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Relationships
How Widows Are at Risk for Love Bombing
When you are lonely, you are more likely to be taken advantage of by others.
Updated July 14, 2023 Reviewed by Ray Parker
Key points
- It's easy to ignore red flags when you're lonely.
- Players, predators, and con men prey on vulnerable widows.
- Even painful episodes can provide growth while in the grief process.
A friend had to say goodbye to one of his dogs recently, and he was telling me how bereft his cat was without her special friend.
“She’s gotten so needy,” he said.
Then he pulled his phone out and showed me pictures of the pair in happier times: The cat playing with the pup’s tail, the pup grooming the cat with his big pink tongue, the two curled up together, snoozing. I could practically hear the purrs.
And I had a pang of empathy for the grieving kitty. She had lost the big furry friend she could nuzzle up against any time she needed the comfort of touch.
I feel you, kitty.
Skin hunger is real.
The power of skin hunger
It’s not just that I miss sex in widowhood—though I do—but I miss even more the luxury of just touching and being touched. I miss hugs and casual kisses and the warm body next to me on the couch in the evening. I miss turning over in bed at night and feeling Tom next to me.
If I woke in the night and couldn’t get back to sleep, he would spoon me, and I would drift right back off. After 35 years, I knew every inch of his body. I knew how he felt, physically. I think—I hope—I always will.
Skin hunger is as powerful as loneliness, and it contributes to widows' vulnerability. It is not surprising how often “love bombing” comes up in discussions among widows who are venturing into the world of dating; it seems to happen a lot. We are dangerously susceptible to someone who comes along with hearts and flowers and proclamations of—if not love, then attraction, desire, compatibility. All the things we miss so deeply.
And we who were used to physical contact whenever we needed it now must settle for hugging the dog or cat. Nothing wrong with that, but it’s not the same. (Although I am not the only widow I know who was a reluctant hugger pre-widowhood but now hugs my friends freely.) So when a human comes along with open arms, we might unwisely rush into them.
Ignoring red flags
It has been reassuring to know I’m not the only one.
I met this guy through friends last year. He came on strong—the phrase that comes to mind now is the bum’s rush—with flowers and home-cooked meals (he was an uncompromising foodie), flattery, and gifts. It all moved fast. We saw live music and went to museums. We texted every night we didn’t see each other. We met friends for dinner; we had dinner parties. His cat liked me. We were sexually compatible. He talked about taking me to meet his father.
“I wasn’t looking for anyone,” I told friends, “but he fell in my lap.” I rushed in headlong, enthusiastically. The distraction from my loss was blissful. The jackhammer of grief in my head was, if not silenced, at least muffled. I was no longer crying the moment my eyes opened each morning.
So I ignored a lot. Like the fact that he asked no questions about me. None. Ever, except maybe “How was your day?” and “Do you like kale?”
“You’re going to love this (book, movie, food),” he would often say, and I would wonder how do you know? Once, I asked if he’d googled me when we’d started dating. He said no. “I knew everything I needed to know about you the first time I kissed you.” I thought this was not the compliment he seemed to think it was.
“But I’m a writer,” I said. “Don’t you want to read what I write?”
He didn’t need to, he said. Our mutual friends liked and respected me, and that was enough for him.
He said he was crazy about me.
Did I believe any of it? Of course not. But yeah, kinda. Although there were many women in his past (“I’m 67,” he said. “What do you expect?”) he assured me he wasn’t a player. And who doesn’t want to hear stuff like that? The tingle of a new romance was irresistible, and it felt good to be in a couple again. A glimmer of hope peeked through the clouds.
The inevitable end
And then, about three months in, it started petering out. The cooking (although he continued to send me photos of meals he had cooked for himself). The flattery. The sex. He made excuses not to see me. Where once he said, “I’ll go anywhere you want,” he now sometimes mocked the things I suggested.
I tried to discuss it several times but got nowhere.
“I like you plenty,” he assured me, not meeting my eyes.
Props for the effort, but ambivalence is not really what I seek in a relationship.
The happy-ish ending of this story is that I was the one who ended it. It was a clean break. Because he was being squirrely about getting together, I did it by text. He did not respond.
Done.
Not that I was happy about it. I was disappointed and plunged immediately back into grief. I cried a lot. Not for him, but for Tom. For the loss of my person. I cried over the terrifying prospect of trying to find someone else who might provide the safety, comfort, love, and respect Tom had. I cried because I was lonely, skin hungry, and embarrassed; at some level, I’d known what was happening but talked myself out of knowing.
Lessons learned
My friends and therapist and I all agreed that he had been transitional, and I did have fun for a while. He was practice for me; he broke the seal.
Still, I have learned some lessons here. I ignored red flags in favor of fun and didn't keep things in perspective. I knew he’d cycled through lots of women; my experience was undoubtedly not unique. In some ways, I was lucky.
At least he wasn’t a con man, as other widows have encountered. Online support groups are happy hunting grounds for men with questionable motives. I’ve seen them and received messages I promptly deleted, then reported.
Love bombing is also a trait of men who become abusive. While various hits my self-esteem took made me suspect this guy could be emotionally abusive, I don’t believe he was capable of other sorts of blows.
Grief is a long, complicated, messy process, and this experience pushed me to a new phase. Today I am more aware of couples’ privilege, having enjoyed that brief revival of it. It was a sobering encounter with the alien world of dating.
And it was a growth spurt in my grief—painful, but part of figuring out my life post-Tom. It taught me things about who I am in a relationship and what I want. And most importantly, I proved to myself that even in grief I have the self-respect and presence of mind to walk away when I don’t feel valued.
Loneliness and skin hunger leave me vulnerable in a whole new way, and I need to protect myself. So for now, I’ll just hug the dog.
