The Truth?
Martin Luther King Jr. said not to fight hate with hate. And while I deeply respect that wisdom, I’d like to respectfully ask Dr. King: does this have to be applied across the board? Like, what you if met someone so brazenly awful, so comically entitled, it felt like they were handcrafted by the universe to ruin your life? Because, shit. I’d really like to know—would he have said the same thing knowing everything I’ve been through?
I want to not hate her. Really, I do. But then I think about the actual insanity of what this woman did, and my rational mind says, “Nope. Not today woman. Burn the motherfucking house down.”
The Picture She Painted vs. Reality
Let me paint you a picture: this wasn’t just some fling. Oh, no. This woman used targeted social media ads on her OnlyFans account to snare local men. That’s how my husband ended up clicking on her page. (Not victimizing him here, but let’s just say, in his state, he was like a clueless child being offered drugs by a snake.)
She zeroed in on him when he was in a dark place, wrapped herself around him like the world’s most toxic blanket, and then made it her life’s mission to dismantle everything about mine. And I mean everything.
This wasn’t your average “other woman” drama. She stalked my life online and to her amazement, discovered that my decidedly porno-free career trajectory saw me building an honest business doing doctor shit, which managed to pay the bills. Suddenly, she was the heroine come to rescue my husband from the prison of my very functional, stable existence, and I was the villain who caged him and kept him small.
But plot twist! She wasn’t some ethereal “fairy girl” with wisdom to share (spoiler alert guys, THATS NOT REAL). She was basically Gollum—if Gollum were hopped up on Xanax and ketamine. (I’ll pause while you imagine her hissing, “Mine, my own, my precioussss” over my wedding ring… which she actually tried on.)
When Audacity Goes Full Throttle
Let’s talk about the level of audacity we’re dealing with here.
We’re talking about a woman who strutted around my house while I was at work, snooped through my medicine cabinet, judged the contents of my fridge (she found it offensive, apparently), tried on my wedding ring, and programmed herself into my car because she thought it was going to be hers. Oh, and speaking about my house; she assumed I was just going to hand the deed over to her or something.
The sheer confidence! I mean, really. Manifesting is so right now in SoCal, but the lengths she went to? It was a “next-level delusional on steroids” — impressive . . . almost. But also, “damn girl, who fucking hurt you?”
Why I Want to Hate Her
Let’s be honest: hating her feels natural. Like, really natural. The kind of natural where I could justify hiring a skywriter to air out her nonsense for all of Carlsbad. Or maybe overlay one of her cringe belly-dancing videos with all the heinous things she’s done, and let it live rent-free on the internet forever. (Because I promise you, the list is long and jaw-droppingly bad.)
I mean, what kind of person brags about being the devil? Who threatens to leave a dead fetus on someone’s doorstep like it’s normal activity for a Tuesday? And who the hell thinks it’s okay to drug someone so they can’t leave their house? The depths of her insanity aren’t just shocking—they’re cartoonishly evil. She’s not just the villain in my story; she’s the villain in a story that would get rejected by publishers for being too unbelievable.
So yeah, I want to hate her. I want to scream and yell and throw every ounce of rage I have her way. Because honestly, it feels justified. She was (and will forevermore be known as) a force of chaos who broke my life apart with the enthusiasm of a toddler let loose at Disney World.
Why I Can’t Hate Her
Here’s the catch: hating her doesn’t do a damn thing. It doesn’t make me feel better. It doesn’t undo the damage. And—most annoyingly—it doesn’t affect her one bit. She’s up in her OnlyFans lair not worrying about shit. She doesn’t care. She’s too busy finding her next victim or posting another tragic belly-dancing video.
And honestly? The more I hold onto this hate, the more I realize it’s poisoning me. She’s already stolen so much—my peace, my trust, my sanity. Why would I let her take more by clinging to anger that only hurts me? It’s like drinking poison and expecting her to keel over. Spoiler alert: she’s not going to.
Rose’s Guide to Letting Go
Am I a better person for not hating her? Debatable. Am I still annoyed, bitter, and occasionally fantasizing about karma hitting her like a Mack truck? Absolutely. But here’s how I’m trying to navigate this whole “don’t fight hate with hate” thing without spontaneously combusting:
- Channel the Rage Productively
Instead of hate-scrolling her profile, I write. (Hi, blog readers!) Writing lets me purge the madness, and bonus: it doesn’t involve jail time. If you’re not a writer, I highly recommend screaming into a pillow, starting a workout routine that involves punching things, or aggressively cleaning your house. It helps. - Trust Karma (Even If It’s Slow)
Look, I get it. Karma takes its sweet ass time. But I have faith that life will eventually serve her a platter of what she deserves. And when it does, I’ll be over here with popcorn, cheering from the sidelines like it’s the fucking Super Bowl. - Laugh at the Absurdity
If I don’t laugh, I’ll cry. So I choose laughter. She’s like a parody of a human being, a silicone infused villain ripped from the worst housewives season. If I can’t take her seriously, I can at least find some twisted humor in the fact that she thought she could step into my life and steal my car, my house, and my wedding ring. Like, ma’am, AYFKM? - Focus on Myself
Here’s the brutal truth: letting go of my rage doesn’t mean I lose. It means I win. Every second I spend thinking about her is a second I’m not spending on me. And frankly, I’m way more interesting, capable, and deserving of my energy than she’ll ever be.
The Bigger Picture
At the end of the day, the real villain isn’t just her. It’s the bitterness she represents—the dark, cynical part of me that this whole ordeal woke up. I don’t want to live there. I don’t want to let her, or anyone like her, make me a person who can’t see the good in the world anymore.
So I write. I rage. I laugh. I remind myself that hating her doesn’t make me a better person—but healing does. And the best revenge? Living a life so full of love, laughter, and unapologetic joy that it makes people like her irrelevant.
Will I ever fully forgive her? Probably not. But do I need to? No. What I need is to forgive myself for ever letting her take up this much space in my life.
Here’s to letting go—not for her, but for me. Because I deserve better than this. And so do you.
Leave a Reply