After the Fire: What Still Burns

By: The Firestarter

It’s hard to explain what happens after grooming. Long after. Past the point when you realize it was wrong, or you’ve cut ties, or the danger seems to be over – but you never feel totally free or safe.

I’ve been out of contact with him for a while now. But my nervous system hasn’t caught up. It still scans for him. It still expects the next shift in tone, the next outburst, the next threat, the next violent confession, the next breadcrumb of praise I never asked for but clung to anyway. It still waits for the constant romanticization of it all from someone I feared.

There’s a particular kind of fear that comes with saying no to someone who holds your future. When a professor makes things romantic, or hints that it could become romantic, and they’re grading you, mentoring you, or connected to every opportunity, the power imbalance is total. In my case, I had everything riding on that degree. I had spent my whole life working toward education as an escape from abuse, and I had taken on crushing student debt to get there. The idea of losing it all, left in debt with nothing to show for it, made it feel like I had no choice at all. I would’ve done nearly anything to survive it. And that’s what these men count on: that fear and desperation will keep you compliant just long enough to do lasting harm.

There’s a void left where he used to be. And I hate that it feels like something’s missing.

I'm so glad to be rid of the abuse. But there's some bizarre emptiness left in its place that I can never make sense of. Whatever it is, I don’t want it back.

But it seems to want me back, like a riptide of withdrawal.

Now that I’m out, everything feels gray. Like I’ve lost the ability to feel anything that isn’t tied to doing whatever's necessary for my survival.

Sometimes it shows up in emotional flashbacks. The feelings come, but there’s no source to point to anymore. Just an absence thick with his presence, as if even that is still watching me.

I miss the part of me that existed before all of this. Before him.

The version of me who walked down the street feeling like I could open any door. Meet anyone without fear they were connected to him. Dream big things. Start big things. Finish big things.

Now it’s all out of reach.

Sometimes the thought I miss me bubbles up. Then at random, it resurfaces as I miss him, and I have to stop and untangle why. Then I remember: I spent years forcing myself to say those words, to mean them, to avoid triggering his retaliation, or to convince myself of the fantasy he sold me as a preferable reality to believe in.

For someone with abandonment wounds like mine, having anyone – especially someone powerful, attractive, and charming – refuse to leave me alone met a lifetime of unmet needs. His presence was abusive, but it was consistent. I knew he’d come back, even if only to hurt me. That need kept me tethered in a way no one else ever has. And I hate it.

This hatred of my deepest wounds is what’s left.

I thought I outgrew it. Then it sneaks up and catches me unaware. I fight it, and fight it, until I give into what he conditioned me to believe: he is everything and I am nothing. And I fantasize that ending it all is the only way out of the pain.

And then I recover. And the cycle repeats.

In the interim, I wonder what – if anything – he has outgrown. Or if maybe he’s just learned to be more careful. Less predictable. Less catchable. And I hate that some part of me still loves some part of whatever he manufactured for me, enough to hope that he’s had an awakening of conscience. Even though I know that, if he’s stopped, it’s not because he changed. It’s because people got tired of covering for him.

There’s nothing fulfilling about being reduced to a set of reactions someone else controls. There’s nothing romantic about being groomed, degraded, threatened, and made to feel like you are nothing, unless he decides to lift you up with a word.

But my brain got used to that pattern. And in its absence, I’m left with a bond that sometimes floods back into me. Like invisible chains were left behind, and now they do the work without him lifting a finger. My body carries out the conditioning on its own.

This is what a trauma bond can look like after it ends: a bind built of your own mind, your own body, turning on you.

If you’re being told to “think positive” or “make new memories,” whether by family, friends, or even therapists – please know you’re not alone.

This is a trauma bond.

And it’s never your fault.

Don't hate yourself. Hate the trauma bond. Then love yourself. And love even your deepest wounds.

Because if you do, then you can start to transform them into the work that really needs to be done, whatever that looks like for you.

In my case? It's The Burn List. Pick up a copy to learn more about the inner dynamics of grooming, coercion, and control between a professor and student in higher education.