything we did was on his schedule. I had to go to him; he never came to me, and we did what he wanted. I’m relatively easygoing with activities and like doing just about anything, but he always wanted to feed me alcohol. He was not drinking because he wanted to look like a perfect father for his custody hearings; he even bought a dog for exactly that purpose. I’ve been known to get down and dirty now and again, but in the scope of consumption, I didn’t like drinking with any regularity. I was too concerned with my fitness and didn’t like being hungover; but regardless of how many times I would say no, just like the cookie, he was always trying to shove alcohol down my throat.
He always wanted to meet after 8 pm during the week, rarely wanted to go out for food or social events and always wanted me to go to him, even during a blizzard. He wasn't a gentleman or chivalrous. His idea of a compliment was telling me that my body looked like the body of a transgender athlete. He said, looking directly into my big, beautiful brown eyes, that brown eyes were the ugliest eye colour. He described his ideal woman: foreign, brown, small waist, big hips, lots of makeup, stereotypically feminine. The only body part he didn’t care about was boobs, so my small boobies were fine, but otherwise, I wasn’t even remotely his type. He would literally search my personality, apartment, and attire for anything to criticize. He criticized my toothpaste, the top sheet of my sheet set, the food that I ate, my political beliefs and my belief in God. He made fun of me, saying I had an imaginary friend.
Now, please don’t assume I was following orders or sitting idly by as he dictated all our activities step by step. And yes, I do mean all our activities...step…by…step. I was argumentative and combative because I kept going out with him against my better judgment. I ended it with him 3 times before I found out I was pregnant, and the only reason I went back out with him the last time was that I was pregnant. I so very badly wanted to keep my baby, but with my life in the shambles that it was in, I felt that the only way I could keep the baby was if I could make it work with him.
Before I ever found out I was pregnant, he told me a story about a woman that he had an affair with before his wife decided to divorce him. She also got pregnant, and he laughed about how he had convinced her to get an abortion. Before I ever knew I was pregnant, I told him that he should know that he could never convince me to do that. That if I ever had an abortion, it would be a choice I made, and he would have no say in the matter. He had many affairs throughout his marriage, and I’ve since wondered how many women he’s convinced to have an abortion.
He kept in contact with the woman that he had had an affair with, which wasn’t a secret. He would tell me stories about their relationship, how they could never be a couple because she had no sense of humour and was always offended by his jokes (in his defence, when his jokes were not targeted attacks, they were genuinely very funny). He said that they never really got along and that the sex was not very good and had died off long before the affair was officially over.
However, he told me how she was such a good friend and would take care of his dog whenever he needed a sitter, and that one time she drove out of her way to pick him up when his car broke down in a snowstorm. I told him she was still in love with him. He denied it and swore they were just friends. One day, he asked me if I would be okay with them hanging out again. He claimed not to have any friends and that she was his only friend. He wanted to have a movie night with her. I said no. I told him that I would be happy to meet her and hang out with the two of them together, but that I wasn’t comfortable with the two of them hanging out alone. I knew what that meant. I often wondered how stupid he thought women were. He agreed to my terms, but when he approached her with the plan, she got upset. She asked him how he could start something up with someone else and why he wouldn’t give her a chance. She thought she meant more to him. She didn’t.
When we first started dating, he said that he hoped to have a sibling for his son one day. After I found out that I was pregnant, I decided to do everything that I could to see if I could, at the very least, like this man. When I told Rodger I was pregnant, he said he didn’t want another child, and even though he had said that he wanted a sibling for his current child, this was too soon. I told him this wasn’t his decision and that I hadn’t made up my mind yet. We kept dating. I was nice. Accommodating. Even sweet sometimes. I did what he wanted to do and didn’t argue when he was controlling or mean. I had to figure out if he was an ass hole or if I was exaggerating my disdain. I came to realize that he was indeed an ass hole and broke up with him for the last time.
He tried to reach out several times over the course of the next few months, feigning heartbreak, care and concern, but it was beyond too late; before the pregnancy, I felt mostly just irritation and annoyance for the man; after the abortion, I felt absolute hatred toward him. I’ve honestly never hated anyone more in my entire life. He was the scum of the earth, and I wished harm upon him regularly, looking forward to the day vengeance spins through his life like a hurricane.
Regardless of my feelings for him, Rodger himself was not the catalyst for my deeper relationship with Christ; rather, my abortion was. If I had never gotten pregnant, I would have ended it with Rodger that third time and quickly forgotten all about him, occasionally bringing him up for some comedic fodder about just another crazy weirdo that I got involved with.
I committed one of the gravest sins a woman can commit. I had an abortion and killed my baby when I should have had faith in God, whatever the outcome. I killed her before she had an opportunity. I destroyed the only chance I had to be a mother, to have my own child, to raise her and feed her and hold her and nurture her. To love her. I see her sometimes in my dreams. She is so beautiful. She has big green eyes like my grandmother and long, wavy brown hair. Not so curly like mine, but wavy, something between Rodgers and mine. She is more beautiful than me, tall and slim. She’s always smiling, and she forgives me in my dreams.
I don’t forgive myself; I don’t know if I ever will. The grief I experienced, I’ve come to realize, was a Godly Grief.
2 Corinthians 7:9
“…you were grieved into repenting. For you felt a Godly grief…For Godly grief produces a repentance that leads to salvation…”
I feel this and pray that God forgives me, as I don’t know if I will ever forgive myself and if I am not led to salvation, I will accept that as justice.
Part 3
The Grand Finale
1 John 1:9
“If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all that is unrighteous.”
The grief from the abortion took over my life like lava crawling along the surface of my soul, slowly obliterating everything it touched. I was powerless to stop it. The reality of what I had just done to my body and my child weighed my heart down into a sorrow I never knew existed. I had fallen into a deep abyss that swallowed everything I thought I knew about my life. Everything that made me who I believed myself to be became meaningless. I lost all motivation to live, work, or dream. Success became irrelevant. Creation became pointless. My life story, full of adventures, experiences, world travel, accolades, and awards, became insignificant. I stopped smiling. I stopped laughing. I stopped seeing the beauty around me. I woke up every day and did what I needed to do to survive, but felt like an empty shell. I lost all hope, passion and desire to live.
I stopped wanting to be me.
So, I started trying to be someone else.
I met Alex for the very first time on January 01st, 2023, at the lake. We had a mutual friend and occasionally frequented the same parties. Alex was in a common-law relationship with the mother of his two children. I came to understand that his relationship with his partner was built on chaos and heartache, but I didn’t judge him or his partner. I recognized their challenges, accepted them as they were, and wished nothing but the best for him and his partner.
Alex was handsome, so handsome that it was ridiculous. He was about 5’11, with a permanent tan, dark brown hair, beautiful features that fit perfectly on his face, a strong jaw, a perfectly straight nose, high cheekbones, medium full lips, beautifully straight white teeth, the cutest dimples that came out when he smiled, an easy smile that felt like home, and the most striking eyes, which were a light steely blue. The kind of blue that’s so light and vibrant in the centre, with a darker blue ring around the edge, somehow making them look even brighter.
I was attracted to Alex but never thought anything of it because he was with his baby mama, and that was that. We were occasional friends, and that was perfectly fine. After all, there were plenty of crazy men in New Brunswick I could distract myself with (as shown in chapters 1 and 2); no need to add a married man to that list.
Alex had his own demons that he was reckoning with, some that I recognized in myself, and maybe that was why I had so much empathy for him.
He first slid into my DMs after Easter of 2023. By then, I knew about his philandering nature, and I asked if his partner knew he was messaging me. He said no. I said I wasn’t comfortable with this, and he apologized and stopped. Problem averted.
Whenever Alex was around, I always enjoyed his company. He was fun, adventurous and had a great sense of humour. He was up for just about anything, and the space felt stable and solid when he was there. I always felt safe and protected around him. If shit hit the fan, I wouldn’t be the only one with my dukes up; I felt like he'd do what he needed to do to stabilize any situation. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I didn’t know him very well, but this is how I felt about him. This was the energy that he exuded around me. He wasn’t much of a talker aside from jokes and complaining about his partner, but he was a great listener and could always make me laugh. He was a doer, and from what I saw, what he did do, he did well.
He knew about my tumultuous experiences with Chris and Rodger, and other ridiculous dating experiences, some because of what I shared and some through the grapevine. It’s often couples’ fun gossip fodder to make fun of their single friends trying to find love. Unhappy couples make fun of others to justify their own choice to remain unhappy in bad relationships. He also found out about the abortion, not from me. I wasn’t surprised; I wasn’t even annoyed. I was relieved.
Alex messaged me one day not long after the abortion, asking if I was ok. We started messaging each other, and this time I didn’t bother to ask if his partner knew. Mostly we joked and shared stupid crushes and dating experiences with some shameless flirting. He was on and off with his partner and used that as his justification to flirt. I was grieving, depressed and desperate for an escape, and he was the only person who checked in on me, the only person who cared, which was my excuse. I was having intense suicidal ideation during this time, and it was like he had some psychic connection to my grief because he would always message me when I was in the deepest of grief. He saw me at my worst. Overweight, depressed, drinking too much, smoking cigarettes after 8 years of being nicotine-free, and doing anything and everything to escape. My mom will tell you he took advantage of me, and maybe he did, but the truth is that I also took advantage of him.
Inevitably, our friendship grew into something more intimate. I knew it wasn’t right, and part of me kept wanting it to end, but Alex saved my life. I loved him. Like, genuinely loved who he was, who I saw in him, who I knew he could be. At first, he was passionate, funny, and caring. The way he looked at me, grabbed me, and obsessed over me was intoxicating, and I was so broken and alone; I needed his attention like a person crawling through the desert needs water. But I knew I could never be with him, not in any real sense. For a brief flicker of a moment, I imagined us together, but I always knew it was just a fantasy.
I believe he loved me once; in the only way he knew how. I also believe he was taking advantage of my grief. Two truths can exist at the same time. God bless Alex; he couldn’t stop his sex addiction and couldn’t get out of his toxic relationship, and I was addicted to his attention, affection and distraction. When I was with him, I felt human again; I felt passionate again; I felt beautiful, and I felt alive. But it wasn’t real; it was an addiction, a beautiful distraction from my shattered heart. And as soon as he left, all of my pain would return, and over time it got worse; his company no longer gave me the escape I craved.
I ended it with Alex so many times. Sometimes he would message me first, and sometimes I would message him first, and our affair went on, on and off for a year. Eventually, I had healed enough to end it once and for all, and I knew that if he ever messaged me again, I would have to let his partner know, because the only way I could stay away from him was to take full responsibility for my part. I am not the victim, nor am I the villain, and neither is Alex. We were just two damaged people looking for love in all the wrong places.
I began my deliberate journey to walk in Christ’s path soon after this.
2 Corinthians 5:17
“…if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation. The old has passed away and behold the new has come.”
I have been reborn. Born again. I am building myself up, step by step, in Christ. I believe that I am healing one day at a time. I struggle to forgive myself for the abortion, but I pray for forgiveness regularly and hope to feel God’s grace one day.
Rodger Earl once asked me what my price was, as he believed everyone had a price to accept badness. At the time, I told him I didn’t have a price, which was true, but I think my price might be a time machine now.
