Getting Stalked

"Can you prove he's not just shopping next door?"

The police officer's question landed like a slap.

I was on the phone, trying—again—to figure out how to get a restraining order.

"He shows up at 6 p.m., right when I get off work, and parks next to my car."

"But then he goes into the other store," the officer sighed.

"Yes, but he does it at 6 p.m., when he knows I have to walk past him. He parks next to my car."

"Look, I believe you, but it doesn’t matter. He hasn’t threatened you, he doesn’t talk to you. There’s no law against parking and shopping."

That was that.

The third time I called for help.

First time: After a weekend away, I came home to find my belongings—specific, personal things—had been moved. My journal. A leather belt. Proof he'd been there.

Second time: A text from him. He was sad I’d taken his pictures down from my home—a home he hadn’t been allowed into.

No threats. No solid proof. It didn’t matter.

I remember standing in the backroom of the jewelry store where I worked, holding diamonds in my hands. The back entrance was a large glass utility door. I looked up—and there he was. Parked in my company’s spot. Peering through the window. Watching.

It had been a year since our volatile breakup. He was dating a blonde.

She wasn't blocked. I barely knew her, but I saw her social media. A "family" photo—her, her kids, and his, all beaming. He stood beside her with a doting smile. “So lucky to have this guy,” her caption read.

I got the chills.

Less than an hour later, I was pulling weeds in my front yard when my spine stiffened. That sixth sense.

I looked up.

There he was.

The "family" photo still warm off the press. A public declaration of love. And yet, here he was, in person. Watching me.

His Ray-Bans gleamed in the sunlight as he drove slowly past my house. On my street. Ten miles from where he lived. No words. No threats. Just an innocent drive-by.

Turns out—that's not illegal.

Week after week, he drove past my house. Parked at my work.

I blocked everyone connected to him. Scrubbed my online presence. Stopped sharing where I'd be. Learned to scan crowds when I spoke. Any vehicle resembling his made my heart stop.

I even moved to another city. But I still worked at the same location.

Winter came. A year and a half had passed.

One afternoon, I stood in line at UPS near my job, holding a package. A slow, creeping sensation tightened my breath—like the feeling in high school when someone has a paper airplane aimed at your head.

I turned.

There he was.

Standing behind me in line.

"Hello," I fumbled. Flustered. Confused.

"Hi, how are you?" he asked, casual as ever.

"Good."

I fled back to work, ducking behind the sales counter, spiraling into a full-blown panic attack.

Through all of this, he had girlfriends. He got married.

Two weeks after his wedding, there he was again—parked next to my car at 6 p.m. Sitting in his vehicle. Watching. Waiting for me to walk past. I didn’t understand. I didn’t know if I was in danger. But if he was unstable, what was he capable of?

Each incident—explainable. A coincidence. Right?

Three years later, I arrived at a crystal shop in Orem, Utah, where I was hosting an event. Seven months pregnant, running late. My husband came along to carry the heavy things.

As we pulled into the parking lot, my friend—my co-host—rushed to meet me. No greeting. Just a serious face.

"He's here."

The shop had advertised me. Noon.

Three cities away from where he lived. But he just happened to be shopping there. At noon.

No proof.

It wasn’t a coincidence that my husband stood beside me and looked him dead in the eye as he scurried away.

---

We ask women:

"Why didn’t you report it?"
"Why didn’t you take action?"

How do we know they didn’t?

I did. And without proof—without a threat in writing or a smoking gun—I couldn’t. He was careful. He left no trail. Just a presence. A shadow. A reminder that he was watching.

My closest friends, my co-workers, my boss—they saw. They believed me.

Most outside friends and acquaintances? They gossiped.

"I don’t know why she has it out for him."
"Why can’t she just let it go?"
"He’s not a bad guy. Why won’t she just come to the party? Just because he’s invited too?"

They wanted to keep the peace. Not take sides. Not be disrupted.

I didn’t have the energy to fight or vilify him. But my voice—my truth—was dismissed. What should have been an old relationship became an ongoing trauma, dismissed as drama.

---

We assume that when a woman finally speaks up, she’ll have an army behind her.

She won’t.

I was the first of his exes to say: "He's not safe."

No one believed me. I lost "friends." I was blacklisted. Labeled bitter, a liar.

Now, years later, a handful of women have come forward. They say what I said back then.

"He's not safe."

And now? Finally—I’m taken seriously.

People want to give abusers the benefit of the doubt. I get that.

But not taking sides is taking a side.

Choosing social convenience over safety is taking a side.

When I spoke about my anger—the money he stole from me, the fraud he committed with my insurance—I was told:

"Your anger is damaging your message. You’re too angry to represent the issue of domestic violence."

I probably was. I probably still am. But neutrality isn’t in me. Not on this.

I used to feel betrayed and furious at the "friends" I lost. Now? I'm grateful.

Grateful to know who actually stands for what they pretend to. Grateful for the people who were there.

I still get angry at how little consequences exist for abusers.

So I keep speaking.

Not to go after him.

But because there are women right now who feel helpless. Who aren’t being believed. Who are being told, “You should have gotten a restraining order”—as if that’s the magic solution.

I know people lie. I know some fabricate abuse for revenge. But I don’t believe it happens as often as we assume.

This isn’t about him.

This is about every woman who reads this.

See my most read blog about this issue here: The Rabbit Hole of Abuse