After Jake, I didn't know how to be alone. I was desperate for validation, and the internet was more than happy to provide it.
But this was pre-Tinder. No swiping, no carefully curated bios, no endless choices. What we had was Facebook's "Hot or Not." A savage, soul-crushing game where you uploaded a photo, and strangers would vote: Hot or Not. I was obsessed.
Every new vote was a little hit of dopamine. And lucky me, 97% of the people who saw my picture said I was hot. Woot woot. Instant validation. It didn't matter that I was a walking hurricane of self-doubt. As long as strangers thought I was pretty.
But it didn't stop there. Oh no. You could message people through Hot or Not, which meant I had a constant stream of messages. Compliments, flirtations, bad pickup lines, it was like a buffet of attention. I gorged myself.
I even went on one awkward date in a town an hour away. My mom insisted on coming with me, because nothing says "I'm an independent adult" like bringing your mother to a date.
To be fair, the guy brought two friends with him, so it was more like a sad little double date from hell. One of his friends spent the entire time hitting on my mom. Because of course he did. My mom is hot. Always has been. Still is. I love her, but if I had a dollar for every time someone told me she looked like my sister, I'd have enough money to pay for the therapy I clearly needed.
I managed to torpedo that date with one badly timed joke. The guy was a little... round, and I made a crack about how some men should have to wear bras because they had boobs. He thought I meant him. I didn't, but it was too late. Cringe activated.
But I didn't stop. The validation kept pouring in, and I drank it like a drowning woman. Which is probably why I went back to online dating so many times in my life. It's like a slot machine of self-worth: always one more swipe, one more message, one more "you're so pretty."
And that's how I found him. The literal picture of John.
John was in the military. Or at least, that's all I saw in his profile picture, his uniform. A uniform can be a dangerous thing, like a magic trick that makes you see strength and discipline instead of red flags. A word of advice, reader: don't be blinded by the uniform. Especially not the military kind. There's a reason those fields are known for high divorce rates and buried trauma.
Looking back, I should've seen the warning signs even in that picture. The beady little rat eyes. The sharp, too-white teeth, like he could've gnawed on a block of cheddar without blinking. But I didn't see any of that. All I saw was the uniform.
And that's how John marched into my life.
John's first message was charming. A little too charming, but I was too starved for attention to notice. He told me I was "stunning," that I had "the prettiest green eyes" he'd ever seen. Compliments were his currency, and I was happy to cash in.
Within days, he was texting me constantly. He texted me first thing in the morning and last thing at night. I didn't just feel wanted. I felt worshipped. Every "I love you" was a shot of dopamine, and I was hooked. But the thing about narcissists is that they don't give attention. They trade it.
And he was a master of the trade.
Within two weeks, he told me he loved me. Within a month, he was talking about marriage, our future together, our perfect life. He even told me a story of his second deployment. His translator saved their lives. So he wanted to name our first daughter after the translators daughter Lina.
He called me his soulmate, his angel, his "perfect, wonderful girlfriend." He said he'd never met anyone like me, that I was his dream girl. And I believed him.
Why wouldn't I? I was still chasing validation like a drug, and he was an endless supply.
But the love bombing didn't stay sweet for long. It twisted.
He started calling me constantly. Demanding I check in with him throughout the day. "Good morning, beautiful" became "Why didn't you text me back?" and "I miss you" became "You're probably talking to someone else." If I didn't respond within a certain window, he would call, panic in his voice, accusing me of cheating.
I thought he just loved me too much. I thought I was his whole world. I didn't see it for what it was—control. Manipulation wrapped in sweetness.
And then there were the comparisons. His ex-fiancée —the "love of his life." He had been her first. She cheated on him, and the betrayal nearly destroyed him, or so he said. He would bring her up at the strangest times, like a ghost haunting our relationship. I was never quite good enough because I wasn't her.
And he made sure I knew it.
"You're so pretty without makeup," he'd say, smiling. "You don't need it."But what he meant was, "Stop trying to look good for anyone else."
The cracks were there, but I didn't see them. I was too busy trying to be his perfect angel. His dream girl. His everything.
By July, just three months in, he wanted our families to meet. He invited his parents to my family's 4th of July celebration. I was thrilled. I thought it meant we were serious. I thought it was a sign that this was love.
But then came the fireworks.
We all went to the town's fireworks show together, and the sky was lit up with brilliant explosions of color. Families laughed, kids ran around, couples cuddled in the grass. I was watching the fireworks when I felt him pull me closer —tight, desperate. His body trembled.
I looked over, and he was crying.
"It's just... it's too much," he whispered, burying his face in my shoulder. "I... I have PTSD. I'm sorry. I just... I can't handle it."
My heart broke for him. I wrapped my arms around him, cradled him, whispered that it was okay. I thought I was protecting him. I thought I was saving him.
Looking back, I want to scream at myself.
It was an act. A manipulation. He didn't have PTSD. He wasn't suffering. He just knew that if he played the victim, I would become his protector. He hooked me with sweetness, but it was pity that cemented my devotion.
I didn't know it then, but I was already caught. Because nothing says "perfect girlfriend" like being the one who understands his pain, right?
Except he didn't want understanding. He wanted control. And I handed it to him, one tear-filled hug at a time.