Page 106

CHAPTER 106

I’M SO LOST WITHOUT YOU

MARGAUX

T immy’s message hits my phone like a bullet: “Is there a TRO?”

A chill runs through me. How does he know?

My landlord must have mentioned it—trying to keep him away, no doubt—but the decision to tell him leaves me reeling. This wasn’t how I wanted it to unfold.

I’d planned for the police to serve him quietly, effectively, before he could spiral further. Now, the floodgates are open.

As the notifications pile up, my heart races. His words blur together, a chaotic mess of apologies, promises, and desperate pleas.

I don’t respond, knowing anything I say will be twisted into ammunition against me. But his relentlessness weighs heavy, eroding the fragile peace I’ve tried to carve out.

Hands trembling, I respond by email:

SUBJECT: LOVE

Dear Timmy,

Before reacting, please read the whole thing.

I don’t think you do love me. I think you think you do, but you don’t.

If you did, you would have done all of the things you promised me that you would so many times before.

I don’t expect anyone in my life to be a perfect person, but I do expect and deserve a partner who has so many qualities you have promised, but not delivered on. And what you have put me through is criminal. This is not love.

You’re right. I AM amazing. But I don’t think you actually believe that. I’m just a source for you. Someone to pay your rent and enable your wildly inappropriate behavior. This is not love.

I’m fairly sure this email will irritate you, and you will either lash out at me or just move on to the next person who will do everything for you, until they get sick of it or you kill them. There is a track record here. This is not love.

Also, I caution you against trying to harm me bc 1) nobody should and 2) the Cay is very small, and your history—here and in other states—is well known. The fact I have to caution you against harming me is gross. This is not love.

And, if you do try to harm me, clearly, this is not love. And everybody will know it was you. Why do I even need to say this? This is not love.

Call the police for an escort and we can arrange a time for you to pick up your things.

I have not harmed your things, bc I am a rational and mature individual. You have damaged so many of my things—some irreplaceable, including my skull. This is not love.

I have noticed my desktop computer isn’t working by the way, since the day you messed up my other items, so I will add that to the growing tab of things you damaged. This is not love.

I didn’t move here for someone to meddle with everything I have worked so very hard for. This is not love.

You said in your email earlier today that you would repay me. Will you really? If you do not promptly repay me, I will be proceeding with legal charges. This is not love. You have one week.

I will not enable you any further. That would not be love.

Go into a program (not a group that meets every now and then, but rather an in-house program for a minimum of 6 weeks, like my sister and people in your own family have urged). There is no shame in that. Everybody I know would support this. And that is love.

Substance abuse as a priority and also domestic violence prevention. For you. Not for me. The way you have behaved is not love. Do it for yourself. That is love.

Your dad enables you. It’s well intentioned, I'm sure, but it is not love. His ‘help’ will destroy you. And you feed off this. This is not love.

I do love you and want the best for you, but I cannot deal with your behavior anymore.

By refusing to be with you, I am showing you love. You may never understand it, or you may choose to ignore it, but this is love. I hope one day you do realize that.

I also love myself and I do not want to die bc of you. That is love. To both myself and to you.

Life can be easy and fun with what we can control. And what I have learned is you don’t actually like—let alone love—me at all. You love your impulses and your rage. Your cigarettes and alcohol, and your anger at people who you met before me that you choose to project onto me. That is not love.

This email is love.

Soon after, I receive a response.

Timmy:

I love you. I’m going to get the medicine. I’ll go to therapy. I’ll change for you.

I just need one more chance.

Each message from Timmy—of which there are many—is carefully crafted to claw at my empathy, my hope, my exhaustion. He knows the buttons to press—the promises that once made me believe we could have a future together where I could find peace. But I’ve heard these words before.

Over and over.

I know where they lead.

LATER

Timmy:

You said the email is love. I know I need to change. I’ll do anything. Please don’t give up on me.

He calls me his soulmate, saying he’ll devote his life to me. He spins a future filled with laughter, support, and shared dreams. He promises to fix the damage he’s done, to finally help me with the work he’s only ever sabotaged.

But it’s all about him. His feelings. His fears. His needs.

Not once does he truly acknowledge the toll his behavior has taken on me—the shattered trust, the bruises on my body and soul, the dreams I’ve had to put on hold just to survive him.

And then, the pivot—blame disguised as vulnerability.

Timmy:

I’m so lost without you. I need your support to get better.

You’re my world.

I can’t do this without you.

His desperation is palpable, but it feels calculated.

Every promise is laced with a subtle guilt trip, every apology a reminder that he is the one hurting now. He paints himself as the victim of his own failings, expecting me to rescue him from the mess he’s made.

Over the next few days, the emails keep coming, growing more frantic, more manipulative.

Timmy:

I’ve made the appointments. I’m doing the work. Just let me talk to you. Let me explain. You’re the love of my life. I’ll never forgive myself if I lose you.

I finally respond, my tone measured but firm.

Me:

Timmy, I’ve heard all of this before. You’ve promised to change so many times, but nothing ever gets better.

I’m a shell of who I was before because of you.

I deserve better than this.

His reply is immediate, defensive yet pleading.

Timmy:

But I’ve changed! I’m getting the drinking medication. I’m going to therapy. You said you loved me.

How can you just give up on us?

I need you to believe in me.

I shake my head, anger and heartbreak warring inside me.

His words are a trap, designed to pull me back into the cycle I’ve fought so hard to escape.

He wants me to believe he’s capable of change, that this time will be different.

But I know better.

Finally, I send an email that feels like the closing of a door.

Me:

It’s not just about the alcohol, Timmy.

Your behavior has destroyed me—physically, emotionally, mentally.

I can’t do this anymore. You need to take responsibility for yourself.

This isn’t my job.

He responds.

Timmy:

You’re my soulmate. Please don’t leave me like this. I’ll be so good. I’ll make it right. Just let me come home.

His words no longer have power over me.

I copy and paste excerpts from articles about narcissistic abuse, hoping he’ll see himself in them. They even call out how a narcissist will lean on the concept of soulmates to try to lure back their victims, just like Timmy’s doing to me now.

Me:

Read this. You need to understand why I can’t keep doing this.

His response is immediate, panicked.

Timmy:

What is this, Margaux? You’re calling me a narcissist now? That’s not fair!

But it is fair. It’s the truth he doesn’t want to face.

For the first time, I feel a sliver of peace. I’m no longer engaging with his manipulation, no longer allowing his words to dictate my feelings.

Timmy’s barrage of messages continues, each one more desperate than the last. But I don’t respond. I’ve said all I need to say.

His pleas, his promises, his guilt-tripping—they’re just noise now.

I focus on the silence between his words, on the strength I’m reclaiming with each ignored notification.

This is what freedom feels like.

Quiet.

Steady.

Mine.