My Boyfriend the Puppet Master, My Boyfriend the Clinical Psychopath
Hannibal entranced me by his overwhelming charisma. His most threatening and effective manipulation strategy; his magnetic charm. It was so intoxicating that it put me in a euphoric and hypnotic state. He used his appeal as a protective shield to disarm any suspicion of his predatory behaviours. When Hannibal spoke, he sucked all of the air out of the room. His ego suffocated everyone as he thrived off manipulating people’s attention. He sought pleasure in exerting his likeability, controlling everybody in the room to act against their will without them knowing. I developed brain fog as he rapidly redirected every conversation between the two of us about him and I slowly lost my internal autonomy. Hannibal told stories with such bravado they overpowered my senses and seized my words. My throat symbolically froze, and I became a mechanical wind-up toy to twist for his own sick amusement.
Dating a felon, I desperately wanted to explain to him what consequences were. His remarkable ineptitude for decision making almost gave me a superiority complex. Countless times I had gathered the courage to speak up and explain rationality to him. And every time he would skew my words and his stories to his benefit which forced me to doubt my judgement. It’s okay that he misplaced that stranger’s jaw. He suffers from PTSD…I learn later is an explanation not an excuse. Hannibal made me question my character, lose my voice, and made me think his regular aggression was fair. Unbeknownst to me, he had me dancing to his tune.
Hannibal exhibited superficial compassion and kindness. His calculated strategy was to lower my defences, build a trust, and fulfil his own selfish goals. I found him being receptive by actively listening. I confided in him about my mental and medical health. This version of him showed sympathy and concern. He told (and retold) his harrowing but “almost comedic” (in his words) life story with such anguish and grief that it brought out the caretaker in me. He is so broken. I can’t fix him, but I can help him, a dramatic 22-year-old me believed. Long after, I learned he deceitfully acted the vulnerable part to exploit my weaknesses. He was stringing me like a marionette doll and I didn’t even notice.
Hannibal misdirected the blame in every aspect of his life story to manipulate his destructive behaviour and make it look justified. He is so resilient. He has overcome so much, I’d think enamoured by his wannabe Will Hunting vibe. I felt like I had to earn a seat next to him at the table because of how many obstacles he had survived. I had become so delusional that I started to believe that his multiple felonies were wrongful, random acts of violence were acceptable, and loan shark employment was lawful. Hannibal had managed to break my walls down, play the good guy, have me look at him as superior, feel sorry for him, and agree with him. He had played me like a fiddle and left me feeling foolish and confused.
I dismissed every glaring red flag about Hannibal and put a moronic positive spin on it. It’s fine Hannibal almost paralyzed a stranger. He volunteers, a preposterous notion then and now. I realized once I gained clarity that his perpetual reminders of his do-gooding were a tactic to avert my attention from his recklessness to his court-ordered compassion. I genuinely thought that Hannibal was a good person who was cut a bad deck of cards.
On an especially noteworthy night, Hannibal used me as his scapegoat when he stuffed $17,000 worth of extorted diamonds and pearls from the 18th century in my purse. He has nothing to carry it in. It’s okay. He irresponsibly wrapped one of the diamond necklaces around my neck like it was a collar and I was his dog. I was in awe; I was living in a nightmare where I could barely decipher perception from reality.
