The Homing Pigeon

The last man I dated before I met my husband was a sociopath.

I’d known him for a couple of weeks when he showed up at the door of my Los Angeles apartment in the middle of the night. With boyish charm, he said, “It’s like I was a homing pigeon and my car started driving instinctively toward your place.” His shiny, new convertible was parked outside, and he stood before me, sheepishly staring down at his overnight bag.

Flattered by the notion of being his “home,” I was equally puzzled by his presence. Contemplating his story, I lingered in the doorway. Then I saw the Homing Pigeon’s innocent, blue eyes turn to stone. His voice filled with contempt, “Are you going to keep me standing here all night?”

The ease with which he guided me to self-doubt was dizzying. I don’t want to be rude. So, I stopped scrutinizing his behavior and started wondering if I was, in fact, the problem.

“Come on in,” spilled nervously from my lips.

He visibly softened as he crossed the threshold. “I didn’t mean to wake you,” he cooed. “Let me tuck you in.”

Welcoming the return of his adoration, I found myself back under my covers and cozy beneath his tender gaze.

Perched on the side of my bed, his tone was confessional. “Most women can’t handle my complexity,” he said. “You have a rare combination of intellect, empathy, and beauty.”

I felt like an irresistible heroine, and it was intoxicating.

The Homing Pigeon shared that he’d been disappointed by countless other women. He was hoping I might be the one to truly understand him. I was relishing the opportunity when, moments later, he looked down at me and said, “I could cut you into a million pieces and have no feelings about it.”

He meant it. And given his bodybuilder’s physique, I had no doubt he could do it. I recall seeing a vision of myself, disassembled like a children’s doll, pieces piled high in my bathtub.

But that wasn’t The Thing. The thing was that he could tell me this horrific truth when he couldn’t tell anyone else. This was his version of vulnerability. Endowed with his trust, I felt like a modern-day Beauty who could tame the unruly Beast with her unconditional love.

I genuinely believed—hoped—he could change. All he needed was a genius therapist. Of course, it couldn’t be me, because I was under some sort of spell, trying to make him my boyfriend. My credentials as a Ph.D. and licensed psychologist with decades of my own introspective work were of no use. Besides, good sense and a proper code of ethics told me he should explore his interest in dismemberment elsewhere.

And then there was the sex.

The steady course of adrenaline in my bloodstream awakened every nerve ending. Exalted by his attention, I would levitate for prolonged periods—until he withdrew his devotion, reminding me the upper hand belonged solely to him. Then I would plunge down a shame spiral into a reservoir of inadequacy, longing to ascend to great heights once again.

I’d never dated a lawyer, much less a company vice president. His intelligence and success ticked important boxes on my potential partner list. But he walked like the Terminator and wore glasses to match. I loathed these reflections of his inner bully, surprised they didn’t dull my frenetic attraction.

I knew when the Homing Pigeon was lying or setting emotional traps, but I allowed myself to be pulled right in. The complexity of our dance felt utterly compelling. I became obsessed with trying to win a game designed to devour me, mistakenly imagining that my awareness of the danger offered immunity to it.

He sent me texts clearly meant for other women but made me feel crazy when I suggested it.

One morning, he said, “My home is your home, and I have nothing to hide. If you ever need a pen, feel free to look in any drawer.” Hours later, I searched for a writing utensil only to find hoop earrings and a note from Maria thanking him for a recent good time. I was so angry I’d followed the breadcrumbs.

Humiliated, I texted my girlfriends. Can you believe this? Then I promptly tucked away those feelings. I reminded myself he hadn’t agreed to exclusivity, so he wasn’t technically doing anything wrong. And I didn’t dare find out how he’d twist my discovery into a personal failing—likely comparing me to Maria while ridiculing us both.

The Homing Pigeon didn’t hide his hatred of women, yet I aspired to be the exception.

Being “chosen” by someone with a personality disorder (like a narcissist or sociopath) makes you feel exceptionally adored—at least in certain moments. Although these are few, by comparison, they somehow eclipse the torment.

My mom had been chosen by one as well, and she was captive in a thick, enduring spell for more than half her life. I had always known she was in a trance, but experiencing it firsthand was something else. My own bewitchment eventually gave me insight and empathy. I came to better understand how my mother married my stepfather—and why she stayed for so long.

I wondered if she sensed the same immunity to the madness, or if she saw her worth rise and fall in relation to her husband’s moods. Years later, now that he has passed away, I still wonder: Can she see the truth of how he treated her? What about how he treated me as a child?

My early morning visit from the Homing Pigeon wasn’t the first time I’d heard deeply disturbing things from a man. As a teenager, I was forced to sit next to my stepfather on the waterbed he shared with my mom, as he secretly professed his love to me.

But that wasn’t The Thing. The Thing was that he was tormented by his feelings. He wanted me to see him as the victim of this circumstance.

I was 16. My gaze had become fixed on my long, brown bangs that partially obstructed my view as I heard my stepfather say, “We are kindred souls, and I want to give you the world.” (I knew from experience this could mean gifts of expensive jewelry.)

The wooden frame that held the bed was digging into the back of my legs, and I was starting to feel pins and needles in my toes. I hoped that the numbness would start spreading toward my chest as he shared that his overwhelming love and longing led him to guilt and despair. “I know these feelings are wrong. They are not the feelings one has for a daughter,” he said.

His clarity was astounding, but I knew he wasn’t looking for forgiveness. He was looking for permission. I have feelings for you, too, was the response he’d hoped for. I stared down at my lifeless legs, unable to move.

Knowing I had to be the stable adult in the conversation, I tucked my hair behind my ear, lifted my head and said, “I’m glad you are talking about these feelings, but I’m probably not the appropriate person to tell.” The articulation of which still astounds me because what I was thinking was, “Go to therapy, f*cking assh*le!”

Despite my attempts to express gratitude for his candor, and to redirect his honesty elsewhere, he was wounded. His emotional pendulum swung to fury, and his face screamed, “How dare you!” as he stood up to leave, staring back at me through pools of hatred.

This evoked a surprising response within me: I didn’t want him to go. I detested his advances, but the inevitable months of angry silent treatment—while he convinced my mother I was the enemy—was worse.

This was my dilemma. And it was not only dreadful back then; it set up a long road of feeling like I didn’t deserve real kindness or that it came at much too high a price. I would choose unkind and unavailable men time and time again, hoping I could convince them to stay and to love me. I got off the merry go round with my stepdad only to step onto my own ride, unable to see straight for 20 more years.

Well into my 30s and dating a sociopath, I began to worry that I was the homing pigeon. Had I instinctively flown over hundreds of miles and years of my life, directly into a familiar feeling of home?

I wanted the answer to be no and decided I was ready to fight for myself. I sought the guidance of my friend Bill, a psychic and spiritual mentor. He’d always steered me in the right direction. Part of me was hoping he’d say I was being dramatic. “It’s unsettling dating someone with that much confidence,” he might say, “but it’s helping you grow.”

These were categorically not his words.

“Run,” Bill said when I asked for his thoughts. “Run as fast as you can. This man is dangerous, and he will hurt you.”

Fiercely orienting me toward reality, Bill said anyone who questioned my worth wasn’t capable of seeing it. He believed I was seeking his counsel to be reminded of my strength, not to get a pass for self-destruction.

My gut knew he was right, but I wasn’t ready or able to end it. That’s what a spell will do.

“Can you pray for the willingness to let this relationship go?” Bill suggested.

Sitting in a crowded café, I closed my eyes. I took a breath and silently began asking for the willingness to break up with the Homing Pigeon. When I was done, I paused to see if anything had changed. Nope, I felt the exact same way.

“I trust your process,” Bill said.

“Great,” I responded. “So I can take him to the barbeque tomorrow?”

Three days later I woke up at 2:00 a.m. composing a breakup email in my head. When I realized what was happening, I went to my desk and started typing while I still had the courage. I wrote something about the incompatibility of a misanthrope and an optimist. While half of me could see us together, the other half was afraid his hatred of women would never allow me to feel safe. I was careful with my words, trying to minimize the backlash. And then, before I could change my mind, I hit send.

The Homing Pigeon was livid. I knew he would be—I broke up with him by email in the middle of the night. But I couldn’t have done it in person. If we were together, the fog would’ve settled, and I’d have lost myself again.

In his response, he derided me in one sentence and tried to talk me out of leaving the next. My friends worried about my safety, but I believed he’d never expose a weakness like hurting me over a broken heart. That belief changed when he sent a photograph of his swollen, purple hand along with an x-ray from the ER.

“I punched a utility box,” he texted.

He seemed to be asking for sympathy, and I felt my internal caregiver perking up. But she gladly took a backseat to the larger voice that had emerged, and I never looked back.

Months later, I met a man who didn’t use his intellect as bait or reveal an insidious need to manipulate. And I gave up looking for someone to “fix.”

My now-husband was kind, and I experienced ease in his presence. We didn’t have that “all systems go” electric spark I was used to experiencing, so I thought we were meant to be friends. Now I understand that those particular sparks were better at announcing insanity than chemistry.

I now know it’s possible to have deep love and companionship—a noncombustible magnetism—without all the madness. The heaviness of the past is gone, and it’s like I’m truly soaring. It’s possible to break free from destructive patterns.

It’s possible to find a new place to call home.