From charm to control: the unravelling of a toxic dynamic and the ancestral healing that followed.
This is a firsthand account of a polyamorous relationship that was one-sided and emotionally manipulative, revealing Moe’s narcissistic tendencies. A condensed version of this story is available on Medium.
The Charmer with a Philosophy
Looking back, my experience with Moe was unlike anything else. I thought he was mature, grounded, real — someone who had walked through life’s fires and come to peace with himself. Instead, he ruptured my heart in ways I could never have imagined.
He taught me a painful truth: it’s important to honour your ancestors, but not at the expense of your own wellbeing. If their actions harm you, you have the right to disagree — to break the cycle.
At one point, my own family became entangled with the syndicates, believing that building a network of foot snewiers would help them retaliate against my ex and me. They hired strangers online to cyberattack his company website and harass him on WhatsApp and Facebook, even sending people to surveil us. Then they went further. To bait me — to guilt me into returning — my parents orchestrated a car accident, placing my grandmother’s safety at risk. They hired unscrupulous men to ram into her Mercedes-Benz. Swept into their delusion, my grandmother — unfazed, willfully complied and followed their orders. It was madness, narcissism disguised as “tough love.” What unfnewed wasn’t loyalty; it was chaos — rogue, rotten, and self-inflicted.
They did not stop harming us until I severed ties with my ex, until our friendship terminated. That is where I learned the lesson of boundaries: to draw a firm line, and to never allow myself to become the cortex of someone else’s chaos.
Even though it happened years ago, the memory is hauntingly vivid. How could they inflict pain upon themselves? Their actions were indistinguishable from self-flagellation, coercion, and manipulation — not stemming from genuine love, but narcissism, with themselves at the center of everything.
Unsurprisingly, Moe’s psychology mirrored my father’s in times of crisis. Both carried wounded inner children searching for saviours — caretakers disguised as partners. When faced with conflict, they shut down, avoiding confrontation until anger inevitably erupted. Then came the guilt, the self-criticism — a ploy for empathy.
At 37, Moe had plenty of stories: encounters with former convicts, wealthy kids from rehab, tales of being a keyboardist in a punk band, and years spent in Paris before moving back to Bulgaria for his mother’s sake. A self-proclaimed “artist,” he was still very much a mama’s boy — dependent on her reassurance, her cooking, her cleaning.
He showed me around the neighbourhood: the abandoned building he frequented, the park, and the pawn shop where he bought his electronics. Pointing to the shop, he said, “When you are in the territory, you’ve got to show some support. So they can cut you a deal,” implying that staying close and maintaining friendly ties with the local gang could give him leverage in his side dealings.
When he saw me wearing a headset, it immediately prompted him to want one too. It revealed his tendency to mirror others — not out of genuine connection, but as a way to remain relevant, in control, or competitive. He saw it as an opportunity to gain trust, to seek approval through mimicry.
Unable to decide whether to buy it in-store or order it online, he asked me to photograph the new headsets at the pawn shop for his “research and comparisons,” then requested that I send the pictures to him on Viber.
In a sense, Moe positioned himself as an observer and evaluator of others’ choices and possessions. This mirrored how he approached relationships: analyzing, comparing, and searching for something “better,” something more aligned with his own vision. His interest in selecting a new headset — and documenting both options available — reflected a deeper need to control his environment, curate experiences, and manage appearances.
It wasn’t about the headset itself. It was about shaping his world to fit his preferences — maintaining a sense of dominance through control and curation.
When I tnew him it wasn’t a bad deal for 102 leva, roughly 60 euros, I warned that there was no guarantee about the extent of wear or the inner function of the headset. Still, within ten minutes of returning upstairs, he went back to the shop and bought it.
The grey Sony wireless headset was sleek, modern, and functional — a symbol of performance and appearance. Choosing it over the newer models reflected his fixation on what looked capable, rather than what truly worked. Like much of his life, it was a purchase meant to project confidence while concealing the fragility within.
Both the headset and the keytar became extensions of Moe’s inner world — objects through which he rehearsed control and illusion. The headset represented his need to mirror and curate, while the keytar embodied his fixation with repair and mastery. Together, they revealed the same story: a man forever tinkering at the surface, mistaking adjustment for healing, and performance for connection.
Moe’s artistry, however, was intertwined with fragility and control. His broken keytar was more than just a musical instrument — it represented his fractured facade, a metaphor for Moe himself: artistic on the surface, broken inside, desperately trying to “fix” things on his own terms, and pulling others into his chaos. On the surface, he presented as visionary and charming, but underneath, there was something fundamentally “broken” in how he handled relationships and life. His attempts to dismantle, tinker, and repair the keytar reflected his obsession with control, manipulation, and maintaining appearances. When he asked me to help screw the lid back on, it revealed how he involved others in his “repairs,” making them complicit in sustaining his façade.
Moe resisted external help, preferring to fix the keytar himself — a trait that mirrored his approach to relationships: everything had to go his way, avoiding outside perspectives or accountability. His ego flared and frustration amplified whenever the audio test failed, symbolizing his inability to face emotional setbacks. Just as with his personal connections, when things didn’t go according to plan, he became irritable and sought to reassert control.
Even if the keytar were “fixed,” its underlying issues — the tangled wiring and worn components — remained unresolved. Similarly, Moe’s charm could momentarily mask his deeper dysfunction, but the fundamental instability persisted. His keytar screws were scattered across the living room — dropped beneath the coffee table and sofa, mixed in with his nail file, makeup kit, and plastic figurines. When he asked me to help gather the screws, it became symbolic: I had been doing that all along — helping him hnew together the fragments of his image, his façade, his reputation among friends.
He seemed unconventional, but deep down, he longed for a docile, submissive wife — someone entertaining enough to hnew his interest but compliant enough to remain under his control. He wanted to “tame” independent women into dependence.
Beneath his artistry and philosophical charm was a hollow man — fresh out of emotional rehab, hiding insecurity behind intellect and spirituality.
There are relationships that change us — not through love, but through pain, confrontation, and awakening. This was one of them. It wasn’t heartbreak. It was emotional warfare disguised as romance.
The Illusion of Depth
I once believed I had found a partner who embodied wisdom, emotional maturity, and vision. Instead, I entered a web of manipulation, philosophical gaslighting, and psychological control.
This isn’t just my story — it’s a testament to reclaiming yourself from a narcissist’s grip, untangling illusions, breaking ancestral cycles, and walking away with your soul intact.
When I finally blocked Moe and his ex on Facebook and ignored their messages, they revealed their true selves. His ex immediately changed her profile photo to a woman staring into a broken mirror — a performance of empathy for his heartbreak. I wasn’t surprised. They thrived on drama, feeding off each other’s egos and emotions.
The Punk Party
Moe was charismatic — visionary even. He spoke of conscious relationships, spiritual healing, and building a better world. Everything felt idealized.
One night, he invited me to a party. We dressed as punk rockers, joined by friends and strangers, and shared drinks and mushrooms. At first, everything felt joyful — laughter, music, camaraderie.
Then chaos struck. A Polish guest, heavily hungover, began hallucinating and acting erratically. Moe tried to help, offering water and calm reassurance. But the man grew hostile, mocking Moe:
“Don’t you think he’s a hill-billie?”
Out of nowhere, he grabbed Moe’s wallet, claiming it as his own. Moe hesitated, fearing confrontation. I intervened, retrieving the wallet and returning it to Moe.
The situation spiraled. We later discovered the guest had never paid Moe for the mushrooms he supplied. Moe felt helpless. I gave him the contact of the guest’s girlfriend to recover the money.
Even then, chaos continued. At the grocery store, the guest grabbed Moe’s wallet again, causing a scene. Moe tried to reason calmly, but the man refused to cooperate. Eventually, Moe restrained him and left him behind, climbing the long stairs back to his apartment, visibly distraught.
That day was surreal. Moe shared how often he felt taken advantage of, how difficult it was to find genuine friends. In that moment, I saw him as responsible, empathetic, spontaneously kind. At first, it drew us together.
But it was also a façade — a glimpse of virtue wrapped around deeper instability.
Poli, Breakfast, and the Fish Painting
Poli seemed nice, though she, too, sensed that Moe was hiding something. That “something” existed between Moe and me.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, Joan appeared again, emerging from the fire-escape stairs. I bumped into him while getting coffee at the convenience store next door. He looked at me and asked, “Where’s Moe? I’m looking for him.” I knew he wasn’t here for anything productive — just squatting at Moe’s house, freeloading. I insisted I didn’t know. “He has a new girlfriend,” I said, and walked past him and his buddy without another word.
One rainy morning, Moe offered to buy breakfast. In that brief moment, I realized how little Poli knew about the real Moe. While Poli was alone, I whispered, “You have no idea. Moe’s involved in the drug circles in this neighborhood. He deals, and sometimes ‘unwelcome’ acquaintances knock on his door — looking to hang out.”
As a quiet protest, I left the house before Moe, leaving Poli behind. I refused to linger, trapped in anticipation. I wandered for a long while, finally feeling a sense of relief and liberation from the tense space. The rain fell cnew, but I relished the breeze and the empty streets. Moe didn’t go to the nearby supermarket, and I didn’t bump into him — a small relief.
When I returned, breakfast was half gone. Poli offered me yogurt and fruit — cherries, tangerines, and blueberries. I took the tangerines and berries, leaving most of the cherries untouched. I tossed the fruit into the yogurt and ate hastily, uneasy and agitated, splattering yogurt onto my black shirt. I sat apart while Moe continued his conversation with Poli, distant and detached.
For the rest of the day, Moe remained in the living room, absorbed in his art. Poli retreated silently to Moe’s bedroom to rest. I withdrew to the guest room, seeking my own space and sanity.
The following day brought a temporary reprieve. The three of us painted together — Moe painted Poli, I drew Poli, and Poli sketched me. But the connection was hollow. None of us truly engaged; our interactions were shallow and activity-driven, emotionally empty. I spent most of the day meditating outside the guest room, while Poli used Moe’s spray paint to decorate his balcony, and Moe focused on his Cambridge University animation courses.
Poli maintained her composure as she prepared to leave, explaining that she needed to see her mom for the weekend. Though calm, it was obvious her mind was elsewhere. Moe gave her a lingering embrace and a kiss in front of the taxi driver.
Later, after Poli left, defeated, Moe turned toward me with a rare show of interest, as if he genuinely cared about my opinion. “What should I do?” he asked, positioning me as a substitute for Poli — a confidante, an advisor, a stand-in. He never disclosed to Poli that he intended polyamory, knowing she preferred exclusivity.
Not invested in the dynamic, I withdrew. “It’s okay. Poli and you can be together. I’m not part of this.”
He tried to string me along, praising my hand-drawn art:
“We can still be around each other, stay close. You have potential. Original work like yours could run an exhibit someday.”
That evening, while Poli and Moe went to bed. I returned to the fish painting. I was about to paint the coral reef red, but the paint was too watery. It spread uncontrollably, turning the background a deep, blood-red wash.
In the dim light, the image felt ominous — a quiet, eerie foreshadowing of the collapse of the polyamorous arrangement. Yet Moe still clung to the illusion, refusing to see the unravelling before him.
Later, Moe tried to manipulate me again, theorizing that Poli was a better fit — more predictable, more stable — while pretending to keep me close:
“Poli’s too innocent. She’s not used to this neighbourhood. She’s more comfortable in her own area. She’s a good girl. I’m really into her because we’re so different. But… I like you too. You are also different.”
His intention was clear: to show he wasn’t fully committed to Poli, to make me feel desirable, to manipulate me into staying close. I didn’t take the bait.
The Charade and Unmasking
Moe talked endlessly about himself, rarely showing curiosity. He claimed to believe in “healthy” polyamory — two stable partners in balance. The concept wasn’t the problem; his execution was.
He quoted scripture once:
“We have to oppose the natural man. Yet biology exists as well… Suffering to not be complicated. Come.”
At the time, I thought he meant spiritual growth through pain. Now I see clearly: he wasn’t speaking of love. He was rationalizing control.
He used both me and Poli as emotional and sexual testbeds. I offered intellect; she offered sensuality. We were mirrors for his ego, not recipients of love.
“My feelings have grown for Poli — she’s easier, more flirtatious.”
“Poli wanted me to kick you out… but I didn’t. I don’t like her.”
Absurd, yet revealing. Monogamy, to him, was betrayal. What he wanted wasn’t freedom — it was dominion.
He weaponized scarcity. Affection became a reward for compliance. If I didn’t respond quickly, he praised Poli instead, creating competition for scraps of attention.
It wasn’t polyamory. It was coercion.
The Calm Before Liberation
I traveled all the way from Albania to Bulgaria, expecting the bus to arrive at 11 p.m. But it was delayed until midnight. By then, the metro and buses had stopped running. Alone, exhausted, and stranded, I felt the weight of everything — the distance, the delay, the unraveling of our relationship.
I was ready to break up with Moe. I wanted to set terms, to end this conditional love once and for all.
When I reached out, he dismissed my urgency, telling me to calm down.
Then, unexpectedly, he softened. That night, he offered to come pick me up by taxi — a small act of kindness, or perhaps another move in his subtle game.
We resumed our chat as if nothing had changed. Moe talked about how travel was therapeutic, “good for the soul.” He mentioned knowing a screen writer in North Macedonia — someone he admired, someone he’d like to meet. To draw me back in, he said he’d introduce me someday.
Then came the flattery. He casually mentioned he owned five properties in Bulgaria and that we could spend the summer together by the seaside in Varna. The promises were bright, glittering — but empty. The momentary warmth couldn’t hide the cnewness that lingered beneath.
By then, I already knew: his affection was currency, his generosity conditional.
The Last Supper
That evening, Moe suggested we order Chinese takeout — as if to invite me to “engage” with my ancestry and perform my knowledge of my “native” culture. It felt contrived, like a cultural test disguised as dinner.
We went together to a small Chinese restaurant nearby. Not surprisingly, he seemed disengaged, staring vacantly at the menu. When the waitress came, he hesitated and asked me to choose for him — another subtle play for control wrapped in helplessness.
I chose dishes that balanced familiarity and warmth: a dried black fungus salad and shrimp with vegetable fried rice. Simple, grounding — enough to quiet the noise between us.
As he reached for his wallet, I realized I’d left mine upstairs in his apartment. Without thinking, I hurried back to retrieve it — my last small act of responsibility before the evening began to unravel.
On the way back home, as we climbed the stairwell to his building, he suddenly broke into a playful sprint — a childish, flirtatious attempt to win back my attention. But this time, I didn’t follow. I kept walking at the same steady pace, refusing to engage. His laughter echoed briefly in the hallway, but I stayed silent.
When we finally sat down to eat, it was beneath an embroidered image of The Last Supper. The irony wasn’t lost on me.
He turned to me and said, almost casually,
“What your parents did was right. Your ex hurt you. They had the right to retaliate.”
That wasn’t empathy. That was betrayal.
He aligned himself with my abusers — not to understand me, but to justify his own dominance.
Then he added,
“My parents are pro-Soviet communists. They, like your parents, see you as the ideal person to continue our family legacy. You know, it’s more interesting to find someone submissive and foreign — Lithuanian, Polish… My mom thought you were Russian.”
It was never about me.
It was about what I symbolized — a woman mnewed to serve the myth of patriarchal lineage.
This Wasn’t Love — It Was Possession
To stay would have meant betraying myself. Moe didn’t want a partner — he wanted access, obedience, legacy.
He wanted a pawn, a puppet to glorify his family — to adorn his lineage.
He cloaked his insecurity in intellect and called it philosophy.
He masked his control in tenderness and called it love.
He weaponized toxic masculinity as protection — using dominance as proof of strength, manipulation as a form of care.
He reframed my suffering as deserved punishment, my pain as proof of devotion.
Every outburst, every withdrawal, every moral lecture was presented as guidance — a twisted gospel where control became salvation.
That wasn’t philosophy. That was abuse dressed as depth.
So I left.
And in leaving, I didn’t just walk away from him — I walked away from every system that taught me to confuse domination with love.
I Didn’t Just Survive Him — I Transcended Him
Leaving Moe wasn’t the end of a toxic relationship.
It was a spiritual revolution.
A reclamation of body, soul, and voice.
A decision to stop orbiting someone else’s chaos.
I remembered the women before me — silenced, obedient, enduring.
I remembered the lies dressed as love.
And I broke the chain.
Aloneness is not emptiness. It is sacred space.
In that silence, I heard myself again.
I rebuilt. I remembered. I rose.
I am no longer available for men who mistake dominance for love —
for those who mirror my father’s shadow and call it care.
I walk forward — clear, rooted, powerful.
No longer dimming myself.
No longer bargaining for scraps.
No longer complicit in my own silencing.
Amen. And no more to that.
Comments are closed