Relationship Red Flags

by Maureen Pollard

Maureen Pollard, Emotional Health Editor, MSW, RSW is a registered social worker with a private practice in Cobourg, Ontario. Visit her online at: maureenpollardmsw.com

A person wearing a black t-shirt and grimacing with their head bowed. Their hands and fingers are digging into their head and hair, as if they're in pain.

February is celebrated as a time of love, and we like to snuggle in together to keep the cold of winter away. But love isn’t always easy. We learn this in all of the romantic comedies and dramas that show us the pitfalls and challenges of love. What we don’t see as often is that love is not always safe, either. 

Some relationships turn dangerous. When one partner uses power and control to keep the other one isolated and vulnerable, it can sometimes lead to violence. As you get to know someone and your romantic relationship deepens, there are some red flags to watch for which suggest your partnership may not have a healthy balance:

They tell you you’re perfect and seem to put you on a pedestal. This can feel flattering at first, but, since perfection is an unrealistic expectation, eventually the person will realize you aren’t perfect. And since nobody’s perfect, that could be a problem.

They don’t stop when you ask them to. Whether it’s making an annoying sound near you, tickling or some other generally unwelcome contact, if the person consistently ignores your boundaries once you’ve said, “stop,” that's a warning sign your needs and desires aren’t being considered important.

They want to keep the relationship secret or low profile. If your partner is really into you and all is well,  they should be happy to show the world that you’re together.

They rush you through the stages of the relationship. They’re in a big, big hurry to spend every moment together, to move in together, or whatever the next step in your relationship might be. This can be a sign they don’t want to give you time to get to know them and reflect on how you feel.

Image: Family Planning National Training Center, rhntc.org

They don’t like your family or friends. Sure, your boyfriend/girlfriend might dislike someone in your circle for some reason, but if they dislike everyone in your life, and don’t want you to spend time with anyone but them, it could be a sign they’re trying to isolate you from your support systems.

They roll their eyes at you a lot, call you names, make fun of you or put you down. These behaviours all show serious disrespect toward you.  It may seem like they feel superior to you or that you are a burden. This sort of manipulation may make you feel they are doing you a favour by staying in the relationship, lowering your confidence and increasing your dependence on them.

They’re incapable of apologizing. Or they apologize, but then they do the exact same thing again, which shows that they weren’t really remorseful, just trying to get you to calm down.

They demand access to your phone, email and social media accounts. If they want to read all of your messages and need to know everything you’re doing, that’s a sign of some serious trust issues that could develop into a big problem.

They use guilt, intimidation and threats to hurt you, or someone else (including themselves). If they use any of these tactics to try to get you to do things their way, or to do what they want you to do, there is a chance they could act on some of their threats by hitting you or becoming violent. If physical violence happens, it’s time to end the relationship. For more help with that, see our article “When it’s Time to Leave” in this issue. 

If you notice one of these red flags once in a while, someone could be having a bad day, or learning to be a better partner. If you are on the receiving end of any of these behaviours on a regular basis,  it’s time to reassess your relationship. And it is important to note that physical violence is never okay, not even one time.  If that happens, it’s time to end the relationship. Period. 

These tools can help:  

rhntc.org/sites/default/files/resources/fpntc_hlthy_rlshp_wheel_2019-03-01.pdf  

octevaw-cocvff.ca/dating-violence-a-safety-plan  

kidshelpphone.ca/topic/sex-relationships/dating-violence/

How Compliments Can Cause Inner Chaos

by Hailey Hechtman, ​for The 44 North

Contributing Writer X: @HaileyHechtman IG: @hailey.hechtman

Hailey Hechtman is a social impact leader and mental health advocate. She is passionate about inspiring positive change through community collaboration, constant learning and self-reflection. Watch her interview on 'Life Outside the Box' here.

“You look great! How’d you do it?”, “You must have such discipline!” “I bet you feel amazing”, I smiled politely and dove into the recounting of half-truths. I spoke to the healthy foods I was consuming, the workout routine that left me feeling energized. It wasn’t that these things weren’t true, they were just part of a larger, unspoken story that had been ruling my life for years. When I think back at the steady stream of compliments that flowed so easily from the mouths of friends and strangers alike, I feel both a fond appreciation for their light and a deep despair for their unknowing contribution to my inner monologue. Fueling the voice of my eating disorder with each and every validation. 

By that time in my life, ever tangled with the shame of not being good enough and the conditional confidence that came with flickers of admiration, I had already experienced countless years of focus on my body. Growing up in a larger body, I recall the opposite attention. The snide comments from young boys, the side glances at what I was wearing, the discomfort that came from having to use that little side desk attached to my lecture hall chair that despite the amount of pressure I applied, could not and would not sit flat. 

In my early 20s, I started down what at the time felt like a noble journey, I wanted to feel better in my skin, I wanted to be able to move more swiftly and have more energy pulsing through my veins. Innocently, I started incorporating short walks and adding in vegetables. My body began to change in ways that I had never experienced and then the comments flipped. There was an appreciation for my efforts, there was confirmation that I was on the right path. People were cheering me on. This felt good, warm.

As time went on and as the encouragement turned to requests for knowing my secret or glorification of the beauty that I had now amassed from my so-called success, that is when the darkness started to set in. Food turned to poison, movement turned to a prerequisite following every bite. As I became smaller, I became obsessive too. Every moment recounting what I had swallowed, each day tallying up the final count to ensure my perfect score. My eyes were shut to the world around me, my attention laser focused on what I looked like and how I could keep inching towards the beauty standard that I had always envied. Even in this time of fixated ambition, I still felt as though I was failing. The stretch marks that covered my body were a reminder of who I used to be, the loose skin showcasing that once I was someone else. This body, despite its significant size change, didn’t match the before and after perfection I was anticipating. 

Throughout these years, engulfed by the eating disorder monster in my head, with a few minor exceptions of those closest to me who kindly pleaded for me to see how deep the claws were embedded into my back and encouraged me to seek help, everyone else cheered. The praise was both addictive and draining. It activated that reward center while simultaneously building up a stockpile of anxiety, shame and self-consciousness. I know to this day that the vast majority of those who I spoke to at that time meant no harm, they like many in society, have been conditioned to see someone who has gone from a larger body to a smaller one as a prize to behold, and without thinking patted the eating disorder monster on its head triumphantly. 

Throughout my recovery, I have thought about this: had I been in a smaller body from the start would the alarm bells have rung? If I had taken on the look typically associated with those struggling with ED would that have changed the narrative? Would it have led them to direct me towards help rather than towards the mirror to stare at what I had “achieved”? 

What does it mean for us to perceive success without questioning the object of our admiration? How does assuming someone’s experience impact the safety they feel speaking honestly to their experience? 

I think about that friend that we all have who is working around the clock. They are hustling, they are striving to climb the ladder, they are getting promotions or building their business or working more contracts than there are waking hours in the day. We look at them and we think “wow, they’ve made it.” Next time we see them we shower them with awe. That job, that apartment, that outfit—clearly, they are killing it. But what if they are not? What if they are past the point of burnout? What if they are waking up with a pit of worry, chronically overwhelmed with what lay ahead of them?

Then there is that classmate that is always such a good time at parties. We see them out every night, they are drinking, dancing, crawling into bed at 5am. We run into them in the hallway of our building and invite them out, nudging them with “you are always the life of any party.” Did you know that they are working through addiction, that the days of constant drinking comes from a place of hurt that they cannot seem to shake, that alcohol has become a support system to numb the feelings that they are not yet ready to unpack? 

None of them, not our friend bogged down by burnout, nor our classmate silently suffering with addiction or my 20-something self obsessed with every calorie want to disappoint you. None of them want to cut you off mid-compliment to let you know the sheer mental force of their pain. They want to shine brightly, they want to take your praise with pride and give you the thank you that you have been reaching for. They want to read you the formula for their so-called success or list of resources that have built those skills that you so look up to. 

So how do we then reframe? How do we move away from these automatic responses, these impulses to assume without having the complete story? 

We take a moment to inquire. We ask the person how they are feeling.  We mention that we have noticed this big life event, this milestone or this trait that we are curious about. We normalize these conversations. We create space for each person to come out of that shame spiral and instead speak to the realness of their struggles so that those who are still buried deep below can see and hear it. We learn instead to compliment the qualities in the people around us--- “I love how kind you are”, “I really value your sense of humor”, “I enjoy your eclectic taste in music and your first-class book recommendations.” By seeing the core of someone as what they bring to the world rather than the way that they look or the checkboxes on their Game of Life milestones list, we hush the inner monologue and activate that inner child who just wants to be loved for who they are.

Before you run out and apologize to anyone who you have ever showered with admiration before sense-checking their circumstances, first remember to give yourself grace. It is so ingrained in our humanity to praise based on what we see right in front of us. Instead of belittling those past interactions or over-analyzing the dialogue between yourself and your best friend at brunch last week, embrace that this is a new practice that you can take with you as you connect with others moving forward. It takes intentionality, it takes conscious thought to move away from a typical pattern. By adding these communication strategies, you are building not only your own conversational toolkit but modelling this way of connecting to all those you meet from here on out and that is something worth celebrating. 

Finding Love: When Your Loved Ones Vote Differently Than You

by Mikaela Brewer ​for The 44 North

A red “I Voted” sticker, stuck to a fingertip

At the peak of a cool, June golden hour, Henrie searched for her house keys in the pocket of her jeans. They jingled around her fingers on their sparkly purple coil, singing with the wind chimes hanging from the porch. The old wood steps creaked, as if the groan of its paint-skin peeling, and the stone cardinal riding the chimes jolted as Henrie bumped their head on them. She’d always thought this a strange design—cardinals always appeared in pairs.

Finally finding the right key, she unlocked the door and sniffed for expected tobacco smoke. They slipped off their hiking boots, and tiptoed toward the foyer stairs. 

“Henrietta? Honey, is that you?” A familiar, gravelly voice wound around the doorway of the living room.

Henrie breathed a soft sigh. “Yes, Grandpa, it’s me.” Henrie heard the T.V. volume decrease as her grandfather, Danny, shuffled out of his back and neck pillows. He stopped in the doorway, with a warm smile that reached Henrie like a ghost hug. They knew he was wondering why they hadn’t announced their entrance, as usual. But Danny was sweet, and respectful, which Henrie always appreciated. The grief of losing a mother wasn’t the same as losing a daughter, but the state of the old farmhouse consistently clarified that the ache was shared.

The quiet was a bit disarming. Danny must’ve fed the animals a bit early, Henrie thought. Why?

“Would you like anything special for dinner? I wish I could say the tomatoes were ready for pasta sauce, but not quite.” Danny’s eyes crinkled with playful frustration.

“Oh, that’s okay. I’m good with whatever you’re feeling, honestly. I’m a little tired to think.” The setting sun’s golden beams made the floating dust in the air between them visible. One beam shone directly on a black and white graduation photo of Ellen, Henrie’s mother, nearly coercing the colours of life out of its past as if they were behind the wall the photo was nailed to. 

“Well why don’t we cook something together? Maybe you can tell me about your Tuesday afternoon?”

Clever, Danny. This is what Henrie did not want to do, but they didn’t know what else to say. “Okay, sure.” 

“Perfect. Let’s do it.” Danny walked down the hall toward the kitchen, which was mostly windows overlooking Ellen’s garden. It was Henrie’s favourite room in what had been her mother’s childhood home. In the sun, everything caught fire, especially her and Danny’s deep amber hair, his now streaked with silver. At night, the dark orange walls looked almost black lit by a blue-white moon. The whole room smelled like basil, bread, and the ripening tomatoes climbing an open window. 

As Danny washed his hands, he offered a look of invitation and expectation. Not unkind. But one Henrie knew well: Why, at 23 and living at home, she hadn’t been “working” this afternoon. 

“Well, I voted, first,” she paused for a reaction but Danny just nodded as he poured green pasta curls into a corningware dish. “And then I went to an open meeting at the Seed Library. It was about queer ecology and ensuring community gardens and other natural spaces and parks are queer, trans, indigenous, and Black and Brown centred and inclusive leading into PRIDE, Juneteenth, and Indigenous Peoples Month. I wrote down pages of notes, and I’m hoping to volunteer a bit more, because, you know, learning about how to organize and activate a community is how we do more than just vote.” Henrie stopped here, aware of her swelling eagerness. 

Danny nodded again, but looked down as he rinsed rosemary residue from his hands. “I voted, too.” 

Henrie smiled with their lips pressed together. Danny mistook it for despair, and an opportunity.

“Don’t worry, love. Once we get a new government, they’re going to mend this cost of living crisis. You’ll be able to move out and live the life you’re hoping for—that I’m hoping for you.”

Henrie’s brows knit. She didn’t know how to respond to her unspoken question being answered. 

“Grandpa, how could you vote for them?”

“What?” He asked with genuine confusion, again not unkindly, but defensively. “I’ve always loved and supported you. And learned about the 2SLGBTQIA+ community. Did I say it right? I was just watching that series with RuPaul! And I finished Season 1 of that show last night! The Last of Us? Right? It’s very good. I really like it.”

Henrie’s heart seemed to stall between beats to take up more blood, but the delay hurt. 

“I know you love me, Grandpa. I do. I really do.” She meant it. “But that’s not what we’re talking about. I agree with you. We are in a violent cost of living crisis. But it certainly won’t be fixed or solved by any of our parties or leaders. We have to vote for harm reduction, and not just for ourselves or the people closest to us. Maybe it’s like Joel trying to save Ellie in The Last of Us—he was only considering her when he killed all those people to free her from the hospital. And it wasn’t for lack of love. It was almost like—” Henrie paused to think, “love out of context.”

“But I’d do what he did, Henrietta. I think I would. Wouldn’t you?”

“I don’t know, and that’s what makes this so hard. Maybe Joel and Ellie are a poor example. But we do make judgement errors when we don’t consider folks outside of our immediate circle of conversation and influence. How much we love someone close to us should be fuel for learning to love others who aren’t.”

“Yes,” Danny tried to take a calming breath, “you’re right about that bit. But this government has messed up everything for your generation. We need change! How could you vote for them? Again?” 

Henrie glanced at the tomatoes growing up the kitchen window frame, green but reddening, reflecting off of Danny’s furrowed face.

“You’re right. We do! But change has to come from us. And when we vote—a bare minimum step—we have to think about who, in a position of power, is most likely to join that change when we make it. And react with fear, control, and surveillance least often.” 

“Henrietta, you’re young. You’re confused—”

“No, I’m not. Can’t you see we’re saying the same thing?” 

“You just voted for the same crap that’s been happening for ten years!”

“There has been a lot of trash. Yes. A lot of manipulation. But reviving a past—before the past ten years—isn’t change. Doing this won’t build or enact the new pillars we need to float our country’s dock.” 

From the living room, a breaking news anchor’s voice wafted in. The election results. 

Henrie and Danny made sharp eye contact before hustling into the living room. Both were silent as the election was declared, much earlier than anticipated. Henrie felt her socks sink further into the tiger-print carpet than usual, because it hadn’t been vacuumed. 

“Well. That’s just perfect. Good job.” Danny’s voice wavered as he walked out the back door to the garden, knelt in the dirt with both knees and elbows, and put his head in his hands.  

Henrie jogged upstairs, flopped onto their bed, and opened Andrea Gibson’s Substack. 

The first poem that popped up was a video of “What Love Is”. They hadn’t heard it before. Henrie wept as she listened to it, facing her mother’s handwriting—accidentally in plum-purple Sharpie—on the top right corner of her vanity mirror. 

“Where there is rage, remember its tenderness. Where there is tenderness, don’t forget its rage.”

[This is an invitation to pause reading & watch Andrea read us their breathtaking poem; we don’t have copyright permissions to reprint it!]

Face damp, Henrie stood to look at their face in the mirror. Her freckles seemed bolder, like wet versus dry rocks. In the mirror’s reflection, Henrie looked out her open window. A mist of rain sprayed lightly across the backs of her arms, bringing with it a few lilac petals from the bush that climbed the back of the house. Henrie didn’t wipe away her tears on the way to the printer downstairs, and then out to the garden. 

***

Danny was tenderly thumbing the tomatoes, both a fruit and a vegetable, as if two truths simultaneously. Henrie walked slowly toward him, remembering something from earlier that day, at the Seed Library: patience as the vital cornerstone of nature, and of course, gardening. When they flourish, not unlike a family, it’s not always due to their fertility and reproductivity, but to their depth, circularity, and broadness of influence. Our garden and our grief is what we have in common, Henrie thought. 

Henrie approached Danny, dropped to their knees, and placed a hand over his. “I don’t blame you.”

“I know. I don’t blame you either.”

She took a deep breath and handed her grandfather a paper with a poem printed on it. He took a few moments to read it, right there among the tomatoes and lilacs. Tears fell into the imprints where his hands had been pressed into the soil. He read one of the last lines out aloud:

““I’m 76 years old, he said, and I just tonight figured out what love is.””

“I know what love is at 23 because you’ve shown it to me—in ways like this poem. And that’s where we’ll try to understand and forgive each other, okay?”

Danny nodded. He smeared soil across his cheeks, like a football player or a warrior, as he tried to clear his tears. “Could I share something with you, too?” 

Henrie nodded, eagerly. 

“Victor Hugo said, once, that “Certain thoughts are prayers. There are moments when, whatever the attitude of the body, the soul is on its knees.” Our souls are both on their knees, Henrie, I know. Especially right now. But because they’re here, they see eye to eye. Let’s stay for a moment. Let’s talk from that place.”

Henrie closed their eyes and took their grandfather’s hands, nodding gently. Two cardinals landed on the lilac bush beside them. She tilted her head up to the warmth of the afternoon sun, the smell of petrichor, and colours of the garden making a mosaic against her eyelids. They thought—perhaps prayed—to always be moved by what love is.