S1E10: It Wasn't Intimacy. It Was Research

A lie confirmed. Bruises explained away. A bag of beach trash presented as a gift.

And somewhere underneath all of it, a woman who survived something terrible before any of this even started.

It was never intimacy. It was research.

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:08

I'm Heidi Stark, and this is Pretty Red Flags, the podcast, episode 9. This podcast is three things in one. A true crime podcast, because 99.9% of these things actually happened. A dark romance audiobook, because I'm reading these chapters, page by page, and survivor testimony, because this survivor went through all these things, and I'm going to be sharing what happened beyond the page and what's happened since. If you're enjoying this podcast, please like and subscribe and share with your friends. It truly means a lot. When we left off last time, Timmy had increasingly been crossing Margot's boundaries, embarrassing himself and her in front of his friends, her friends, and the general public, and his jealousy had come out roaring when she'd gotten along with one of his friends, is beginning to feel like the genie can't be put back into the bottle. Chapter forty five, it's five o'clock somewhere. A few days later. The rain stopped by the time we pull into the beach parking lot, finding the perfect parking space right by the particular strip where Timmy wants to take me. The sky is still cloudy and the scent of wet pavement, saltier lingers in the breeze, creating that delicious post-ran that feels like the earth is catching its breath. We wander towards a convenience store on the way to the sand. Timmy grips my hand and there's an urgency with the way he tugs me along. Come, he says, like he's on a mission. Inside he picks up a half pint of whiskey and I get some water and energy drinks. It's early to start drinking, but I don't want to be judgmental. I tell myself it's harmless, just a little fun, and I don't want to be the one who ruins the vibe. After all, it's only a small bottle and just the two of us not bothering anyone. We reach the beach and he opens the bottle with a grin. Just don't be obvious about it, I hand it to me. I take a sip, the amber liquid warming my throat. Timmy takes the bottle back and this time he drinks deeply, draining nearly a third of it in one go before sprinting into the water. I watch as he swims out into the ocean, his body cutting through the waves with ease, and he floats around for a while. There's something magnetic about him, like he belongs out there in the water, where everything is fluid, wild. I sit on a bench enjoying the gentle salty breeze rippling through my hair, rustling the path trees overhead. It feels peaceful in many ways, but there's a strange edge of the day, like a tune slightly out of key. Something about the way he's acting, a bit manic and erratic, makes me feel unsteady, like I'm riding away, but I'm not quite sure where it'll crash. He runs back from the water, grinning like a kid who just won a race and rinses himself off under the outdoor shower. Without missing a beat he grabs the bottle from me again, takes a few more gulps and looks at me with that same wild grip. Let's go feed the ducks, he announces, his energy surging. I'm not surprised he wants to feed the ducks. I mean, it seems like one of his favourite things to do, and it's really surreal watching the birds interacting with him. But I hesitate, that strange feeling stirring again in the pit of my stomach. Feeding the ducks is innocent enough, but there's something about the way Timmy hurls himself into everything that feels off too fast, too much. Still I follow him to the pond, determined to push away my unease and just enjoy the day. He's teaching me that life should be fun and the way he interacts with the birds is unique, like he's somehow on their wavelength. They flutter around him once again, landing on his shoulders and arms, squawking as he feeds unks of bread. This time I join in. I've always been a bit fearful of birds, but it looks like so much fun. I hold out pieces of bread just like you showed me and they land on my arms and my head. Their claws are a little scratchy and probably not very clean, but I can't even describe the feeling of having several birds landing on you and picking bread out of your hands, using you as a perch, their feathers tickling your face. I'm not scared like I thought I might be. I have sunglasses on, so I'm not worried about any of them pecking out my eyes. I never thought I'd enjoy something like this, but hearing him covered in birds laughing with reckless abandon. Back at the apartment, the shift in Timmy's mood catches me off guard again. It's hot outside as usual, sticky, oppressive heat, and yet he's pulling on jeans. I raise an eyebrow, but he's already already admiring himself in the mirror. Don't I look cute in these jeans? Yes, striking a pose. I know they look great on Mickey Brax. They make my ass look fantastic. I laugh despite myself wishing I had even half his confidence, that I didn't judge and criticize every inch of my body, that I accepted my imperfections and even embraced them the way he seems to do. He carries himself with such certainty, such ease. I wonder what it would feel like to look in the mirror and love everything I see, to move through the world with no reservation, to never doubt that I belonged in any setting. Timmy makes me feel like I could maybe learn to do that, like I can stop second guessing myself, stop being so self-critical, stop feeling like I almost have to justify my presence everywhere I go to just be. And I appreciate it. I lean into it. I've never had it like this before. Then he adds his Superman cape to his outfit and I laugh. This man is literally running around nothing but jeans and a child sized Superman cape and a hat. No shoes, no undies, no shirt, just the essentials from his perspective, I suppose, and a grin that says he knows how absurd he looks, and he loves it. He braids some tea leaves into a gorgeous bracelet and ties it around my wrist with a flourish. For my love, the love of my life, he says, leaning down to kiss me. You're everything I've ever asked for and more, Margot, I'm so lucky to have you. His words make my heart flutter and I kiss him back, sinking into the moment. It's passionate. What a gorgeous man treating me this way, making me feel so special, so adored. There's something intoxicating about the way he treats me, like I'm the only person in the world who matters to him. We go to the zoo, Superman Cape and all. Before we go in we frolic, frolic of all things, because that's what life with Timmy involved, a lot of frolic. He chases me around a giant banyan tree and I laugh as he darts through the tangled roots as Superman cape trailing behind him. He catches me pulling me into a kiss and I get butterflies. It's like we're in a scene from a romantic movie. Nobody's ever chased me into a tree and kissed me before, but it's totally something that Timmy would do. Things feel light and perfect, but at the same time there's still that same nagging feeling in the back of my mind. The way he throws himself into everything, whether it's beating birds, wearing ridiculous outfits or sprinting through the zoo. He's having fun and making me laugh, but it almost seems a little unhinged. I tell myself that it's just spontaneity, that I should enjoy it, but it doesn't sit quite right. His energy feels almost too frantic, like a balloon overinflated and ready to burst. We grin as we snap a few selfies, leaning in to hold each other. I look at the photos and we seem so happy, our eyes sparkling, our smiles wide. This is fun, I tell myself. This is good. Back at the apartment building, Timmy's antics continue. I gasp as he dives into the pool, belly first, the sound echoing off the water. I gasp again as he stays under for what starts to feel like way too long, and then he pops back up, water spraying wildly around him as he emerges, a huge grin blasted on his face. He films himself underwater. I got a good video, check it out, he says, holding out his phone. Wait, are you sure your phone's meant to be in there? I asked Carnie. Yeah, it'll be fine, he assures me. Oh, okay, I say. I was today years old when I learned that. If that really is the case, I wish I knew ages ago. I've bought so many waterproof phone cases over the years, but he seems to know more about this stuff than me. After his swim, we go back upstairs where he discovers his phone did not, in fact, agreed the chlorinated water. It starts glitching and then turns off completely. He paces back and forth, his mood swinging wildly from irritation to indifference back within minutes. I'm so angry, it's meant to be water resistant, he complained. When I ask if he'd like me to take him out for a night dinner, he perks up immediately, like a switch has slipped. He puts on my floppy card and a bow necklace, and we head to one of my favourite spots for pizza and martinis. His outfit's quite ridiculous at this point, and he seems to bask in the amused glances of other pedestrians as we walk there and back, as if it fuels him. I laugh, but that feeling, the one I keep pushing down, lurks beneath the surface. The day is fun, but I just don't feel quite like myself. I'm swept up in a wave, a rip tide of Timmy, swept along by his energy. He's impulsive and spontaneous and fun, and I like those attributes. But he seems to be getting into some type of manic episode. His mannerisms are becoming more erratic, his stories are getting wilder. He's wearing more and more eccentric outfits. But it's been a fun day overall, and I don't want to ruin the moment. And I certainly want to distract Timmy from being angry over his waterloved though. So I push the uneasy thoughts away. Just enjoy the day, I tell myself, ride the wave. But deep down I know that waves like this always crash, and when they do, they leave you gasping for air. My reaction to this chapter, by this point, Timmy has disappointed me with his behavior and crossed enough boundaries that I'm starting to realize this isn't sustainable. I don't know what that means exactly, though. And I think I'm starting to grapple with the cognitive dissonance. Not that I really understood what cognitive dissonance meant at the time. The highs were so high. He was so adventurous and care-free and almost childlike. And part of me craved that. The part that didn't get to be a child that had to grow up too fast and essentially parent my own mother, the one who lost her father way too soon. To me, made me feel like I could get that back somehow at that time. But he was also starting to show his true colours. His little jabs were becoming more severe by this point. Him not wanting me to meet his friends, the way he would behave so sloppily at bars, his shoplifting. It was really hard to pull all of these things together into a clear picture of a person, especially when that same person was able to make me feel so loved, so seen, and so special. Something showed up on my Facebook feed two days ago which seemed particularly fitting for this chapter and what has come beforehand. This is from Detoxified by R.L. Drake. A narcissist will study you like a subject, not a person. They learn what makes you light up, what makes you ape, what makes you forgive. They collect that information not to love you better, but to maneuver you faster. Every soft thing that you ever confessed becomes a tool in their hand later. That is the betrayal underneath the betrayal. It was never intimacy, it was research. And once you see the notebook they've been keeping on your weaknesses, they finally understand why their apologies always sound like strategy. Chapter 46 Fuck off K thanks bye. His phone buzzers again and again. The word worst keeps flashing across the screen like a taunt, each ping grating on my nerves. Worst, worst, worst. Then a new message lights up the display. Worst, come pick me up, sugar. It's impossible not to see it. I mean maybe I am craning my neck a little, but can you blame me? My gut twists into a knot, a sinking feeling dragging me deeper with each buzz. The casual way he lets her messages pile up completely unconcerned makes it worse. It's as if her text don't even register as a problem to him. But they're glaring at me like a neon warning sign. Every time his phone buzzes, the image of her suitcase on Timmy's back creeps into my mind. Why the fuck is this girl blowing up your phone? I ask, trying but semi-failing to keep my voice calm. My heart beats fast against my ribs. I thought you said you didn't want anything to do with her. I raise a brow, the unease racing through me. Timmy shrugs, his face annoyingly neutral like this is a minor inconvenience. I don't. I narrow my eyes. Well she doesn't seem to have gotten a hint. He shrugs again, 'cause indifference only fueling my irritation. I'll tell her to piss off, she's annoying. She must just want something. Annoying. That's all she is to him, he says. But my gut keeps whispering otherwise, and I can't shape David's words from earlier. Banging her. That's why he went radio silent for three days. He's insecure, and people like that cheat, especially when they know you're out of their league. David's words swirl in my mind, needling at my insecurity, making it impossible to ignore the act out. He has an agenda too, I remind myself, but no matter how hard I try to dismiss it, the suspicion sticks sharp and persistent. I need to know the truth. I take a deep breath, stealing myself. When she visited, I ask slowly, Did you sleep with her? The question hangs between us, heavy and loaded. Timmy blinks, clearly taken aback by my directness. What kind of question is that? he snaps his tone defensive. I watch his face closely, searching for any flicker of truth, and there it is, nothing fleeting. A flicker of guilt or frustration, maybe both, gone almost as soon as it appeared. Well did you? I asked again. His expression darkens. No, he scaled, and it's none of your business. We weren't together then, Margot. We hadn't even met in person. Stop asking me if I slept with her. The sharpness in his voice feels like a slap, leaving me embarrassed and stung. My cheeks burn with shame. He's right, I tell myself, it's not my business. If something did happen between them, it happened before us, before Timmy and I existed as a couple. So why does it matter? And he's saying nothing happened, so I should trust him. Um okay, I mutter, feeling like I've been put in my place. We drive in silence for a few minutes, the weight of the conversation hanging heavy, the hum of the car engine, the only sound between us. Just as I think the conversation is over, Timmy speaks again, his voice quieter, but no less jarring. Well, okay, I did have sex with her. I feel like the ground just dropped out from beneath me. My stomach twists violently, bile rising in my throat. Excuse me? It didn't mean anything, he says with a shrug, like he's explaining away something three minor. She's just this annoying girl I've hooked up with a few times. I didn't even know for sure you were coming to the island and she was just there. His tone is flat, unbothered, as if this explanation should just somehow make everything okay. She's just a friend, though. We don't like each other as anything more than that. Never have, never will. I'd certainly never date her. She's a mess. The words hit me like a punch to the chest, and I try to breathe through the sting. Right, I frown. My fears have been realized. It's not that he slept with her, it's the lie. I asked him point blank, and he lied about it. And now here she is, still texting him, still blowing up his phone, still trying to insert herself into his life, into our life. It's not the sex that bothers me, I say, my voice tight, because you're right, we weren't together, we hadn't met yet. The fact you lied about it. I know you've been with other people before you met me, of course you have, but you specifically lied to me about her, and now she's still reaching out to you, still trying to get your attention. That's what makes us gross. Emmy sighs, rubbing his face as if I didn't want being difficult. She probably just needs to ride somewhere, he muttered. She uses people like that. He looks at me with an almost childlike expression, almost as if he expected me to take this sign. We're not interested in each other like that. You have nothing to worry about. I want to believe him. I really do. I try to tell myself that we weren't together when it happened, that it was in the past and that it doesn't matter. But the fact she's still texting him, trying to get him to go and pick her up from somewhere makes it very much my business now. I swallow hard, try to push the knot of discomfort deeper down. Maybe he's right, she's just someone from the past who won't take a hit. Maybe I'm overreacting. But the truth still gnaws at me. If everything is as simple as he says it is, why didn't you lie in the first place? He speaks up again. And I usually had to initiate conversations with you, and I'm used to being pursued, and she wanted to meet up with me, and so I did. Weird. So it's now at least partially my fault he went and sleep with his friend that he told me he was going to meet up with when I was hours away and hadn't even met him. And what is this nonsense about him being pursued? Are they more like her trying to get into his pants even though he's in a serious relationship? We drive on, the silence between us heavy and uneasy. I stare out the window, watching the palm trees blur past, trying to make sense of everything. I want to trust him. I want to push these doubts away and just enjoy being with him. But the lie sits between us like a stone, impossible to ignore. Just like the missed messages and calls on his phone. No matter how hard I try to convince myself otherwise, I know something isn't blind, and she needs to leave us the fuck alone. My reaction to this chapter, I really do have a lot to say, but some of it's going to happen later, because this storyline truly took on a life of its own after this duet was published. And when I do share with you what happened, your mind is going to be blown just like mine was and zealous. He'd been so adamant she was just some annoying friend, but her having her suitcase at his house didn't add up. When he confessed he slept with her and she wouldn't leave him alone, I was so irritated. On reflection, my irritation likely stemmed from his account of events not matching her behavior. Either he was hiding something from me or she was completely insane and not giving the hit. Or maybe both in in hindsight, probably both. Looking back, the way he crafted the narrative into his sleeping with her being some kind of retaliation for me not pursuing him is wild. But I've since heard it's not uncommon for people with his personality traits. They tend to blame infidelity or any behavior, all their bad behavior, all their actions on other people, primarily their partner. Unfortunately, my gut reaction to people trying to take what's mine is to double down rather than saying, fuck it, take it, I don't care. Or at least it was at the time. It would have been great if I'd done it by then and simply walked away. If only I wasn't human, wouldn't that be so much easier sometimes? Chapter 47 bruises spade, but the stories they linger. The past. Okay, trigger warning, this is gonna be intense based on true story and it involves sexual assault. Um but we will get into it. Lawyer. So you're accusing my client of raping you, and part of that evidence is the bruises on your body. Is that correct? Me. Yes. Lawyer. And you moved a week before, right? Me. That's correct. Lawyer. But as a redhead with pale skin, would you say you're bruised easily? Me. Not really, I haven't noticed that before. Lawyer. It's well known that people with your complexion bruise easily. Me. No response. Lawyer. So given that, isn't it more likely that the bruises were caused by the fact you moved heavy boxes rather than the allegations you've made against my client? Me. I didn't rip my vagina and my anus when I moved the boxes. No present. A day or two go by relatively uneventful. Emmy's phone stays quiet, good. Finally she might be getting the hint if I stopped intruding on it. But now here I am staring at my left arm, covered in splotches of grey and purple. My entire upper arm looks like I just got out of a paintball flight I never signed up for. I traced my fingers along the tender skin, wincing. It looked like someone grabbed me and squeezed hard, like the bruises on my legs from all those years ago. Timmy, lounging on the bed lasts. Haha, I've been poking you so much to get your attention, I've left bruises on you. I force a smile, though my stomach twists uncomfortably. It's fine, I tell myself. I know I bruise easily, it's nothing. But the sight of the bruiser tugs at something deep inside, like a loose thread unraveling a tightly waden fabric. The memories I've worked so hard to suppress start clawing their way to the surface. My mind drifts back to those awful photos, evidence taken after the assault. I remember the ugly purple and grey marks on my legs, the ones Devoye tried to explain away with his slick words about movie boxes and pale skin. These bruises don't look so different, I realize my pulse quickly. But this is completely different, right? My PTSD is just making me correlate two completely separate things. Timmy didn't hurt me, he was just being playful, excited even. He was showing me the K, poking me to get my attention, sharing his joy. That's not abuse, it's affection, isn't it? It was just poking. Timmy catches me staring at the marks on my Oh babe, he says his grin widening. I really didn't mean to bruise you up so bad. I forget how strong I am sometimes. I'll try to be gentler. He reaches out and strokes my arm lightly as if that erases the purple blue blooming out of my skin. I would never hurt you on purpose, he says, softly brushing my hair behind my ear. His eyes widens and stare make me want to believe him. This is just how he shows love and enthusiasm. I laugh, though it feels brittle on my throat. Just maybe don't do it so hard next time, okay? Deal, he says, still smiling. I mean I wanted a redhead with creamy, milky white skin and freckles. I didn't know you'd bruise like a banana, he teases. Before I can stop him, he pokes the exact same spot again. It's playful, it's supposed to be playful, but the poke land's heavier this time, like a little jab to my soul. The room feels different now, like the air has thickened with something I can't quite make. My laughter dies in my throat and I shift uncomfortably. The playful moment has turned into something else entirely, though I can't quite explain why. He grins as if he doesn't notice the shift, or worse, as if he does notice and finds it amusing. I try to last off again, but my voice sounds strange to my own ears. The discomfort lingers curling deep inside my chest like a coiled spring ready to snap. I tell myself it's nothing. He's not urging me, he's just playing around. But the flashbacks won't stop. I see the lawyer's smug face in my mind, the disbelief in his eyes as he tried to make my pain seem insignificant. I remember how easily the truth was twisted back then, how it made me feel like I had overreacted. And now, standing here, staring at my bruised arm, I couldn't help but wonder, am I doing it again? I brushed Sort of way falls a smile back onto my face. Timmy means well. He loves me. He's not like the others, but the atmosphere in the room stays heavy and little knot in my stomach twists tighter. Because deep down, the quiet voice whispers, this isn't okay. This doesn't feel right. And it's a precursor to something that's going to be much worse. My reaction to this episode, this chapter. Well, I have a lot to share and it's not easy, but it's my truth and I'm going to speak it. In 2011, I returned from completing my MBA in Canada back to New Zealand. I was able to get a job back at the firm that I left for my studies, and I challenged myself to complete 30 days of going to the gym in a row. On day 29, a man introduced himself to me. I'll save the full story for another time if I choose to share it. But the person in question passed me out on a date. He had a successful career. It was one that people usually associate with the person being trustworthy. And after the first date, he invited me out to his condo and I said no. After the second date, he ended up spiking my drink and sexually assaulting me. I went through a lead-feet court process where he hired the best event lawyer in the country. Because I couldn't remember all the details, because he'd put something in my drink, the jury couldn't find him guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. The judge shared with the prosecutor that the jury believed me, which is quite an unorthodox thing to do, but it happened. A few days later, somebody tried to break into my apartment. I'm not sure if it was a warning or what. In either case, I flew the country and moved to the United States. I haven't really shared this with my readers yet, but now it's out there. In any case, I have PTSD from that. The Bruce story was very much real and how it was framed in court and why it triggered something very specific in me when Timmy started bruising out my room in such an innocent way. Based on research since, after dealing with someone like Timmy and his tendencies and behaviors, I have found that uh starting with bruises and poking is also a very common way that men or people in general, but especially men like this, behave. And it might be played off, and it usually is played off as accidental or playful, but there's something more sinister underpinning it. So if this is happening to you, I encourage you to research. I found some valuable resources online. Um, but you're not alone in having this happen to you. Chapter 48, in the same place. Timmy and I hanging out at Maddie's and we have another fight and we fight hard, words flying like daggers, sharp and relentless. He starts another argument over what feels like nothing, and his cruel words sting in a way I don't expect. Needing air, I leave the apartment without another word and head down to the beach. I need space to think, to untangle the mess in my mind and to breathe without feeling suffocated by him. The sand is cool under my feet as I sit near the water, listening to the waves slap the shore. The sun is dipping low, the sky streaked in oranges and purples. The sound of the surf is usually enough to calm me, but not today. My emotions are too tangled, hope, frustration, and confusion swirl in together like a storm cloud. I open my phone and pull up a playlist I've been building. It's called Timmy with a broken heart emoji tacked onto the end. I scroll through the songs, playing a few, letting the lyrics hit heart. Every word feels like it was risen for me for this exact moment. The knot in my chest tightened, my emotions too close to the surface. My phone buzzes. It's him. Of course it's him. I ignore the call. Moments later a flood of text lights up my screen. Apologies rush and messy pour in, and I can almost hear the desperation in her voice through the words on the screen. Timmy, I'm so sorry, please Margo. I don't even remember what we were fighting about. Just give me a chance to talk to you. I exhale sharply, my resolve crumbling faster than I'd like. I shouldn't answer him, but the void inside me, this strange ate and emptiness, grows bigger without him around. He's become like gravity, pulling me in, bending me toward him, even when my better judgment tells me to resist. So I reply. Me. Okay, if you promise you'll stop treating me this way, Timmy. I promise, Margaret, please just let me see you. Me, fine, Timmy. Can you get me an Uber? I roll my eyes and let out an audible groan, feeling a mix of frustration and shame as I pull the Uber app up on my phone. Why am I doing this? He could easily walk. It's a twenty minutes stroll, maybe thirty, but here I am, once again enabling him, throwing money at the problem to bring him back to me. It feels ridiculous. He's a grown man for God's sake. But that voice void gnaws at me, and before I know it, I've watered the Uber. I stay sitting on the sand, the waves lapping at the shore as guilt settles over me like a heavy fog. Not long after I see his familiar shape approaching the beach. He's clutching a large tote bag, and the moment his feet hit the sand he runs toward me with open arms. He scoops me up, holding me tight like he's afraid I'll disappear. He let go. Oh my gosh, Margot, he whispers into my ear, his voice a mix of relief and something almost frantic. I've missed you so much, I love you, I thought I'd never see you again. I was so scared. The intensity of his words make my heart ache. They feel so big, his love awe consuming, and I can't help but get swept up in it. Then comes the bag. He pulls it open with a flourish, grinning wildly. It's like a magic show, only instead of a rabbit. Out comes the oddest assortment of trinkets. His tiny zebra figurine, his miniature skateboard, random shells is collected from the beach. Each one is presented to me like a treasure with a backstory about how it reminded me him of me. These shells, they're beautiful just like you. This one's a speckled ginger one seed. The skateboard, it's tiny like you, because you like to roller skate. The zebra, it's quirky just like the way you laugh, and because you like to wear black and white stripes sometimes. He beans with pride as he hands me each item, his grin stretching wider with every new offering. His enthusiasm is infectious, but there's also something unsettling about it, a manic energy that I can't quite place. This man has literally bought me a bag of junk, things he found on the beach, things someone else might have thrown away, but he's offering them like they're treasures, and he has weirdly customized each of them to me. Um, thank you, I say, holding a shell in my hand, turning it over to study it. It's chipped along one side. Well, it's all I could do right now, he says his voice softening, but I really wanted you to know how much I've been thinking. It's the only way I could think of to show you how sorry I am. Later at my apartment, Timmy sprawls out on the bed while I sit at my desk participating in a video call with an investigator of my old job. While I no longer work there, they reach out to my help. As I speak, rattling off names, dates, and critical moments with ends, I feel something I haven't felt in a while. Confidence. It's like stepping back into a version of myself that I thought faded away. I know my stuff. I've lived and breathed this work for years and it feels good to own it. When the call ends, I close my laptop and lean back with a sigh of relief. Timmy's eyes are wide with awe and I can see a bulge in his pants. Oh my fucking god, he says voice thick with admiration. That was the sexiest thing I've ever heard. Just so capable and confident, talk about a giant phone, or that's what you've given me. Just listen to me oh your shit. I laugh, feeling a warmth blue on my chest. It's flattering, especially coming from him. I hadn't realized how starved I was for recognition, for someone to see me, to really see me and appreciate me for all the hard work I've done, especially given I wasn't receiving the same kudos at work. It's nice to have someone compliment me for my work. And he'd write, 20 years of really hard work has got me to the point where I indeed know what I'm talking about. It's a shame the company I worked for didn't think the same. Well, actually most of them did. I did my job reliably with raid reviews by my client groups, but the bitch in charge of my division hated me for some inexplicable reason. It wasn't my fault she was a frumpy, jealous cunt. Seriously, the way she photoshopped her LinkedIn profile is a tragedy. No, Marcia, we see you. I often find that people who define themselves as strategic automatically are dismissed with me. They're often narrow-minded, glorified admin personnel who weasel their way into the C-suite. All the while I'm actually carrying out multi-year plans. But go off, Marsha. I'm soldy. I don't apologize. And Timmy sees my skills. He's probably never heard anything like this before. He dated a doctor once, or maybe she was a dentist, but anyhow, he obviously couldn't watch her work, and he likely hasn't been exposed to what real career professionals do on a day-to-day basis, and it turns them on, apparently. The fact it turns them on turns me on. I'm finally feeling recognized as a badass bitch, and I love that he sees that in me. Sure, my ex would compliment my grace in the most difficult meetings that he couldn't help but overhear, acknowledge my competence in passing, but nothing like this, nothing so electric. This intense appreciation is new and it's flattering. And the fact that Timmy finds it a literal turn on that also new and intoxicating. Seriously, he grints coming over to kiss me deeply. You're amazing. I loved hearing you talk like that. The words fill me up, bolstering me in ways I didn't know I needed. But even as I bask in his praise, a part of me knows I'm standing on a dangerous bench. Timmy's love feels so big, so awe-consuming that it's hard to separate myself from it. His compliments are addicting, pulling me deeper into his orbit. It's like being caught in a vortex, one moment spinning with joy, the next disoriented and unsure of which way is up. Time bends around him. My judgment slows and I find myself making choices I wouldn't have made before him. Like ordering him an Uber when he could have walked, like laping off bruises left by fable jabs, like ignoring the red flags that keep untrilling around me. He sees me in a way no one else ever has and makes me feel beautiful, cherished, adored, and understood. But at what cost? Even as I relish the way he admires me, a voice in the back of my mind whispers, Be careful, you're giving away too much of yourself. He's holding you too tight. And yet I don't pull away because right now the pull of him is too strong, and I can't seem to find my way out. My reaction to this chapter, the song that came up on my phone at the beach was Blazing for Never by Post Malone, and his lyrics stood out to me so much. Like he was watching my life and singing about it. The verse goes, should have seen the sign, so I guess I deserved it. Made a habit overlooking cracks in the surface. Going along with the bullshit you sold me. What was I to do when the bottle stopped working? Trying to make a home out of a house while it's burning down, burn it to the ground. And then the chorus, when all these tattoos fade, I'll never look back, you'll be in the safe place. I kept telling myself, if I wanted you to change, I'd be waiting for never, waiting for never. One story I didn't share in the book is that Timmy has this really bizarre tattoo very prominently on his body. It looks a bit like a child Druid, lots of weird lines and dots, like scrawly scribbles. When I asked about it, he had it, he bought himself a tattoo gun and did it himself. Needless to say, it's not the finest artwork. That's just a funny story to light in the mood, but for real, those lyrics hit really hard. When he showed up at the beach, which was what quite was quite frankly a bag of junk. He made it so entertaining and it was so ridiculous, I found it easier to just laugh. It was a time when I was just craving lightness, and it didn't matter that he was literally having me trash. A narcissist survivor and expert online, Cynthia, S-Y-N, E H I A, she's quite prominent. She recently did a role-play video about this and how it's common for a narcissist to quite literally hand you trash or something really ridiculous and make it out to be a gift while they're bestowing literal diamonds and other stuff on other people. Again, there was a shadow part of me that didn't want to come across as ungrateful or snobby because I wasn't appreciative of his gift. Even though they were literally other people's discarded junk that a man in his late 30s had picked up from the beach. As it pertained to my work, he had listened to me talk about how bad I felt about the way that job ended, how I was the only person in my team, which was a very high-performing team, get her attention bonus, that the head of my function took a personal dislike to me for no known reason. She'd cancel our meetings all the time. She hired someone above me and my peer because she apparently couldn't be bothered dealing with the without picking one of us to leave the team. She was literally horrible to work with. And the person she hired was also awful to work with, a huge political climber, very self-serving. When they decided I couldn't stay working for them, it was frankly devastating. Obviously, it ended up having that run-on effect into my life. Having the continuity of that job would have helped me to put Timmy's behavior into perspective. But clearly that was not to be, and the universe had other plans. In either case, I'd been very open with him about that situation. So he knew all of this information. So he pumped me up and told me how amazing I was. He'd never been around a corporate person, he'd dated people with amazing occupations, but why was a new one for him and he was all googly-eyed about it. And that felt so much better than how I was being treated by the so-called professionals at my former job. That's all for this episode. This was truly an intense one. Um, I hope you can appreciate I shared something truly personal. Uh so and I hope that helps someone hearing it. So we're going to leave it there. Next time things are going to get crazier, if that's even believable, but maybe a bit lighter, as the next chapter is called dentical porn. Yep, you heard that right. Not tentacle, dentical. We'll explain. If you're not familiar with the tentacle version, Google before you listen, not while you're at work, but it's okay. As always, I'd love to hear from you whether you've been in a similar situation or what stood out to you about this episode. Remember to like, subscribe, and share with your friend. And in the meantime, remember it was never you, you're not too much, and it wasn't your fault.