Knock knock… I don’t want to know who’s there

Knock knock! Who’s there?

Another Instagram page bashfully knocking on the door of my walled off page. No thank you, I reply, I’m not interested.

I block ‘Nina’ in an instant. It’s no coincidence we share a name.

But she, or rather he, is not just one of the many bots trawling social media with lurid invites to look at their page. She is another me. Another imitation.

That sinking feeling returns as I delve deeper into my investigation of the page. There’s an instinct women share, a sense of unease, when they know they’re being hunted.

After his year’s hiatus and my year of peace, it’s him again.

My stolen name is the first clue that validates my suspicion.

The second bloody footprint is in the bio, which details Nina’s supposed hobbies. Lover of food, check. The imposter was trying to follow my food blog after all. Lover of travel, check. He met me whilst I was travelling to the airport, after all. Supporter of women’s rights, check.

That last so called passion of this so called Nina set my fury alight. Of course, the irony of this is lost on him. That my blogs about women’s rights should have been inspired by him is lost on him. Or maybe it’s a sick joke, a nod that he knows how I feel about him but continues anyway.

That’s the essence of his pursuit. Knowing my resistance and continuing anyway. Some people say adrenaline caused by fear makes meat taste better to carnivores.

The insatiable hunger of a stalker is one you have to starve. No attention can be sent his way. Even writing this could be feeding him.

His game begun on a train station two years ago. Picture, location and name taken by him and cherished still, 700 days on.

The rules of engagement switched to online where I, like hundreds of women, battled with Instagram fine print to claim back my right to my identity and safety.

The finale takes place, still, in my mind.

As I discovered this new attempt to contact, know, and be me, I felt crushed. My normal work day was suddenly cloaked in an ominous knowledge that I was not forgotten. One more knock on my locked online door enough to destabilise my entire day.

But words from my sister pulled me back from the game. Don’t play, she suggested. Disengage, she insisted. Don’t give him time, thought, or a hold on you. You hold the power.

As the day progressed, I wasn’t convinced about my power. Words from my mother stabilised me on that ledge. Jump, she suggested. Indulge your anger, she insisted. Feel your fury — you need to.

Finally, as new information arose a day later, words from a stranger unleashed a third wave. I reached out to a young woman who resembled me in many ways (but, thankfully was real, not just an imitation) to warn her of the man lurking in her social media followers. She told me that she too knew him — or rather, he knew her and couldn’t get enough. She too had been victim of his pattern. Meet in person, harass online. Her family had been contacted by him, fake accounts pretending to be her had popped up everywhere, and this time she had the danger of distance — he was in her area.

Her words flooded me with confused empowerment. She didn’t tell me anything about how to process this, only that she too was processing it.

Through the flood, the teetering cliff, the endless game, I was not alone. No — it was not his obsession that reminded me of that. It was the force of women around me. Going through similar experiences, understanding, reassuring. Empowering.

Because no matter how many accounts he conjures, he IS alone. But we, we are not.