Words That Bind

Why I saved everything he told me to erase.

I sat in my trauma specialist’s office, still reeling from Erik’s disappearance three weeks prior. At that point, I was trying to make sense of everything—not just what had happened between us, but why it had played out the way it did. I told her about the secrecy, the stolen moments walking through the woods, and the time he made me scrambled eggs and bacon at his home. I recounted the hours we shared in his office at the seminary, and the morning coffees that turned into entire days shirking every responsibility either of us had. And then, the sudden, calculated erasure of it all when the truth came out. For six months, Erik built a world for us made from stolen pieces of the past and bricks from a nonexistent future. Then, with the weight of truth bearing down on both of us, not only did the facade come crashing down, but he tried to throw me inside the building as it crumbled while running in the opposite direction as quickly as he could.

Jane, my trauma specialist, listened carefully as I unfolded the story of us. As I spoke, it felt like I was breaking some unspoken rule, like I was doing something wrong. Erik had created a dynamic where he was both the hero and the victim—savior and someone who needed saving. The emotional violence he used to push and pull me when we were together made me feel guilty for telling Jane the truth, even long after he was gone.

But then she said something that shook me to my core:

"In my 22 years of sitting with women in trauma, I’ve heard this story many times. I’m going to tell you something you won’t be able to fully hear for another year or two. Erik chose you because you’re an outsider. That organization is built to protect the pastor, not you. And Erik knows it."

Her words hit me hard, and she was right: I wasn’t ready to fully understand them.

"This wasn’t just emotional manipulation," she added. "This was spiritual abuse."

I squinted, still protective of Erik and definitely unsure of Jane's assessment.

"If that’s true," I replied, my voice thick with skepticism, "Erik is someone I’m going to have to defend myself against."

"Absolutely," Jane said, without hesitation. "And I will help you. But first, my priority is making sure you’re safe—physically, emotionally, mentally, and spiritually. You should also know that it’s likely no one will believe your story. They’ll fight you every step of the way… unless you have irrefutable proof."

I wasn’t sure what she meant by proof. “I don’t know what that would look like. I mean, I don’t have photos or videos of... us. How do you prove something like that? All I have are words—everything we ever wrote to one another.”

Jane leaned back in her chair. She started rubbing her right pant leg the way she did when she had something to say but hadn’t said it yet.

"Wow." Her hand slowed. "You may be the woman who will change this story. No one I’ve talked to in your situation has ever had that kind of proof."

"Well, when we were caught, the last thing Erik told me to do was erase all our messages and delete my cache. I didn't know what that meant, but it was an immediate red flag. One minute he was on his way to come pick me up. The next minute, he was giving me advice about how to erase my hard drive. Instead, I saved everything.

I saved it because it was all I had left of him. I saved it because it was precious to me. I kind of hate talking about these words like they're a weapon."

I didn’t know it yet, but that decision to save everything would become the dividing line between silence and accountability.

What I hadn’t fully understood at the time was that Erik stitched certain promises into the fabric of our relationship, promises meant to tighten as he walked away. Of particular strength was this pledge: 'If anyone ever finds out about us, I will probably disappear. Maybe even for a long time. But I will come back. I will always come back for you. Will you wait for me?' I said yes. And I meant it. Thus, I wore my loyalty to Erik like a corset for over a year.

Which is why it took the guidance of a trauma specialist, two pastoral counselors, and a therapist to help me see that Erik wasn’t who he pretended to be. He wasn’t someone who loved me but felt bound to a life he had chosen long ago. He wasn’t a man who stayed out of obligation while bravely staving off loneliness with a golden shield of morality. He was, instead, masterful at using emotional hooks, manipulation, and his signature charm to get what he wanted.

Eventually, I shared my evidence with the proper leadership. I learned that after Erik resigned to avoid an investigation, he may have lied to the seminary about why he was resigning, or the seminary lied to the faculty by telling the faculty that his resignation was not due to a moral failure. Either way, the truth is out.

And the evidence?

It's no longer a story etched in tablets resting against the sides of my heart. Now, it's simply a tool with which I’m carving my own healing. The evidence has given me the freedom to tell my story.

Photo credit: Eda Akaltun