Here’s a new I-don’t-know-what where I share stories about people I almost dated. Or maybe even dated. Mostly women, but I might even sprinkle in some hetero stories from my pre-lesbian days.
Maybe I change the names, maybe not. Probably, probably not. At the end of the day, only me, those people, and the people I mentioned them to will. But also at the end of the day: Will they even find this blog? And if so, do I even care?
Her name was Megan. Not MEH-gan, but like MAY-gan. She was maybe 35? Somewhere around there. She lived with her parents because they had some health thing happening and lived in a Texas town so small it doesn’t even come up on Google Maps, but worked at a bank in the next state over.
Her dream was to graduate college and be the person who makes bionic prosthetic arms feel like real arms.
She didn’t care too much about face masks, but then I was glad that I had someone to talk to on the freakin’ dating app after SO LONG.
The struggle to be myself versus who they want me to be
Trying to be the person she wanted me to be meant forcing myself to be less prude when the problem isn’t that I am a prude — it’s more that I don’t feel sexual attraction to you if I don’t know you, and even then I need to have feels first? It’s very demi/ace territory, but I’m still homoromantic and consider myself a lesbian.
I later learned this behavior to be love-bombing.
The Texas winter storm of February 2021 had me checking in on all my friends, and I couldn’t get a hold of her for a couple days. We had talked daily, and I thought it was normal to be concerned.
I use MetroPCS, and I didn’t always have service in Greenville. My calls dropped a lot. This was a well-known fact if you were someone with whom I talked on the phone — which, I talked mostly only to her.
So calling again when my first call doesn’t go through is a normal thing. I have to do it where I’m at now, even, in Kaufman, because I’m constantly dropping call attempts to my Mimi.
Like, it’s just normal for me. You live in a small town, you’re gonna have turd service.
The downside is that I don’t know when/if phone calls get through to the next person unless they tell me. Dropped calls don’t always, but they also do.
The third call got through, to voicemail, and left a voicemail asking if she was okay.
Then I got a text.
I’m fucking taking a quiz.
Here’s where it gets fun
I stood up for myself! I apologized, but then backtracked and said that I didn’t deserve to be talked to like that because it’s emotionally abusive to use profanity in this context, because the end-user’s goal is submission by intimidation.
Did I mention she was suuuper conservative? I don’t understand the how or why of conservative lesbians. I don’t. But I really try not to judge, because I don’t care for politics and feel like people are much more than their political party.
But looking back, I realized she really loathed being called out on shit.
She texted back, “Look I don’t know if I can like do this”.
Past tense of her words: She couldn’t be what I needed because I’m too much.
You know what I can’t be? Someone I’m not.
I can’t sext with someone I’ve never met. Yeah, everyone loves a fucking thirst strap — on TikTok, not when they’re having a slumber party with their toddler cousins on a Saturday night and a one-year-old is asleep in their full-sized bed that they’re about to also be sharing with a three-year-old.
If I swipe right on a dating app profile, it’s not because I’m looking to hook up with anyone.
The sexting that did happen? It’s called switching, “honey”.
Love bombing facts
Love bombing is a catalyst to manipulation and abuse. Receptors in the brain get high off feel-good attention and want more of it, creating an addiction. Once the abusive and controlling behavior creeps in, you’re so swept away you’re unlikely to notice. This person doesn’t know you.
A study found that it takes about six months, for a person to decide if someone is marriage/commitment material. It takes three months for the “honeymoon” phase to begin wearing off.
🚩 Total red flags
- She was bad at communicating things to me. This was not the first time she’d responded to me with such frustration, but it was the last.
- She thought COVID was a conspiracy. It baffled me because she claimed to be immunocompromised, hence why she couldn’t wear face masks.
- She seemed to be operating under limited time due to her illness. My personal disabilities (and autism) were patronized.
- We only ever talked on her terms.
- I found it weird that she went searching for me on Facebook not even two weeks into talking, then made a big deal of having found me before actually adding me.
- It was always a bad time to talk about meeting up, and she expected me to drive all the way to her (~6 hours) all by my AUTISTIC, DISSOCIATIVE SELF if I wanted to meet her.
- She didn’t care to hear about any of my blog-related hobbies.
- Love bombing. She missed me, we vibed so well, she told me everything she’d do to me and what she wanted me to do to her — and honestly, that’s what made me feel the most uncomfortable, but for some reason I took her prude-related (“I wish you felt more comfortable with me) to mean that something was wrong with me.
I saw a lot of red flags, but at the same time…I was worried that not getting with anyone meant that I was a bad lesbian, or that I wasn’t a “real” lesbian or whatever other toxic heternormative bullshit.
I now know that declining to pursue a relationship because I get red flag vibes means that I have healthy relationship boundaries.
Unfortunately, there was one woman before her and another woman after her before I took the time to reflect on all the bullshit and actually started putting in the work to implement boundaries and feel less guilty.
Have you ever been love-bombed? Have you ever been the love bomber?
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