I’m not ready to share the exact number yet. The truth is, I lost far more than I want to admit. But what matters isn’t the figure — it’s how it happened, and what it revealed about trust, technology, and longing.
[Note: my main blog, Aspie Art Journey, is where I’m building my illustrated memoir, Lines on the Spectrum. This new space focuses more on the dating app and scam stories that directly feed into that larger project.]
And let me be clear from the beginning: this isn’t about being stupid. That’s the assumption many people make when they hear about scams — “I’d never fall for that. Only an idiot would.” But scammers aren’t preying on stupidity. They are master manipulators. They prey on trust, hope, and longing. They use patterns that look safe, systems that feel credible, and emotions that feel real. Even cautious, educated people get caught, because the trap is built to feel exactly like the thing you’ve been searching for.
This post barely scratches the surface of what happened to me. One thing about Asperger’s is that I go down rabbit holes. I fixate on details. And I’ve got more details than most people would ever want in a blog post. That’s why I’ve been building other ways to share the story — guides, an illustrated zine, even a memoir. Some of these are already live; some are still in progress. This is only the beginning.
The Romance Layer
What I fell into was a romance scam — one of the most common forms of online fraud. I had researched these scams before, thought I knew the red flags, and still I didn’t see it. Why? Because this one was dressed in legitimacy.
Lina and Elena weren’t just intermittent chat partners — they moved into my life like partners. We didn’t only trade and cheer over numbers; we shared daily routines, family stories, and small personal rituals. We had video calls where I could see their faces and the background of their lives—photos on a shelf, a parent walking by, a dog in the room. We talked about the music we loved, the weird little embarrassments we still carried, the tiny plans you make when you imagine a future with someone. We argued about nothing, we saved jokes for each other, and we planned hypothetical weekends.
It went further: I rented a month-to-month condominium with the very real plan that Lina would move in after a few weeks and that we’d decide on a common residence together. That wasn’t grand fantasy — it was part of the private scaffolding we were building. The condo felt like a rehearsal for life. I could see how ordinary it would all look: groceries on the counter, a place for her sketchbooks, a spot for my brushes. I began to think in the plural — we this, we that. That sense of cohabitation felt like commitment.
Those interactions built a terrifying intimacy. It’s one thing to exchange messages at set times; it’s another to video-call and feel like someone knows exactly how you fold your hands, what you say when you’re scared, what cadence makes you laugh. I started to imagine a long-term bond. The illusion was braided into the system: the platform created structure; the women supplied the life. Together they made a convincing reality.
They were not clumsy. They were frighteningly good at it. These were professionals in emotional engineering — people from another planet who had studied tenderness and learned how to emulate it. They matched tone, remembered the smallest details, anticipated my moods. Calling them “master manipulators” barely does the technique justice; they were surgical in the way they inserted themselves into the rhythms of my life.
The Trading Rules
The trading scam wasn’t chaotic. It was executed on a legitimate, well-known trading platform — the sort of platform everyone would recognize if I named it — which made everything look above board. The odds were stacked to feel reassuring: a polished interface, real-time charts, recognizable logos, and a system that behaved exactly like a true exchange.
I wasn’t told to trade blindly. I was given rules: exact amounts, precise times, specific directions. “Options trade. Buy Up. 60 seconds. $3,500.” The rules never wavered, only the amounts and timeframes. And for a while, they always “worked.” The numbers climbed. Screens filled with green. The platform looked like the real thing; the profits looked like the real thing.
That convergence of authority — a reputable platform plus the emotional backing of Lina and Elena — created a false gravity. For someone whose nervous system prays for pattern and logic, the combination felt like proof. Structure plus encouragement equals trust.
The Gut Punch
The first withdrawal — $5,000 — went through. I watched it move to my account and felt a rush: validation, relief, a giddy sense of vindication. That transfer sealed the illusion. If I could move five grand out, then all the charts and conversations had to be true.
But the next withdrawal attempt was the crack. Suddenly, language changed. I was accused of “suspicious activity.” I was told the account flagged as potential money laundering. New fees appeared — percentages described in clinical tones, framed as standard regulatory or exchange procedures. “This is normal,” the scripts said. “We need X% to proceed.”
This is what’s now widely called a “pig butchering” scam — fattening up trust and illusion over weeks and months, then demanding impossible fees to cash out. That’s the moment the platform revealed itself.
My body knew before my reasoning did. The stomach clench was immediate, like being punched in the gut. My hands trembled as I scrolled through the messages again and again. I felt cold and hot by turns — a flush rising up my neck, then numbness in my fingers. Sleep dissolved into a crawl of restless nights. I paced barefoot across the living room, repeating the same questions to myself: Is there a way out? Am I the idiot? Did I imagine all this? The dissonance between how real it had felt and how obviously false it now seemed hit like a physical blow.
When the realization deepened, it brought more than grief. It brought an unbearable humility — the kind that sits heavy in your chest and makes you small.
Secrecy and Shame
From the beginning I’d kept this to myself. I thought I knew better than to tell anyone; I thought if I could just prove it, then the proof would quiet the doubts and make everything right. I told myself the secrecy was tactical, protective.
I even looked at an $800,000 house near my brother’s house, walking through rooms I’d hang my work in, planning where a partner’s coat would live. I was imagining a life that felt suddenly reachable. Outside, family whispered. “Where’s he going to get the money?” they asked. I didn’t tell them because I wasn’t ready to reveal how I’d made so much money so quickly. I wanted to keep everything private.
When the truth emerged, the shame was immediate and corrosive. It wasn’t just embarrassment; it was a loss of identity. I had built a story — of cleverness, of finally finding a solution — and now the story was a lie. The shame translated into a physical set of symptoms: tightness in the throat, a hollow in the stomach, a flush that wouldn’t leave my face. I avoided mirrors for weeks. I rehearsed excuses in my head and felt foolish even composing them.
I did tell one trusted confidant, who listened and helped me navigate the early emergency. Even when I ignored their advice, having someone witness what I was going through mattered. Without that one person, I’m not sure I would have survived the first months of unraveling.
What I Missed
Losing money was brutal, but the collateral damage to my life was worse. Mara was real. We met in person, not online, and spent long phone calls together, met for pickleball, shared food, stories, errands. There was chemistry, a possibility for something steady. And because I spent so much time in chats that had no real future, I let Mara’s chance slip away. Maybe she reconnected with her ex; I still don’t know where she went. The point is that I failed to prioritize what was right in front of me: the available, the tactile, the living.
And time was drained in other ways too. Hours I could have devoted to exploring endless miles of mountain bike trails, creating art, and finishing pages of the memoir, were siphoned into a virtual echo chamber. I told myself I was building a future; what I was doing was sacrificing a present that cannot be reclaimed. The grief for that lost time is quiet but persistent.
The Asperger’s Factor
Looking back, the threads of autism are plain. Asperger’s has often made me literal, methodical, obsessed with patterns. I found safety in rules. Lina and Elena supplied patterned affection; the platform supplied patterned profit. My wiring made the whole arrangement look like a safe system.
It’s crucial to say this again: it wasn’t stupidity. It was the Anatomy of Vulnerability. Scammers identify the patterns someone is most likely to trust, and then they build a system that mimics them. They don’t rely on ignorance — they exploit need.
The Fallout and the Rituals
When the illusion finally shattered, I found myself needing structure that wasn’t going to betray me. I needed rituals that belonged to me, not to a program or a persona. So I built them.
I started small: lighting incense in the morning, the fragile little smoke acting as a marker that the day had begun and that it was mine. I took a vow to ramp up my daily exercise ritual — not just moving, but purposeful movement: power-walking up and down large hills, mountain biking new trails that demanded intense focus and skill, and returned me to my body. I brought this renewed focus to all areas of life, from mundane activities to cooking, done without distraction, tasting “all things” as if presence mattered. These rituals weren’t spiritual theatre; they were an attempt to reclaim agency.
Over time, the rituals replaced the phantom patterns the scammers had built. The small acts stitched together a new sense of meaning. I stopped pacing the floor at night and started lighting incense, writing more, chatting with real friends, sitting with a book, just being. I found these new rhythms and attentiveness could be my ally rather than a bait.
Lessons I’m Taking Away
1. Scams don’t always look like scams. Sometimes they look like opportunity — designed by master manipulators who know how to press on trust, longing, and hope. Romance scams and crypto scams survive because they emulate the very structures we rely on for safety.
2. Even cautious, educated people can be caught. It’s not about stupidity. It’s about being human, and sometimes being wired to trust patterns more deeply.
3. Recovery is about more than money. Rebuilding means reclaiming time, re-establishing rituals, and learning to value presence over projected futures.
What’s Next?
This blog post is only the surface. I’ve been pulling together resources that map the deeper terrain — from how these scams operate to how to rebuild after them.
• $7 Guide: Seven Deadly Dating Scams
– Seven dating scams, each with blog-length examples from my experiences, in one packet; plus, two bonus examples of dating app schemes.
• Coming soon: $27 and $97 guides
– Practical recovery work, boundary setting, and the psychology of manipulation. The $97 guide is a 10-module “mini-course.”
• Illustrated Memoir: Lines on the Spectrum
– A longer arc of scams, autism, longing, art, and the work of rebuilding.
• 22-page Zine (illustrated in comic book-style)
– Splash pages, fragments of lyrics, and images that capture the disorientation and the reclamation.
Resources if You’re Worried About Scams
If you suspect you’ve been targeted or want to protect yourself, here are places worth checking:
FBI guidance on romance scams:(https://www.fbi.gov/scams-and-safety/common-scams-and-crimes/romance-scams)
FTC “What to do if you think you’ve been scammed” (https://consumer.ftc.gov/articles/what-do-if-you-were-scammed)
New York Times on crytpo scams and dating apps (https://www.nytimes.com/2022/02/21/technology/crypto-scammers-new-target-dating-apps.html?searchResultPosition=2)
Consumer protection tips on avoiding online scams (https://consumer.ftc.gov/scams)
Support groups for scam victims (https://www.scamvictimsunited.com/)
This piece is the beginning of what I want to say. If it resonates, consider starting with the $7 guide. If it stings, you aren’t alone — and there are practical things you can do right now to protect yourself and begin rebuilding.