He never loved me. He just didn’t want anyone else to have m

It Didn’t Start With Fear

It started with connection.

With chemistry that felt cosmic. Like two souls crashing into each other after lifetimes apart.

With eyes that didn’t just meet mine, but studied them like scripture.

With hands that didn’t just hold me, but made me feel like I finally had a home.

Like I finally was home.

His presence was magnetic. The kind that made the world blur.

His energy wrapped around me like a secret I’d been waiting to remember.

He made me feel seen. Not just noticed but understood.

Like he knew something about me I didn’t even know myself.

Like I was special. Chosen. Safe.

And when he touched me, I didn’t just feel desired.

I felt wanted.

Needed.

Like I was sacred.

Like I was the answer to some ache he never knew how to name.

And that kind of attention…

That kind of intensity…

It doesn’t feel dangerous.

It feels divine.

Like fate. Like magic. Like finally.

So I gave.

Not just my body.

I gave my trust.

My loyalty.

My devotion.

My softness.

My secrets.

The quiet parts of me that had been aching for love but too scared to ask.

I gave him every version of me:

The confident woman who stood tall.

The shattered girl who still wasn’t sure she was lovable.

The caretaker. The believer. The survivor.

Even the parts I hadn’t yet made peace with, I handed those over too.

Not because I was desperate.

Not because I was foolish.

But because I believed him.

Because when someone shows up with that kind of intensity, with that kind of presence. You don’t second guess it.

You surrender to it.

And I did.

I fell hard.

And I fell fast.

Because no one told me that narcissists don’t just manipulate. They mimic.

They don’t just love-bomb you. They study you.

They map your wounds.

They memorize your patterns.

They echo your dreams.

They shape-shift into everything you’ve ever wanted and that’s what makes it so impossible to walk away.

Because it didn’t feel like manipulation.

It felt like belonging.

But now I know:

He never wanted me.

He wanted access to me.

To the way I loved.

To the way I showed up.

To the power he felt being the center of my world.

He wanted the reflection of love without having to offer it.

He wanted to be worshipped, not known.

To be adored, not held accountable.

And the scariest part?

He knew how to keep me coming back.

He knew the right words to say when I started pulling away.

The tender glance. The perfectly-timed apology. The tearful confessions that sounded just enough like remorse.

But it was all a tactic.

Every kiss timed to disarm me.

Every “I love you” weaponized to pull me in.

Every moment of softness used to confuse me into staying.

And I did stay.

Longer than I want to admit.

Because I kept holding onto the version of him I met in the beginning.

The one who held me like I was fragile and fierce all at once.

The one who traced his fingers along my skin like it was a story he never wanted to end.

The one who cried when he told me I made him feel safe, like I was his peace.

But that version of him?

That wasn’t real.

It was a performance.

A mask.

A lie told with a steady voice and convincing eyes.

He was never the safe place.

He was the storm.

But I didn’t see it at first.

Because the abuse didn’t look like abuse.

It looked like concern.

“Let me take care of that.”

“Why don’t you just let me handle it?”

“Maybe you shouldn’t talk to them anymore, they’re not good for you.”

It sounded like love.

“Baby, I just want us to be okay.”

“You know how much I need you.”

“Don’t give up on me, you’re all I have.”

It felt like passion.

The kind that burned through logic.

The kind that kept me tethered even when I felt myself slipping.

And I did slip.

Little by little, I started vanishing.

My boundaries became a burden.

My independence became a threat.

My joy made him jealous.

My strength made him spiteful.

So I started shrinking.

Speaking softer.

Smiling through pain.

Apologizing when I hadn’t done anything wrong.

Walking on eggshells to avoid the next explosion or the next emotional withdrawal.

I stopped reaching out to friends.

Stopped trusting my gut.

Stopped recognizing the woman in the mirror.

Because every time I tried to leave, he’d remind me how “good we used to be.”

And I’d go back.

Not to the man in front of me.

But to the memory of who I thought he was.

That’s how the trauma bond works.

It doesn’t keep you stuck in the present.

It keeps you addicted to the beginning.

And by the end, I was unrecognizable.

Not because he destroyed me in one clean sweep.

But because I slowly chipped away at myself,

Trying to be easier. Quieter. Softer.

Trying to be whatever version of me he wouldn’t hurt.

But it was never enough.

Because he didn’t want a partner.

He wanted possession.

He wanted a body to control.

A mind to manipulate.

A soul to drain.

He didn’t want to grow with me.

He wanted to own me.

And that’s not love.

That’s abuse.

It’s the kind of abuse people don’t talk about.

The kind that’s dressed up in affection.

That hides behind intimacy.

That walks hand-in-hand with “but he never hit me.”

And it leaves scars you can’t see.

I didn’t stay because I was broken.

I stayed because I believed.

Because I wanted to believe.

Because I saw the good in him and made it my mission to love him into healing.

But the truth is..

You can’t save someone who’s committed to sinking you.

You can’t pour light into someone who thrives in your darkness.

And you sure as hell can’t keep handing your heart to someone who only knows how to devour it.

I gave everything I had to a man who never truly saw me.

Only what he could take from me.

He didn’t want my heart.

He didn’t want my healing.

He didn’t want my freedom.

He just wanted to make sure no one else ever could.

And that…

That’s not love.

That’s control.

That’s abuse.

That’s soul theft dressed in sweet words and stolen kisses.

And I survived it.

But I’ll never pretend it didn’t cost me everything.

---

Why I Share These Words

I don’t tell my story for attention. I tell it so someone else might finally feel seen.

If you’re walking through your own darkness right now, I hope these words remind you:

You’re not crazy. You’re not broken. And you are not alone.

Healing is messy. Growth is not linear. But you are still worthy, especially in the parts of your story you’re scared to speak out loud.

Thank you for being here. Thank you for reading. Thank you for being a part of this rising.

With love,

Lindsay-Michele

Spiritual Alchemist | Lightworker

www.lindsay-michele.com

@downtherabbithol.lm