On Ghosting
While they’re still alive, men have mastered the art of playing dead. Why is it normalised and where does this behaviour come from?
‘Hey, it’s late here. I’m looking up at the moon and thinking of you… Also, I don’t think we should see each other anymore. Have a great Christmas!’
I actually received this love letter during a dalliance I mistook for true love.
With Scottish roots, an international accent, and a big, bright all-American smile, Andrew had me at ‘shall we split the bill?’ I was literally blinded to all the usual dating red flags by his brilliant teeth — never trust a man with excellent dental work.
In Andrew’s defence, he let me know that a ghosting was imminent.
I replied, acknowledging his bizarre change of heart, having requested exclusivity twenty-four hours before, and (to absolutely no one’s surprise) never heard from him again.
Not all men will be so ✨considerate✨.
Not all men will consult the stars before letting you know that you don’t shine as brightly.
In Paris, I sat smoking with a friend in giant orange sunglasses across a little round table. She said:
‘Ugh, I found a therapist because I wanted to process my deep-seated childhood wounds, the emotional trauma that haunts my adult life, but all we do is talk about how damaged I am by ghosting lol.’
Her therapist said:
‘Most women come to me for the same reasons as you, but the conversation always, without fail, reroutes to the pain they’re experiencing as a result of the ghosting phenomenon.’
The pain is prolific.
Ghosting an invisible epidemic.
Laugh or cry. Thats what they say, right? The only way to survive agony is to laugh through it. The more hysterical the cackles of amusement, the less your misery will bother you. If we were hospitalised for broken hearts, we’d roll into A&E howling with inane laughter because it feels better than crying about it. At least momentarily.
So we laugh.
My friends and I laugh when men leave us on read after seven wonderful dates of blustery walks through Hyde Park and hand-holding across candlelit tables, exchanging stories of the times we discovered our parents’ affairs, survived eating disorders, wept through an abortion. We laugh when he pretends that the suppressed ‘I love you’s during intense sex never happened. When we discover that he never really cared what our favourite childhood memory was. When he was only saying that he thought we were great because he was bored. Or lonely. Or narcissistic. Or all of it.
We laugh when he rejects who we are at our core without explanation.
Why?
Why do we normalise it? Why do guys do it?
Culturally, I believe that the collective masculine is suffering an identity crisis, manifesting in power complexes which, in turn, reveal themselves through men’s interactions with women. The shimmering sense of control and authority instilled when he ignores your messages must be so intoxicating, so addictive, that he has to do it again and again and again. A hit of power.
Forget the thrill of the chase.
This is the thrill of the kill.
She’s into me so I cut her out.
She’s healing me so I damage her.
I pity these people who derive a lick of ✨power✨ through undermining a woman’s self-worth, but then I wonder — perhaps it’s less about power and fragile masculinity, and more tangled up in men’s incapacity to receive love, en masse.
The problem with the patriarchy is that we all exist under it. I am by no means a #notallmen proponent, but I believe that men, while not to the same extent as women, are victims of patriarchal circumstance in their own unique and massively inconvenient way.
You see, in my experience, men are more likely to express their entire emotional spectrum through the micro-filter of rage. Or not at all. Toxic masculinity.
When women show up authentically and communicate openly, perhaps this triggers men who are not operating at the same level of self-awareness. In our unabashed self-assurance, they see all the cracks in themselves they’d rather paint over, so all they can do is remove themselves from the light of the female gaze.
To be seen by an ‘awakened’ woman is to lay bare your soul, and most men I’ve dated in the toxic London dating scene aren’t ready for that kind of intimacy.
Regardless of the complex psychological reasons behind it, ghosting is cruel and callous because it fundamentally sends the message: you’re not worth an explanation as to why I suddenly want nothing to do with you, but I’m totally ok with never seeing you again.
Women are left wondering.
We’re left doubting.
And each time we open ourselves up to a new person, to the equal opportunity to be loved and hurt, we are slightly more diminished than the last time. A little less sparkly. And that’s not ok.
Next time I’m ghosted, I’m going to dress in a fabulous shade of black, with the biggest f-off sunglasses I can buy, and attend the funeral of the idiot-guy with my friends. I will mourn his loss.
Because it’s always his loss.
I’m not a psychologist; I’m a speculative Carrie Bradshaw wannabe — in fact, I identify more with Samantha Jones — and these are my musings and meditations on ghosting.
I’d love to hear your own stories, thoughts and experiences of it.
Find me on Instagram: @oliviawheldon_