A Real Life Stalker Story: Fear Doesn’t Live Here Anymore (Part 2)

If you haven’t read my first post about what happened — the horror story that started it all — you can read it here.

Trigger Warning: This post discusses themes of stalking, psychological abuse, revenge porn, suicide threats, and firearms for self-defense. Please prioritize your mental health and proceed with care.

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🔁 The Plot Twist

I had been abandoning myself every time my intuition nudged me that something wasn’t right.
I kept silencing that voice to keep the peace — until I couldn’t anymore.

I had already started noticing the red flags — things he would say, the way he’d twist conversations, and how I began to suspect he was snooping through my devices. Every time I tried to address it, his answers were never simple. Instead of having a normal conversation, he’d hit back with irrelevant low blows — attacks on my character meant to confuse me.

I didn’t realize it yet, but this would become my story of fighting back against my stalker — a story about what happens when fear turns into clarity, and silence turns into self-protection.

One time, while we were in the car, I was about to take my ADHD medication when he suddenly grabbed it out of my hands. I tried to take it back, but he rolled down the window and threw it out onto the road.

Of course I screamed — “What the fuck is wrong with you?! Why would you do that?!”

That’s when I realized he had secretly called one of my girlfriends — letting her hear only my angry reaction, while he sat there calm and collected, painting me as the crazy one.

Then came the threats of suicide—frequent, manipulative, and always followed by that same eerie calm. Not just with me, but with his family, and even the authorities who had already been involved. I realize now that this was one of his many tactics of manipulation—making me responsible for his life.

One of the most bizarre incidents happened when I was trying to leave one night, and he kept trying to stop me. Out of nowhere, he went manic and started screaming, demanding that I hit him. I was so confused by what was going on. He grabbed my wrists and kept yelling, “Hit me!” I pulled back and yelled, “No, I’m not going to hit you, what the fuck!”

When he couldn’t get me to hit him, he then started punching his own face. For what felt like the hundredth time in this whole terrible ordeal, I found myself screaming, “What the fuck are you doing?!?! STOP!” When I grabbed his hands to stop him from punching himself, he started slamming his head into the wall. I remember yelling “Jesus fucking Christ, what the fuck is wrong with you?!” I threw myself between him and the wall to stop him from hurting himself further. In that moment, my own terror didn’t matter. My only instinct was to care. To help.

That was the moment I understood how easily your own empathy can be weaponized—and how people who can’t control themselves will always try to control you.

And afterward, I just sat there—numb, staring at the wall. I realized I had done it again: put my own needs aside to manage someone else’s. That was the moment I understood how easily your own empathy can be weaponized—and how people who can’t control themselves will always try to control you.

I couldn’t shake the question: How did I let myself get here?

It echoed loud in my head for years to come. But the numbness was finally breaking. I was waking up.

I knew deep down that if I called my dad or my friends, they’d show up—but he’d just wait it out, the way he always did. He’d put on a performance, pretend to be fine, and then punish me later for trying to get help. My last hope was to involve the only people I still believed could get through to him. I truly thought my own brother—who had become his friend—might be the one person able to de-escalate it. That hope was misplaced. And that, in itself, became part of the heartbreak. Our story ended the day he turned his back on me—and I never looked back.

I realized that whether I wanted to admit it or not, I was here because I let it get here… But not anymore.

Afterward, I remember feeling broken in every way. Helpless. Most of all, I remember feeling so betrayed and confused. I couldn’t make sense of why someone would go so far to break me. I kept asking why, how, when, but nothing made sense.

Then, in that moment of darkness, I found the light within myself that he so desperately tried to put out. As I started connecting all the dots, the fear that was flickering slowly caught fire — and eventually exploded into RAGE.

I realized that whether I wanted to admit it or not, I was here because I allowed it to get here. I kept choosing to be the “good person,” to “do the right thing”—even when it cost me myself.

I don’t have to live by the rules other people set for me.
I don’t have to do what others say is “right” if it means abandoning what feels right for me.

In that moment, I realized I’d had a choice all along — and I finally chose it.
That was the moment I stopped living for other people.
The day I chose me.

After that, the truth was simple:
What happens when I fight back?
Play with fire, you get burned.

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ENOUGH.

My first priority wasn’t revenge; it was immediate safety. I filed for a restraining order.

The Restraining Order was granted, but I knew the fight was just beginning. A piece of paper means nothing until it’s served. He knew it, and he kept dodging every process server’s attempt. It took two different servers and several failed tries, but we finally pinned him down and served the order.

That ordeal taught me what survival really looks like: it’s persistence, patience, and making the system work for you.

The biggest security measure wasn’t a lock or a camera—it was me.
I had to become my own protector.

In the meantime, I turned my physical environment into a fortress. I had necessary, blunt conversations with my HOA and building security, handing over his photos and warning them of the threat. I spoke to my neighbors, laying out the situation clearly: if they ever saw him, they needed to know he was not safe and that I had a legal order against him. I installed a motion-detecting camera at the front window and replaced my existing lock with a high-end security system.

Safety wasn’t a hope—it was my new, non-negotiable reality.

The biggest security measure wasn’t a lock or a camera—it was me. I had to become my own protector.

To truly embody this, I went and obtained my Concealed Carry Weapon (CCW) permit and spent hours learning my rights, practicing gun safety, and becoming intimately familiar with my weapon at the range.

Real safety isn’t passive. It’s being prepared, calm, and capable of defending your own life.

I also enrolled in tactical training, learning how to respond to a home invasion — not from fear, but from awareness. Real safety isn’t passive. It’s being prepared, calm, and capable of defending your own life.

The fear didn’t vanish — it evolved into awareness. Awareness became strength. Strength became peace. I didn’t feel fragile anymore. I felt forged.

By the time I equipped myself with every skill and precaution, I realized the power had already shifted — I was no longer someone who feared for her life. I was someone prepared to protect it.

But abusers rarely stop when they lose control — they just change tactics.

And when he realized he couldn’t reach me physically, he tried to destroy me digitally.

I refused to let his lies rewrite my truth.
I used my voice and took my power back online.
Silence only protects predators.

📢 Fighting for the Narrative

While I built my physical defenses, he began waging war on my reputation.

He was reaching out to people I worked with, my friends — spreading lies, rewriting history, launching a full smear campaign.

Then the digital invasion began. He didn’t stop at one image. His attack was vile, calculated, and cowardly — psychological warfare crafted to confuse, humiliate, and discredit me.

His strategy relied on two images:

1. The Smokescreen: A photo of me with an ex—an irrelevant figure I hadn’t spoken to in years. It was a meaningless image clearly meant to divert suspicion and cover his tracks.
2. The Shame: A private, topless pre-op mirror selfie. It wasn’t sexual — it was personal. Vulnerable.
   A moment I’d never intended anyone else to see and only existed on that phone. 

The photos were taken over ten years ago — never shared, sent, or posted anywhere. They were on an old phone buried inside my travel file box — something I carried with me often.
That was the only place those photos existed.

I knew immediately it was him — because that’s where his abuse started: cutting me down with his words. He’d mock my work, my credibility, and my appearance. He’d say things like, “You wouldn’t be where you are without your looks that you paid for.”

This is a form of abuse known as “revenge porn,“ or more accurately, Nonconsensual Intimate Imagery (NCII). It’s the act of posting or sharing intimate, nude, or semi-nude photos or videos of an individual without their consent—with the intent to humiliate, intimidate, or cause distress to the victim. 

His entire campaign was designed to destroy my sense of self — physically, emotionally, psychologically.
But it failed.

I refused to let his lies rewrite my truth. I used my voice. I posted updates, clarified facts, and took my power back online. Not out of revenge — but because silence only protects predators.

When I reminded everyone — including him — that revenge porn is a crime, the images were taken down almost immediately. That moment gave me something he never wanted me to have: my own power, in public.

The more I stood up for myself, the smaller he became. The monster I once feared shriveled into something pitiful — desperate, insignificant. The people who believed and supported my truth had my back. The ones who turned their backs on me? Forgotten.

Eventually, he got burned by the fire he tried to put out.
That was the end of the version of me who ever thought she had to dim her light—or stay the victim.

xo, Ria

She’s not just pretty — she’s resilient.

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❤️‍🔥 Final Word

If you take anything away from my story, let it be this:

• Honor your gut. The moment something feels off, it is.
• Don’t wait for things to get worse — because they always do.
• Your safety is not negotiable.
• Your peace is sacred.
• And your life is worth fighting for.