There are some relationships that shape you, not through love, but through the scars they leave behind. My first serious girlfriend, S, was one of those. She wasn’t just another chapter in my life—she was a firestorm. And by the time I walked away, I wasn’t just leaving her behind—I was leaving behind a version of myself I never wanted to be again.
The Allure of the Highs, the Devastation of the Lows
S came from an upper-class background. Her father, a diamond tradesman, catered to the wealthy and spent a lot of time in Dubai, the epicenter of luxury and excess. He showered her with material things—Mercedes, extravagant trips—but what he didn’t give her was presence. Her mother was a model, beautiful and polished. S, too, was beautiful, but beneath the surface was a storm of volatility, insecurity, and an emotional hunger that could never be satisfied.
From the outside, it seemed like I had landed in a dream—a woman who was deeply into me, passionate, intense. Coming out of school, where I had no social skills and had spent years in survival mode just trying to be top of my class, S felt like a dopamine hit straight to the brain.
I had no self-love, no confidence in who I was outside of my achievements, so when someone like her showed me attention, it was intoxicating. But the high came at a price. The deeper I got into the relationship, the more I saw the reality—she had borderline personality disorder, and what started as passion turned into an emotional battleground.
The Abuse and the Breaking Point
S wasn’t just emotionally unstable—she was physically and mentally abusive. The mood swings were extreme—one moment, I was the love of her life, and the next, I was the villain in a narrative she had rewritten in her mind. The arguments weren’t normal disagreements; they were psychological warfare. Every time I tried to leave, she would pull me back in, either by apologizing in grand gestures or by making me feel guilty, like I was abandoning her.
I accepted it. I tolerated the insults, the emotional blackmail, the physical aggression. And why? Because at that time, I had no value for myself. I stayed, not because I loved her, but because I was addicted to the cycle, trapped by my own lack of self-worth.
When I finally broke up with her, her psychologist shook my hand and wished me the best. Let that sink in. Even the person responsible for her mental health saw the damage she was doing and knew I had survived something I shouldn’t have had to endure.
After it was over, I cried—not for her, but for myself. Because I realized that I had let myself be treated like this. That I had tolerated abuse not because she was special, but because I didn’t believe I deserved better. That realization was worse than the relationship itself.
The Lessons I Took From It
- If you don’t love yourself, you’ll accept anything.
- At the time, I had no self-worth outside of my academic achievements. I was an easy target for someone like S. I learned that if you don’t know your value, someone else will decide it for you—and they’ll often set it far lower than you deserve.
- Passion without stability is just chaos.
- Love shouldn’t feel like a constant battle. It shouldn’t make you doubt yourself, fear the next mood swing, or wonder if today is the day they destroy you emotionally. Passion is nothing without consistency and emotional safety.
- People raised on material wealth but starved of emotional presence often lack inner stability.
- S had everything money could buy—except a stable, present father. I saw firsthand that a privileged background doesn’t mean someone is emotionally rich. Sometimes, it’s the opposite.
- Walking away is the biggest power move.
- When I finally left, I wasn’t just leaving S. I was leaving the part of me that allowed myself to be mistreated. That was the real victory.
Who I Am Now Because of It
That relationship rewired me. It made me highly selective about who I let into my life. It made me appreciate stability, kindness, and emotional maturity in relationships. It also made me realize that I’ll never again chase intensity over consistency, or lust over self-respect.
Now, I gravitate toward women who are pleasant, steady, and emotionally secure—no wild highs and lows, no constant second-guessing. It’s different. Maybe it lacks the “fire” that S brought, but I don’t need fire that burns everything down. I need fire that warms, not consumes.
Looking back, I don’t regret S. She was a painful, brutal lesson—but she was necessary. She showed me exactly what I never want again.
And for that, I’m grateful.
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