Content note: jealousy, coercion, substance use, sexual consent
Born 1977
We were the same age. We were together roughly from 2017 to 2020. When I met him, I was living on social assistance—no social ties, no purpose, no prospects, numbed by alcohol. My life felt empty. He had just quit his job without a new one lined up; the unemployment office had already begun to grind him down. He had time. I had time. And I hated the system. I knew his situation was largely self-made, but I felt pity. So I handled his paperwork so the system wouldn’t flatten him completely.
How we met
We met on Twoo—one of those sad dating apps. He invited me for dinner. The promise of a hot meal was enough to get me to his place on short notice. Alcohol. Sex. The next day we were a couple. Red flag. I knew it was toxic. I knew it wasn’t what I wanted. But when you have nothing, you take everything.
Who he was
Eric was tall and broad. Not heavy at first; that came later. He had the air of a gentle giant baby—always laughing, often out of embarrassment rather than joy. He was creative. He painted beautiful acrylics in his own style. He decorated shoes, laptops, lampshades, and ceramic figures with glitter, color, bling. He loved electronic music, smoked cigarettes and weed, took drugs—amphetamines, MDMA, who knows what else. Later he trained as a caregiver for the elderly. He had two cats he loved dearly.
The dynamic
His best friend was an ex-coworker with the same lifestyle. When they were together, it was full-tilt partying. After every one of those nights came a fight. Always. Eric confronted me with accusations about things I couldn’t remember. I’d usually left early and used less than he did. At first I chalked it up to normal memory gaps. Then I started taking notes. Eventually it was obvious: none of it was true. The accusations were delusional.
Over time he grew more jealous, more controlling, more aggressive. I was never unfaithful. I never gave a reason. I didn’t even think about it. But Eric was convinced. And he turned sex into a weapon. If I wasn’t in the mood, he pouted or escalated. I was worn down. My libido vanished. I started to believe something was wrong with me.
And then came the click-moment:
Eric got me to consent to my own rape.
I said no. And eventually I said yes—because no was too exhausting. Because no meant accusations, fights, drama. So I said yes, and signed my own trauma.
A psychological look
Eric showed many signs of a paranoid personality pattern. He felt persecuted not only by me, but also by employers and colleagues. His perception was shot through with distrust, suspicion, and delusional ideas.
He was adopted and suffered deeply over it. His adoptive parents became targets of unfair blame. Early attachment injury, a global mistrust of everything—it fit. A substance-induced psychosis is also possible.
I once convinced him to try therapy. He went once, didn’t like the therapist, never went back. Couples therapy? I dragged him there. On the way he wanted to cancel. The session went well. Afterwards he said, “We can do this ourselves.” Of course.
The end
The relationship was already over, but I couldn’t move out. Social assistance. No money. No chance. Women’s shelter? My mother? Neither was viable.
Then, in December 2019, I received approval for my disability pension. Everything changed. I found an apartment immediately. Pro Infirmis funded the move. I found a job—poorly paid, meaningless—but I worked. And I lived.
I said: Eric can remain my partner, but I will live my life.
I cut visits short if he wasn’t kind, clear, present. He didn’t like it. His fantasies grew wilder. And at some point, I was simply done.
I didn’t want him in my life anymore.
And this time, I followed through.