You never forget your first ... true crime documentary. Mine was Confessions with a Killer: The Ted Bundy Tapes (basic, I know), the Netflix doc based on Stephen G Michaud and Hugh Aynesworth’s .
It was 2019. I was 31 and had just broken up with the man I thought I was going to marry. The man (or rather man-child) for whom I’d uprooted my life and dreams in Los Angeles to support his life and dreams in New York City.
This breakup sent me back to my childhood bedroom, a 2005 time capsule in my parents’ home in Connecticut (before the pandemic and TikTok made this setup cool), where I curled up in my too-small bed with my warm laptop as I Netflixed-and-anything-but-chilled. With each haunting episode of the series, my dark sense of humor found the silver lining: Well, at least you got out. It could’ve been so much worse.
Not that my ex was a serial killer (to my knowledge). But he was a serial gaslighter, love bomber, manipulator, cheater, and emotional abuser. At least, that’s what the two girls who had dated him before me confirmed over a Twitter group chat after I’d announced our breakup on Instagram (as you do). “We could’ve warned you, but you blocked us,” one said. And she was right. I did block them. Probably because deep down, like that Taylor Swift song, I knew he was trouble when he walked in. But I was too bombarded by “love” to see it.
Also, dating guys who weren’t good for me was kind of my pattern. Before I met my husband, my type was “He’s great, but…” The older I got, the more I convinced
myself I’d have to settle for the caveats. But after working on myself, and actually raising my standards, I’m pleased to report that isn’t true. My husband is a wonderful man, and while he has his flaws like the rest of us, he didn’t come with a bundle of red flags I tried to ignore, and the upgrade to a healthy, whole relationship has made me a convert. I know this with certainty: You deserve a “They’re great. PERIOD.” But you’ll never find that person if you keep wasting your time with the “great, but…” variety.
If any of my ramblings sound remotely familiar, I’m hoping my experiences—and the many more shared in my podcast, the only semi-facetiously titled Am I Dating a Serial Killer?—can help. Perhaps what I’ve learned can help you avoid uprooting your life for the wrong person too. Here’s what my truly toxic relationships have taught me about love.
It’s Not Love, It’s Love Bombing
Love bombing is such a mindf--k. There’s a good chance you can’t tell the difference between love and love bombing at first. (Thank you, Disney, ,
and basically every ever).
Take my last ex (please! Actually don’t, unless he’s worked on himself). Our relationship started out like the first act of a romantic comedy. In our first week of dating, we already had a shared note on our phones so we could keep an ongoing list of things we wanted to do together, like binge the worst TV shows of all time, meet each other's parents, and pose in photo booths holding up Sharpie signs with lyrics, quotes, and messages. By week two, we had a shared Spotify playlist curated with tracks that expressed our budding feelings for each other. By week three, he had given me his Taylor Swift 1989 concert T-shirt, which had shrunk in the wash and now “looked cuter” on me.
