 If I had a flag for every time I ignored my gut feeling, I could host my own United Nations summit of self-delusion.

Formula One Grand Prix of Romantic Disasters

 — complete with pit stops for therapy,  sharp emotional turns, and men who drove like they’d never read a manual on emotional responsibility.

Lap 1: Mr. Gaslight—The Fog Machine Technician of My Heart

He didn’t just wave red flags. He was the opening ceremony.

Emotionally stable? Like a Jenga tower in an earthquake.

This man could turn “You hurt my feelings” into 

“Wow, you’re so sensitive. Are you sure you’re not just misinterpreting everything because of your childhood trauma?”

Sir, you forgot to mention you are my childhood trauma.

His idea of romance? Telling me I was “too much,” while simultaneously demanding I never leave.

His career? Amateur psychologist with a PhD in Projection and a minor in Manipulation.

We spent six months in an emotional escape room — except every time I found the key, he changed the lock.

 Lap 2: The Emotionally Unavailable Ninja—Stealth Mode Activated

This man moved like a ghost. A sexy, commitment-phobic ghost.

You never see the emotionally unavailable types coming. You feel them—like the cold side of the bed at 2 a.m., or the text that never gets answered until three days later with “haha sorry I fell asleep.”

He was mysterious. Brooding. Deep… like a kiddie pool with the lights turned off.

 to make me think I’d unlocked a new level, then vanish into a cloud of "I'm just not in the right place emotionally right now."

Translation: “I like you enough to keep you around, but not enough to risk self-reflection.”

Lap 3: The Narcissist Parade—Main Float: Their Own Face

Being with him was like attending a one-man Broadway show called 

And spoiler: I was cast as Supporting Actress #4 with no lines.

Everything I said was met with a story about him.

“Oh, that reminds me of the time I single-handedly saved my company during a merger while emotionally supporting my ex-girlfriend through her dog’s cancer diagnosis.”

I was just the mirror he used to admire himself.

And when I stopped reflecting back his ego? He shattered me like I was the problem.

Lap 4: The “Nice Guy” Who Was Actually Just Passive-Aggressive with a Beard

He was sweet. At first. Like Splenda. You know, 

This guy weaponized politeness. He never raised his voice — but he could slice you to pieces with a sigh and a well-timed “It’s fine.”

“I mean, it’s cute how you try to cook. I think it’s brave, honestly.”

I spent three months in a psychological game of guess-what-I-did-wrong, only to find out the answer was always “exist.”

Lap 5: The Therapist Who Needed Therapy (and Chose Me Instead)

He just didn’t love fixing any of the things he found during those deep introspective talks.

Dating him was like going to group therapy where I was the therapist… and also the only one in the group.

He once told me, “I don’t believe in labels,” while living in a studio apartment full of unpaid bills, mother issues, and unresolved trauma with more red tape than the FBI.

Pit Stop: My Self-Worth (On Fire, But Still Rolling)

At this point, I should’ve stopped. Pulled into the pit stop. Reassessed. But no. I threw on more lip gloss, put my heart back on the market, and said, “Next!”

Because that’s what we do, right? We confuse drama for depth. Chaos for chemistry. Trauma bonding for love.

Lap 6: The Juice Cleanse of Men—Looked Good, Starved Me Emotionally

He was “working on himself,” but somehow I became his emotional protein shake. All natural, all organic, and 

We dated for three months, and not once did he ask how I was. He was too busy detoxing his soul with ayahuasca and telling me about his third chakra.

After years of ignoring red flags like I was colorblind, I finally raised my own.

A massive, glitter-covered flag that said:

I was just caught in the high-speed loop of confusing love with adrenaline.

Love shouldn’t feel like a near-death experience or a therapy-inducing rollercoaster.

It should feel like safety belts, solid tires, and a damn good co-pilot.

If your relationship feels like a race, ask yourself:

Are you chasing something that’s running away… or just speeding toward another crash?

Either way — slow the hell down. Check the pit crew (your friends, your gut, your journal). Refuel your self-worth. And remember: 

You don’t win trophies for surviving red flags.

But you do get better stories than your friends.

If Red Flags Were Literal Flags, My Love Life Would Look Like a Formula One Race

A Fast-Paced Crash Course in Bad Decisions, Gaslighting, and Emotional Gymnastics

Let’s get this out of the way: If I had a flag for every time I ignored my gut feeling, I could host my own United Nations summit of self-delusion.



If Red Flags Were Literal Flags, My Love Life Would Look Like a Formula One Race

A Fast-Paced Crash Course in Bad Decisions, Gaslighting, and Emotional Gymnastics

About the Creator

Angela David

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