Love Bombing. Again.

But how I'm learning to recognize the signs far earlier...

Love Bombing. Again.

There is a chapter in Rewilding called The Love Bomber. Last summer I matched with a tall, handsome Dutch man. He was a lawyer in Amsterdam, and immediately offered to fly over to Marrakech that weekend to meet me. This was such unusual behaviour, so refreshing, I welcomed it, delighted at the lack of game-playing, at the enthusiasm, at someone not just talking the talk, but flying the walk.

What followed were a few weeks of what felt much like falling in love, even though it was all a little fast. (I was “the one”, he could see us building a retreat together, I was the woman he had been waiting for), that was initially unnerving, but also, completely seductive. It had been so long since I felt valued, or loved. Not that this was love - even I knew that would have been ridiculous - but he made me feel beautiful, desirable, seen.

We had an idyllic few days in Marrakech when he came, filled with scenarios and scenes that could have come right out of a movie. We walked the Medina hand-in-hand, had long, lazy lunches at Berber Lodge, as I felt my entire body exhale. He paid for everything, which might not be a big deal for some, but as a woman who single-handedly supported her family for twenty five years, it felt like a gift. It felt like being taken care of. I started to relax, to think that this was the real thing.

What if the Hollywood love stories were right? What if, finally, this was my turn? What if I had finally found my person.

He flew back to Amsterdam, and I woke every morning to “Good morning, Beautiful.” I didn’t know then that this was a red flag. I didn’t know then what I know now, that anyone who calls you “Beautiful”, or “Sexy”, isn’t complimenting you, but rather, objectifying you. That it assumes too much intimacy with someone who doesn’t yet know you well enough to say that, not to mention how generic it is. It skips over the specifics, your personality, the conversations you’ve shared.

He phoned, or video-called most days. Those calls felt ridiculously romantic. He was communicative, and consistent, and I basked in the glow of all of it.

He flew back to Marrakech for my birthday, but this time, something felt…off. The organizing of my party was stressful, and tiring, and I had other friends staying. It was no longer a romantic fantasy, but the nuts and bolts of life. He was not the centre of attention, and I felt a slight distance, but presumed it was just the party, having other friends around, that we would get back to our regular programming soon, that this was just a blip.

Except it wasn’t. Those few weeks of joy gave way to what is popularly known as the “discard”. He flew back to the Netherlands after my birthday, and dumped me by text, the day after getting back in touch to say he had made a terrible mistake.

It was behaviour I had never encountered before. The push-pull, the hot-cold. I gave him another chance, thinking that communicating openly would right the ship, but it did not. Suddenly he was blowing cold where he once blew hot, making plans, cancelling them, responding with one-line texts, not calling when he said he would, disappearing for 24 hours.

I put up with it for two weeks, desperate to get back to how it had been, before finally realizing I had to listen to my body, which was on high alert, permanently activated. The crunch came when he said he was at a sailing regatta, hence his disappearing. And then, a picture landed in my inbox, a picture that made my blood run cold.