It Wasn’t Love; It Was Manipulation

I was in my late 20s the first time I was acutely aware a guy was trying to manipulate me. I met Matt through my friend Jess. He was charming, attractive, Ivy-League-educated, tall, confident, had a crooked smile and slightly large ears that made him seem approachable and had a powerful creative job in digital media that I envied. Looking back, I think I confused the professional admiration I had for him with a real crush.

Matt was often busy at work and had an unpredictable schedule, which meant that for the several weeks we dated, he would arrange advance plans with me, but it would be 50–50 whether they would pan out. If he had to cancel, he’d send flowery messages about how he would rather be spending time with me, but unfortunately, work called. He perfected the art of breadcrumbing long before the term was coined, and like a naive 20-something without much dating experience, I fell for it. Several times I thought about cutting him loose—he obviously wasn’t in a place to date, or didn’t value me enough to prioritize our relationship—but I wasn’t yet as aware of my boundaries nor as adept at setting them. Jess spoke highly of him so I discounted the red and orange flags I noticed, instead, taking her approval of him as validation and credibility. I pushed my thoughts to the side, since, on paper, he embodied so much of what I was looking for. He would send emails and text messages that were beautifully poetic and sweet, and I would second guess my nagging thoughts that there was something off about him.

I didn’t realize at the time that Matt also had a girlfriend. Who he lived with. And that he met Jess when he attempted to hit on her at a First Thursday art gallery opening. And that he initially told her a fake name. I found out all three in quick succession when I mentioned to my friend that Matt’s behavior seemed shady and unpredictable. I told her I thought he might have someone else on the side. And so I asked him outright, to which he sheepishly admitted he wasn’t free, as he’d presented himself. He offered excuses: She was sick, so he felt duty-bound to stay; She was a homebody and never wanted to go out and do anything; It was complicated because they owned a house together; She was okay with him seeing other people as long as he was discreet about it. And on and on.

I was disappointed, but mainly in myself. I had had an inkling that something was off, and I ignored my intuition, instead substituting someone else’s opinion. I nodded my head when he was done talking, stood up, told him, “Thank you for the lesson,” and marched to the door to see him out. He paused on the doorstep, halfway out the door, and turned around.

“Is this it for us?” He asked with a hangdog expression. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his black wool pea coat and waited for the response he knew I’d give. I laughed bitterly.

“Yeah,” I told him. “I have no wish to get caught up in whatever games you’re playing. I don’t think it’s right, what you’re doing to your girlfriend—I suspect that it’s not really an open relationship but that you’re doing something shady, hence the hinky energy—and besides, I deserve to be in a relationship with a guy of my own. I deserve to have someone who I don’t have to share, and who doesn’t want to be shared. I deserve truth and honesty. I deserve better. So yeah, this is it. Good luck.”

He nodded, turned around, and slunk down the path. I shut the door—forcefully, but not quite a slam—locked it, turned to lean against it, and finally slid to the floor. I wallowed for about three minutes before I dragged out my phone and called Jess to relay what happened. She commiserated with me, and then, thoughtfully, admitted that he had given her a fake name when they first met. And that he’d hit on her.

“JESS!” I squealed. “Why were you trying to give me your cast-offs?” She laughed and told me that she’d also had the feeling that he wasn’t entirely single—a fact she’d neglected to tell me when she was trying to set us up. I shook my head and responded that she was not allowed to set me up ever again.

I thought that was it. That I was done with him and that I wouldn’t hear from him again. But manipulators never quite go away, unless the leaving is on their terms.

A month later, a vicious snowstorm closed down the entire city. There were rolling blackouts and whole neighborhoods were closed to traffic. Ice sparkled on every surface and public transportation came to a grinding halt. It was quiet and peaceful, and I took advantage of several days off work, free to relax. One snowy evening, I was reading by the fire with my kitteh curled up in a warm furry ball in my lap, and my phone dinged with an incoming text message. Matt. I rolled my eyes and opened the text.

“How are you?”

Bored with your generic text message, I thought to myself. I snapped shut the phone and threw it across the room. It dinged again. And again.

Reluctantly, I deposited my cat on the floor and retrieved my phone from the corner of the room. Another ding.

“I hope you’re staying warm and safe in this weather.”

“It feels like the world is ending.”

“I miss you.”

I shook my head and typed out one phrase: “Yeah. We’re doing great, thanks.”

The “We” in the message seemed to quiet him. Or maybe by getting a response, he’d managed his goal. I was relieved that I didn’t hear back from him again. That night, anyway.

But they never really go away, do they? And maybe by responding, I had actually encouraged his continued games.

Over the next year, he continued to message me randomly, about every 5–6 weeks. I mostly ignored him, except to tell him that I had met someone and we were in an exclusive relationship. That shut up Matt for nearly 2 months, but he couldn’t resist dangling his strings and seeing if he could make me dance. And like a fool, I obliged. I responded maybe once to every 8–10 of his messages and kept my responses bland. Until the day that he pissed me off, and I instructed him to never contact me again. Which he ignored for a year after that.

The message should have been heartwarming and sweet. It should have made me putty in his hands. If it had come from anyone else, it might have, but I was fed up with his fishing attempts to reel me in and exploded instead.

“You are sunshine and light,” he said in his message. “This isn’t poetry, but the musings of a man who realized too late that he was in the presence of magic…and the woman he had always wanted, but too obstinate to realize at the time. I am in love with you and would do anything to get a second chance.”

Beautiful words, right? But my face prickled with anger and I fired off a reply, stabbing at the keyboard as I did.

“This is inappropriate. You know I’m in a relationship with someone else. And you aren’t in love with me; you don’t even know who I am. You are fixated on the idea of me, but you don’t know me. And if you want to find a woman who you can love, your first step is honesty for the woman who you’re currently living with who thinks you love her.”

I was shaking with outrage by the time I was done. How dare he? I thought to myself. The real question is, How dare I? Why didn’t I block him? Why did I respond? Was it the ego boost of getting attention from someone whose attention I couldn’t fully hold when I thought we were together? Was it something missing from the relationship I was in? Was it—as I claimed to Jess—the flimsy excuse that I was afraid of hurting his feelings by blocking him?

He sent back a mournful response protesting that he did indeed love me, along with excuses for his behavior, and I finally had had enough. I sent one last text.

“Matt. You’re great with words. But words don’t keep you warm at night. You will never be able to offer me more than empty words. And I am quite happy with the guy I’m dating. Please stop. Goodbye.”

I thought that would be it this time. I was wrong again. Though I stopped giving him any kind of response or engagement, he spent another whole year sending inane comments about the weather or world news or asking about my kitty. I ignored each message, dutifully erasing them as they came in. I refused to be sucked back in. His Hail Mary final message to me?

“Please respond and let me know that you’re okay. I’m genuinely concerned about you. I have no ulterior motives.”

I knew better than to believe that. He had already shown me who he was—a man who wanted what he wanted, wasn’t accustomed to being told “no,” and not truly concerned with how anyone else felt. I knew better than to crack open the door for him to wedge his foot through. I recognized his attempts for what they were—half-assed manipulations because he wanted attention and validation, but never offered something genuine in return. Calling him out on his behavior hadn’t worked. Nor had asking him to knock it off. Complete radio silence was the only tool I had, so I used it. I had finally gotten hungry enough to go find a whole loaf instead of accepting the few breadcrumbs he threw my way.

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This post was previously published on medium.com.

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