I Saw My Abuser Last Week

I saw my abuser last week.

In the town where I rebuilt my life — across state lines, where I finally found the inner peace and healthy love I had always dreamed of.

My partner and I had gone out to dinner on a whim. We normally stay in on weeknights. We'd both had busy, stressful days, so we ended up at his favorite restaurant here in Norwalk.

What were the chances that, the moment we crossed the street, I would notice him sitting at an outdoor table across from us?

There he was, seated beside a woman who appeared to be talking to him while he seemingly ignored her. His head was down. He looked disengaged. An eerily familiar dynamic.

As we walked past, I squeezed my partner's hand. "Oh my God. It's him. The man who almost destroyed me."

He knew exactly whom I meant. I had told him about the toxic relationship. The trauma bond. The emotional and psychological abuse I endured for three years of my life.

I kept looking back. I was in shock — and, somehow, still completely intrigued. Curious about this person who moved through the world so artfully, armed with charisma and charm. And also so dangerous. A true malignant narcissist.

Once we were seated inside the restaurant, I tried to remain calm. Unbothered. But my hands were shaking. I couldn't stop looking out the window for him.

I told my partner about the anxiety coursing through me. It was too visceral to ignore. He made space for me — even though I knew the situation made him uncomfortable, too.

I spoke about the shame. About the version of me who became trapped in that trauma bond. About the man who love-bombed me in the beginning — and the version of me who stayed even after his mask fell away, quite abruptly.

I spoke about the vulnerable, love-starved part of me that believed she had to beg for love. Work for it. Prove herself worthy of receiving it.

This man once told me I could not be his girlfriend unless I was patient, stopped asking questions, and "followed his lead." I remember his exact words because I documented nearly every interaction we had. I needed those journals to reality-test what was happening whenever he denied, distorted, or rewrote our experiences.

Emotional abuse is a real mindfuck. I swear.

I've written and spoken extensively about a different relationship in my past — a 13-year, codependent dynamic with a man struggling with addiction. In many ways, that was me trying to replay my relationship with my mother: trying, once again, to earn her love.

I rarely talk about this one — the relationship in which I tried to replay my relationship with my father. The one in which I tried to earn his love. It felt even more volatile, and it began the moment my last relationship ended, when I was at my most vulnerable and most easy to find.

Then he swooped in. And I was hooked.

That's where I'll leave it for today.

The rest of this story — what that relationship cost me, and how I finally found my way out — is coming soon on Medium and Substack. I'll let you know the moment it's live.

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