I accidentally manifested a narcissist pt. 1
be careful what you wish for
The thing with healthy relationships is… they get boring. No one likes to admit out loud that a gentle love is also a quiet love, that a kind love is also a predictable love. So when you’re 19 and the passion in your relationship starts to fizzle out, it’s easy to believe they might not be the one. Your stomach doesn’t do flips when they’re on their way anymore. You’re no longer wondering, “What will happen next?” because you already know. It’ll be mundane. Predictable even. All I can hear in my head now is Abby Lee Miller going “Boring. Yawning.. Sloppy, LAZY!”
And if no one else will say it, I will: it does get boring sometimes.
So I ended things. We’d been dating for about a year, but it felt like the clock was ticking on our love. Kisses became chores. Intimacy felt empty. Even looking into his eyes started to irritate me. I didn’t know what was wrong with me. I didn’t have the emotional intelligence to understand that love doesn’t always mean excitement, and losing the fun doesn’t mean losing the love. But I assumed that if the fun was over, so was the relationship. So I ended it.
The regret settled in fast. Within a few months, he’d moved on, and I was stuck with this heavy feeling in my stomach. Like I’d failed.
That spring, when COVID hit, I took refuge in the solitude it offered. I’m not romanticizing the pain or losses that came with it, but for me, quarantine felt like an escape. I was already burnt out—on school, on life, on everything—and suddenly I had an excuse to just stop. I’d already been thinking about dropping out of college. So I did.
Clearly, there’s a pattern here.
I come from an immigrant family who fled a civil war in their home country. My mom left for Egypt in 1998. I was born in 2000. Then, in a series of devastating events, my dad passed away in 2003. So my mom left again—this time for the U.S.—looking for more opportunities.
The UN helped us settle in a small apartment in Louisville, Kentucky. The roads were cracked, and the stares were sharp. My mom hated it. So we moved to Minnesota, where she found a bigger East African community. Then to Burnsville because Minneapolis was dangerous. Then to Lakeville because the houses were too small. Then back to Minneapolis because everything in Lakeville was too far. Then to Northern Kentucky because there were more jobs. Then to Kenya to “reconnect with our roots.” Then back to Burnsville so I could finish high school.
I moved off to college, and now here I was—burnt out in the middle of a pandemic. So I left. Again.
That’s the pattern. I leave when it gets uncomfortable. When I feel boxed in, I run toward what might be better. My childhood, full of constant moving, turned me into someone who isn’t afraid to quit. Someone who isn’t afraid of the unknown. Some would say that makes me impractical, but I think it just makes me imaginative. It made me skilled at crafting new realities in my head and willing them into existence.
So when I discovered the idea that our thoughts shape our reality—that we’re always co-creating with the universe—it clicked. Of course it did.
And in 2020, it felt like everyone rediscovered the law of attraction. Remember when The Secret came out, Oprah did a book club, it became a bestseller, and they made a whole documentary about it? People started manifesting dream houses and red bikes, making vision boards and gratitude journals. Transformative stuff.
Now imagine that, but on crack. That’s what 2020 was.
Specific person manifestations, money manifestations, success manifestations. Tarot readers on YouTube promising, “This video was meant for you!” Beautiful girls with perfect curls telling you your manifestations were on the horizon. You were thinking big, bitch! You were doing it big, bitch! And for the first time in a while, it actually felt exciting to be alive.
Maybe reality was malleable. Maybe it wasn’t this hard, metal pot I was stuck inside. Maybe it was something I could mold and shape, something I could forge with my own hands. Maybe I was in control. The world might be falling apart, but that didn’t mean my hair had to fall out.
“I’m so grateful for my thick and long hair,” I scripted for the thousandth time.
And I’m kind of embarrassed to admit this, but… it worked. Like, my hair had legitimately never been thicker (it did fall out again down the line, but bear with me). Maybe it was because I started massaging it every night, maybe it was the affirmations, or maybe it was because I stopped using heating tools entirely for over a year. Or—stick with me here—maybe it was the gratitude journaling that worked its magic. Either way, it fucking worked. I don’t know what to tell you.
So after seeing some success with that, I got cocky. I started manifesting all kinds of stuff—free coffees, phone calls, a job at a jewelry store, my rent paid. I felt unstoppable. What couldn’t I have? After I felt relatively healed from my last relationship, I decided to get to work. I thought, “Let me chip away at this marble stone of David” and carve out the perfect man. I wrote a 650-character gratitude script about a guy called “Him.” Yes, that’s what I named him, and yes, this was back in 2021, before all those “I’m Him” memes started blowing up, so you can say I was ahead of the curve.
In the script, I wrote things like: “He has an accent” (I imagined a British one, but that’s neither here nor there), “He’s obsessed with me,” “He likes being subby in the bedroom” (because to me, it’s a green flag if a man is willing to relinquish control every now and then), “He comes from money,” “He loves spending time with me, and he’s attractive” and “He absolutely loves me doing things with him all the time.” Oh, and I meet him when I’m 22, and he’s older.
Now, keep in mind I was about 20, turning 21, when I wrote this. I occasionally revisited the script, reading it over and over, feeling gratitude for attracting this me dream fella. For months, though, I was too busy dealing with other pressing matters—getting another job, trying to get back into school, FAFSA screwing me over, moving, traveling to see my mom, existential crises, you get the deal.
Fast forward to when I’m 22. I’ve got a good job at a clinic, I can afford my bills—and more. I’m considering going back to college, my poetry TikTok is thriving, and right before Valentine’s Day 2023, I decided to give Tinder a shot. I was finally starting to feel beautiful again, for the first time in a long time. I had my hair done professionally by an amazing black stylist I found on Instagram (who, by the way, was pretty affordable), and I got my nails done every other week. I was feeling empowered, in control, and financially stable. I could finally see my future clearly. But there was one problem: I was lonelier than ever.
I would cry on My Eyes Only Snapchat videos, recording myself saying, “I know there’s a home out there for me, but I just don’t know where it is. I’ve never had one.” This was my eighth home. Yes, eighth in adulthood alone. If I added all the homes from childhood, it would easily enter the 20’s.
Friends had graduated college, or stayed in the small town where the college was, or moved back in with their parents when COVID hit, or just fell off the face of the earth. The few friends I had remaining, we never had time for each other. I was rotting from the inside out with loneliness, despite living the life I had dreamed about for years.
Back to Tinder. I swiped left on a lot of profiles, reminding myself to stick to my standards and listen to my gut, even though I was kind of desperate. Here’s the kicker, though: every single person I swiped right on was a match. I literally never looked better in my life. I’m talking glow-up of the century. But that’s not saying much because I’ve heard that some men just go on a right-swipe spree. Anyway, I end up having this quality, deep conversation with a guy—let’s call him A.O. That’s his real initials by the way. We talk every night for a full week. He’s working in Wisconsin running a marketing business with his buddies, and he’s fresh off a three-year relationship with a woman he almost married, but her family didn’t approve. Biggest red flag, I know. But I didn’t see it at the time. I should’ve known his “taxi light” was not on. (For anyone who doesn’t know, the “taxi light” theory from Sex and the City basically means, if someone is still emotionally attached to their ex, the light on their metaphorical taxi isn’t on—they’re not ready to pick you up.)
Anyway, A.O. asks what I’m doing for Valentine’s Day. I deliberate with the older women at work, and we agree that a first date on Valentine’s Day is too much pressure for both of us. He doesn’t owe me flowers or chocolates, and I know that, but I also know myself well enough to say I’d be annoyed if he didn’t put in some effort, even if it was a casual hangout. I didn’t want the cliche of it all, but the idea of him acting like a my man (even though he wasn’t yet) and treating me well did matter. My coworker, being the realist she is, chimed in, “Valentine’s Day is just about eating chocolate and eating ass. Like, come on, we’re not children here.” So I suggest we wait until after Valentine’s Day, and we agree to meet for sushi. We do.
TLDR: He turns out to be an asswipe. During our lunch date, he keeps spacing out in conversation, gives me a weird look when I order sake (like what? A girl can’t day drink ONE drink?), and won’t stop hinting at coming to my place after. Every time his phone buzzes, it’s “It’s a work thing.” “Sorry Mia, it’s a work thing.” “What were you saying? That was a work thing.” If I heard him say work thing one more time, I swear to god, I would’ve hit him on the head with the ceramic sushi plate and stuffed his nose in the soy sauce bowl. Soon as he dropped me off, I knew what was coming. Tale as old as time—he started getting distant, barely responding, and was clearly disappointed that I didn’t hook up with him, because that’s obviously what he was looking for.
Days later, I plop down on my bed after work, complaining to my coworkers about the whole thing. Laying there, I thought… He wasn’t the only guy I swiped right on. There was this older guy with a long neck and a nice beard, from Mississippi, who had really stood out to me. His profile said to ask to hear his accent, so I thought, why not? I open Tinder, find his profile, and message him, “When can I hear that accent?”
He responds within a minute.
Make sure to subscribe! Part 2 will be up soon.