I got love bombed and ghosted by a ginger

Maybe some people are meant to be alone.

I don’t remember much from my therapy sessions a few years back, except for two moments: when I was asked to draw a face, after which my therapist told me I had narcissistic tendencies based on the oversized pupils and plump lips I drew, and when she told me that some people are meant to be alone—myself included.

The latter had grave consequences. Because with each failed date or relationship, I hear her in the back of my head; a self-fulfilling prophecy that seemingly rings true to this day.

Two weeks ago, I got love bombed by a ginger.

I’ve never been love bombed before, so I’m not sure why I’m experiencing this at 26. It’s such a juvenile first to go through so late in life.

Some women are crowning their first kid as we speak, and I’m here complaining about a guy I met on a dating app.

Comical.

It’s not so much that it happened that bothers me, it’s that a) I let it happen, and b) I didn’t recognize what was happening when it was happening.

When he cupped my face on our second date, gazing into my eyes with a softness I could only perceive as adoration, telling me he loved me, I didn’t question it at all. Hell, I even said it back.

I thought it to be such a risky and nonsensical thing for someone to ‘admit’ so early on that it had to be true.

Our love story only lasted one week. A week of good mornings, good nights, and three five-hour dates that made me feel alive.

He’d sugar me up with words of devotion, saying he saw me long-term, that he’d eagerly tattoo my name on him the way things were going, how we should take a trip to Positano and tour around in a red convertible, that he “wants to take me jewelry shopping next weekend,” and how I’d make an incredible mother.

We went for long drives that stretched into the night, interlocking fingers as he’d adorn the back of my hand with soft, gentle kisses, purring about the way time loses meaning when we’re together.

Except this fantasy was rudely interrupted at the end of each date when he’d insist on spending the night together because, “why wait?”

I turned him down, slightly offended by his persistence, but ultimately let my rose-tinted glasses shield me from the truth each time.

Maybe it was my (therapist confirmed) narcissism, but I’d chalked up his sex starved social abrasiveness to him being so consumed by the ⋆˙⟡♡amore⋆˙⟡♡ he felt for me that he couldn’t wait to tear my clothes off.

What can I say, I’m a hopeless romantic.

After the third date, I laid out what it takes for me to be intimate with someone. I needed to be in a committed relationship and see recent results of a full-panel STD test—bloodwork included.

The next day, he texted me saying he’d caught the flu.

He’d make a big show of it—as one does in an attempt to cover up their lies—by asking me whether I am feeling sick as well and beating himself up wondering where exactly he caught the flu (who cares???)

Texts were then left unanswered for hours on end. Each one that’d sporadically roll in was him telling me he was getting “progressively worse” with an “ever-increasing fever.”

Three days later, I was ghosted. And he was blocked.

After speaking to some friends—who’ve genuinely mulled over the possibility of him being hospitalized and on the brink of death—I concluded that his impending death was highly improbable (unfortunately.)

Because while I’ve never been love bombed before, I have been ghosted. So I know an excuse when I see one.

It’s always something to do with work or a sudden health issue that inexplicably consumes them so much they suddenly can’t give you what you need (i.e., honesty, decency, communication.)

I also know this because I’ve spouted similar garbage when I lost interest in someone but didn’t want to hurt them. Either that, or I was scared of their reaction to being outright rejected.

(I’ve had my fair share of men with over-inflated egos who couldn’t take no for an answer.)

Despite what you read above, I’m not that delusional. I’m actually quite reasonable.

I know feelings and circumstances can change. I’m also not blind to the possibility that he might’ve met someone else. Everyone is seemingly one swipe away at the end of the day.

But what I can’t stomach is the scammy, strategic, conniving nature of his pursuit.

Having someone come in with such effervescent intensity with only one goal in mind is something I’ve never seen before. And the fact that he did this as a seemingly decent man—educated, successful, with a good family background— bamboozled me.

Sure, he wasn’t perfect (he was a ginger, after all), but I could live with that.

I know I seem cool as a cucumber about this now (I’m only writing a 1000 word piece about it, no biggie), but I was not well when it happened.

I cried my eyes out (bursting into tears mid-workday), went on 20 km walks to dish out my pent up energy, and vented to anyone who’d listen—my dad included—for three days straight.

I didn’t understand why this guy I’ve been seeing for one week consumed me so much, until I journaled and remembered my therapist’s cutting words: “Some people are meant to be alone—like you.”

It wasn’t him I was mourning, but the brief wave of hope that what she’d said all those years ago wasn’t true, because clearly this whirlwind romance was proof of a different reality.

So when the hope that I’d built up so aggressively over a week came crumbling down, shattering in such a jarring way, it was brutal.

This entirely new narrative that I’d allowed myself to indulge in was ripped away from me, leaving me naked and alone with the monster who’d loomed in the shadows of my love life these past few years: loneliness, forever.

You know what they say, though, the flame that burns twice as bright burns half as long. And that applies to the emotional aftermath as well.

After fighting for my life for a few of days, I was back on my feet like a spring chicken. I’d dealt with and overcome the five stages of grief, and am now eager to move toward greener pastures.

But first, I have a few limiting beliefs to shed.