I met my stalker, Tom, nearly 15 years ago at a fitness class in a small Rust Belt city. I was married at the time, and we did not strike up an immediate friendship. I was in my early 20s, and based on Tom’s appearance, I estimated that he was no older than 16. Given our perceived age difference, I assumed that we had nothing in common to base a friendship on.

He was actually 18 or 19, but I wouldn’t realize this until months down the road. Tom came across as a strait-laced goody-two-shoes all-American type. He seemed innocent and sheltered, yet industrious. I pictured him playing in a marching band, performing in musicals, volunteering for charity, and receiving recognition for perfect attendance at his high school. A go-getter with a promising future.

(Pretty much all of that would turn out to be true at the time, and it had a very disarming effect on me.)

A few weeks after I joined the class, Tom friend requested me on social media. I saw no harm in accepting the request, even though I had no plans to pursue a friendship, especially since I thought he was a kid. Looking back, I wish so damn badly that I had steered clear. But I had no way of knowing what was to come.

My now-ex-husband and I separated a few months after I joined the fitness class. I embraced the opportunity to make new friends and realized during this time that Tom was an adult. We began talking regularly but were only ever platonic. I was never attracted to him, and as far as I know, he was never attracted to me. In fact, for the first several years of our friendship, I didn’t know him to date anyone, period.

When Tom finally did start dating (or opening up about his dating life), it quickly became evident that he was primarily involved with men. So, as far as I know, the torment he would inflict on me years later was not motivated by a romantic obsession. There’s no evidence to suggest that this is the case.

Missed Signs?

Tom and I became extremely close friends. We traveled together, told each other everything (or so I thought at the time), and always laughed and had fun when we hung out. Occasionally, we got into heated arguments and stopped talking for a few weeks or months, but we always eventually reconnected and picked up where we left off.

Neither of us was a perfect friend. I knew this about myself, so I was willing to overlook a lot of Tom’s arguably shitty behavior. Looking back, I don’t know if I was too forgiving during those first four or five years of our friendship. Some people told me I was, but I was also extremely immature and dysfunctional myself at the time. I knew I wasn’t always easy to deal with and I appreciated Tom’s apparent willingness to overlook my less-than-flattering moments.

In hindsight, Tom and I both had a chip on our shoulder. He had daddy issues and was often enraged by his romantic setbacks, while I habitually relied on men to “rescue” me in situations where I could have—and should have—stood on my own. We felt sorry for ourselves for vastly different reasons, but our mutual sentiment of being perpetually let down by the world seemed to unite us.  Tom and I bonded over our toxic traits, and at first, neither of us seemed to realize it.

Divergence

Even at my worst, mentally, I still wanted the best for the people in my life (and most people in general). While I had emotionally hurt some people who really didn’t deserve it, it wasn’t in my custom to deliberately inflict harm. And I felt deeply remorseful about mistreating people simply because my own head wasn’t on straight.

I was a petulant, self-absorbed brat who could survive on her own but had grown accustomed to playing the damsel in distress. Most of the chaos in my life was manufactured. By me.

But even at my brattiest, I couldn’t get on board with the lengths Tom went to intentionally hurt people. Around three years into our friendship, I realized he enjoyed making people suffer. He made enemies over reasons that seemed trivial even to bitchy, bratty me, and he burned bridges like it was going out of style.

I tried overlooking it. I certainly didn’t judge when Tom vented during our private conversations (that’s what friends are for), but I discouraged him from trying to ruin peoples’ lives. Undeterred, he made it clear that he felt owed and wanted “payback” from people who hadn’t even wronged him in any major way.

Tom’s cruelty was undeniably excessive, and it worsened over time. I would only learn the full scope of his actions – including things he purposely hid from me – years later.

I Knew I Would Be Next

Six years in, our friendship was suffering from some hairline fractures. It began to crack noticeably after I finally decided to grow the hell up. Dwelling in self-pity wasn’t working for me and seeing Tom self-destruct prompted further self-reflection. I realized I needed to get my shit together, so I pulled my head out of my ass and started acting like an adult.

I began taking responsibility for my poor decisions, failures that I had previously blamed anyone but myself for, and anything else in my life that I had control over. Nobody grows up or fundamentally changes their thinking overnight, and I had a lot of catching up to do, so I started to treat personal growth as an ever-evolving, lifelong process.

I knew, based on my own experience, that a person doesn’t change until they realize on their own that they need to. Moreover, that awareness needs to be accompanied by an actual desire to change. Tom lacked both the awareness and the desire. I hoped he would get there.

His behavior scared me, but I still cared. I thought his penchant for vengeance stemmed from unresolved pain and trauma. That if he addressed these lingering issues properly, maybe he’d start healing. Maybe we could even navigate this process together, since I was going through my own version of it. (Wishful thinking.)

At that juncture, it would’ve felt hypocritical to distance myself from Tom. Like I was snubbing my nose at him when I, myself, was still in the beginning stages of deprogramming from an extremely problematic mindset. But he eventually derailed past the point of my ability to help as a friend, and things got downright scary. The situation escalated to a point where he desperately needed professional help, which he outright refused to consider, and I urgently needed to get away for the sake of my own mental well-being.

A Delicate Disentanglement

By the time I began to fear the consequences of ending my friendship with Tom, I was in too deep to stealthily slip out of it. Eight years into our friendship, I began to feel trapped.

Tom had never threatened me, nor was he physically violent, but there was a sense that he could be.  He had become extremely verbally abusive, and his increasingly frequent tirades were a reminder of what I was up against. The demon my best friend had become already felt comfortable screaming at me and berating me, and I shuddered to think of how much worse it would get if (or when) I tried to disentangle from him. I didn’t feel safe navigating this process on my own and felt like I needed help hatching an escape plan.