The (s)talking stage: On the dating disadvantage of being an online person

Trigger warning!!!

Warning: I won’t come across very well in this piece. As a journalist who’s very public, it’s not easy to play the demure and sexy mysterious person. On my dating apps (which, as a Muslim woman, I use for the purposes of marriage), it says Faima, occupation: journalist. If you Google those words, any of the 4,000+ articles I’ve written, or my Twitter, Substack, or public Instagram page will come up. And men have done that; researching me during the talking stage. After matching with one guy, he found an article I’d written in 2018 about being sexually assaulted as a child by a religious figure. The silly, light-hearted vibe we’d had in our initial conversation turned solemn as he earnestly apologised for what I’d experienced and said things like, “I’m here for you, Faima,” “Sorry, Faima,” and wanted to talk about it. But maybe I don’t want to talk about being molested, guy! I ended the chat after that. He graciously unmatched.

When you date, the playing field has to be level, but when guys know such intimate things about me, there’s an imbalance – they’ve been privy to too much of my vulnerability. That’s not their fault, of course. As a lifestyle writer, I’ve made a career writing about my life, and this Substack (which is also public) is very personal and vulnerable; anyone can read it.

I don’t have a huge following, so I wouldn’t call myself a public figure, but I am pretty public, and while that’s not always a bad thing, when it comes to dating men, being so available online can even become a dangerous thing when things turn sour.

Recently, I was in New York, where I spent three weeks (readers will know I spend a lot of time in the U.S), and I decided to start dating there as I’m open to relocation and journalism pays better in the States. A man with traits I would never usually go for popped up on my Muzz app with that typical American enthusiasm (my friend Rez described the boisterous American persona perfectly in her Substack – Americans act like they constantly have a camera on them). He wanted to meet up. I was reluctant at first, but my cousin was also going on a date on Sunday and said we could both have our dates at the same time, so I agreed.

The date and I actually had some pretty rare things in common, and he had an easy silliness in him that I liked, not being afraid to be goofy; he suggested karaoke as a first date (London boys would never!), which I declined lol. He was also open to relocating to London. After we matched, he stayed up late reading this Substack, telling me I was a good writer and that I made him feel all sorts of emotions. He knew the speech I wrote for my sister, my heartbreak, my joblessness. Things you tell people organically in your own time, he knew before I even met him.

The day we met, I was a bag of nerves, feeling nauseous beforehand—not as a reflection of my feelings for him, but because I hadn’t been on a date in eight months. On the date, he brought that goofiness with him, which eased my nerves. But he also held my hand, which, as a person with sweaty palms, made me very uncomfortable. This also gave me the ick, especially as a Muslim woman, for obvious reasons. That was my first indication that this man was not for me.

I don’t know if it’s because I was a tourist in New York and wanted to date a local, or if I was affection-starved (he was extremely generous with this), or if I’m just a bad person, but I saw him a few times after that date. But after a week, I knew it wasn’t right and ended it. It turns out people can reject a break-up because that’s what he did, not taking no for an answer.

Over the next few days, I mollified him via WhatsApp, thinking it was the kind thing to do, to let him come to terms with me ending things (we had only met ten days ago!). He insisted he was going to see me off at JFK when I left New York, which I told him not to do multiple times, but eventually I relented and said he could say goodbye in person. He showed up with a gun.

Turns out, you can reject a break-up.

Before you get too alarmed, he didn’t come to shoot me. He has a federal job for which he has a gun (he’s not a cop). But, still, it’s very weird to show up at the airport to say goodbye to someone you supposedly have feelings for, with a weapon. My skin crawled. He even started crying, but I shushed him and left to go through security, even though I had three hours before my flight.

I got back to London on Thursday, and by Saturday he had already booked flights to come and see me in London, even though I expressly told him not to. In those two days of my return, I should have blocked his number, I should have stopped replying to him, I shouldn’t have entertained him. I convinced myself I wasn’t leading him on because I told him every day that I didn’t want to be with him. So why did I keep responding to him? It wasn’t for attention, because male attention isn’t hard to obtain, nor is it a flex. I guess part of me just missed New York, and he was a slice of the Apple.

As his trip approached, I gave one final push, spelling out that he had crossed a boundary by not respecting my wishes on multiple fronts. I told him I wouldn’t see him in London and blocked him on WhatsApp and Instagram. It took him a short few minutes to find my email. It’s in my Twitter bio so I can get journalism commissions. He got on the plane and emailed me every two hours.

When he landed, he got in touch through iMessage (I forgot to block him on this, as WhatsApp was our main source of communication). He sent his location. I blocked him here too. He found me on other apps and persistently messaged me. I got a call from an English number and picked up, thinking it was for a job interview. It was him, pleading to see me. I told him never to contact me or try to find me.

But it wouldn’t be that hard to find me at all. Last week on Instagram, I said I was doing freelance shifts in Canary Wharf and showed the building (I’m doing WFH shifts now, don’t worry). I’ve taken selfies in front of my doorstep, which has a unique tile pattern not seen on my neighbours’. He could even covertly get my address if he disguised himself as someone trying to send a PR package (journalists are way too lax with giving out our addresses). Hell, he could trace my emails to my address; it’s not that difficult.

I know I sound victim-blamey (as though I caused him to harass me just because I’m available online) and like an apologist for an obvious harasser, but truthfully, I feel so disappointed in myself for giving my time to someone like that, who is such a red flag, for jeopardising my safety, for acquiescing to his tantrums and persistent pleas. But I also realise I’m not above being manipulated (even where I felt I had autonomy) and am also human and susceptible to ostensibly earnest words.

He’s now blocked on several accounts but, as I say, they’re all public, so he can find me using a different username. He could read this public piece and want to take revenge. I wouldn’t put it past him, and given the extremely misogynistic climate we live in, I wouldn’t be surprised if he tried to hurt me. Little girls trying to dance to Taylor Swift are getting stabbed, mums and daughters are being attacked in Leicester Square. Ex-soldier Kyle Clifford murdered his ex-girlfriend and her family with a crossbow. In recent years in the UK, a woman has been killed by a man every three days on average. Men don’t seem to hesitate when it comes to being violent towards women.

He’s still in London, and while I tell everyone, “I’m fine! He won’t hurt me! He won’t come near me!” the truth is, I don’t know. I jolt when I hear a noise in my house. I get scared in the shower because it’s too loud to hear if the front door has opened. I’m not the first or the last woman to feel like this.

I regret meeting him. I regret all of it. Maybe I just need to get offline for a bit.