CW: trauma, manipulation and control

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I feared this day would come.

It’s been just over 5 years now, and I am finally at a place where my blood doesn’t boil when I think about him. I don’t relive the trauma every time his name is mentioned. That doesn’t mean that I ever want to see him again, but I knew it would be inevitable. I met him in the academic world, and it’s probably been a miracle that I haven’t seen him in these 5 years already.

We have to present at conferences—that’s simply part of our job description as scholars—and there are only so many of them to choose from.

Goddamn Switzerland and its vacation appeal.

He probably had the same idea to turn this conference into a holiday. Go to sessions in the morning, and spend a couple of hours in the afternoon wandering around the city. Maybe spend a few days after the conference is over for some extra time to explore.

What are the odds I could hide from him the whole time? Probably not likely, but I wish! You’d think as a grown-ass woman with a doctorate, I wouldn’t let anyone stand in my way, much less a narcissistic asshole who doesn’t deserve an ounce of my attention. Unfortunately, though, that’s not how trauma works.

Seeing him for the first time after I left him—no matter how long ago it was—might trigger those long lost memories of our relationship. The manipulation. The control. The many times he went through my phone and deleted the contacts he didn’t want me talking to. The way he tried to hold onto me by telling me that I’d never find anyone again and that I was way too desperate to be lovable. The moments he claimed he was suicidal and that I needed to take care of him. Oh, and let’s not forget the time he fucking catfished me on tinder just as I had started dating my now-husband. It almost worked, too. He knew every perfect thing to say because he already knew me—what I loved, what I wanted, and everything I needed to hear. The sick, manipulative bastard.

Yeah, those are the things that I don’t think about anymore, but this goddamn conference. I definitely have to present, right? I know he’ll be in the audience just to mess with my head. He could choose another presentation to go to in my time slot. There are plenty, but of course he won’t.

Oh, god. He’ll probably ask a question, too. When I was starting my Ph.D., he taught me everything. He gave me the right books, edited my writing, and we had endless conversations about the topics of our dissertations. I know I’ve learned a lot since then, but I can’t help but remember the power dynamics that existed when we were together. He was nearly done with his Ph.D. while I was just getting started. He positioned himself as a second supervisor and tried to correct every last word that he didn’t agree with.

That was the whole relationship. A fight for my right to exist, to think on my own terms, to spend my free time how I wanted, and to relate with those whose company I enjoyed. He questioned everything.

Maybe I can ask the moderator not to take his question.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK!

Hannah, get a hold of yourself. Just breathe. You are not the girl you were in that relationship. Even then you had the sense and the courage to leave, and since then, you have done so much in your life without him.

It’s one conference. It’s the first one since you left, but it probably won’t be the last. Maybe we can be more hopeful. Maybe he has even grown since then. Maybe he won’t even go to your session.

Just breathe. That’s all that’s under our control. Breathe. Stay steady. Present what you’ve been working on for the last several months and be proud of how far you’ve come. We can do this.

Moderator: “And now I’d like to introduce Dr. James, who earned her Ph.D from St. Andrews. . . .”