Page 17 - The Ghost of Sean Baldacchin

The Ghost of Sean Baldacchin: 2.5 Years Later — And Still Looking Over My Shoulder

It’s been two and a half years. Two and a half years since I finally walked away from the fiction—and I say finally because leaving a narcissist isn’t a clean break. It’s a slow, agonizing unraveling. A back-and-forth between what you know and what you hoped for. A battle between truth and trauma-bond.

His presence still haunts my life like smoke in my lungs—poisonous and impossible to shake. I thought leaving him would be the hardest part. It wasn’t. The hardest part has been surviving the aftermath.

Because while the proverbial bruises faded, the nightmares didn’t. While my home became mine again, my mind never fully did. Even now, I flinch at sounds I shouldn’t. I freeze when I see vehicles that look like his. I scan crowds. I check locks twice. And still—I don’t feel safe.

That’s what abuse like his does.

It turns the world into a battlefield long after the war is over. He didn’t just lie to me—he built a person out of lies. He constructed an entire identity from fraud and deceit. He claimed he was military. He wore stolen valor like armor. Spoke in trauma-laced stories that were never his. He never served a single day, and yet he used forged documents to land jobs, to gain sympathy, to manipulate his way into people’s hearts and homes. Including mine.

It wasn’t just betrayal. It was psychological warfare. He built trust with stolen honor and used it as a weapon to break me.

And he did.

Piece by piece, he broke me. He drained me financially. Emotionally. Spiritually. And when he was done? He discarded me (and my kids) like garbage.

But he didn’t stay gone.

Even after he left, he kept a tether on me—through shared parenting, through mutual connections, through fear. We’ve only been no contact for six months. And that was a battle. Because every time I tried to pull away, something would happen. Some manipulation. Some crisis. Some fake effort to be a father—just long enough to get inside again.

I couldn’t breathe. And deep down, I know… he isn’t done.

There were moments this past year—terrifying moments—where I truly believed he was trying to take my life. And not in some metaphorical, poetic sense. I mean I felt and still feel hunted. The way he watches me. The way things lined up that shouldn’t have. The near "accidents" that felt too calculated to be coincidence.

I can’t prove it. But I don’t need to. Because my body knows. My intuition knows. And I trust it now—because it’s all I have.

He’s not just dangerous. He’s evil.

A hollow, soulless shell that feeds off control and power.

And I’m not the only one.

Several different women have come forward to me in the past six months. Each with stories so eerily familiar, I felt like I was watching a rerun of my own life. He did the same to them. The lies. The manipulation. The financial abuse. The emotional torment. He didn’t just break me—he’s breaking women like it’s his purpose.

And still, he faces zero consequence.

He walks free while I live in fear. He sleeps peacefully while I sleep with one eye open. He keeps weaving his way into my life through people I know—hurting them, using them, just so he can feed his ego...and to keep watching me.

It’s not subtle. It’s not over.

And it makes me want to scream.

Because how do you ever heal when the threat never truly disappears? How do you let your guard down when you know the second you do, he’ll be there?

I don’t trust people. I don’t trust peace. Every calm moment feels like a setup. Every act of kindness feels suspicious. Love knocks at my door, and all I can think is—what’s the catch?

My children deserve a mother who isn’t always in survival mode. But that’s all I’ve known for so long. And I’m trying. I’ve been in therapy for two years. I’m doing the work. I’m doing the inner child healing, the trauma processing, the boundary building. And yet—every time I think I’m finally free, someone new reaches out. Someone else he’s hurt. Someone else who didn’t see it coming.

It never ends.

And sometimes…

Sometimes, I don’t know if I’m healing or just adapting to the fear.

But here’s what I do know:

I am not silent anymore.

I am not protecting his reputation.

I am not carrying shame that isn’t mine.

I am not minimizing the abuse just because he wasn’t punching me every day.

The emotional abuse was real.

The psychological torment was real.

The fear is real.

He is still out there, pretending to be someone he’s not.

And I am still here, trying to reclaim the pieces he never had the right to touch.

This is my truth.

My survival.

My unfinished healing.

My warning to anyone else who sees his mask and thinks it’s a face.

And if you’ve been there—or you’re there now—please hear me:

You’re not crazy.

You’re not weak.

You’re not alone.

And you are not to blame.

We survive one breath at a time.

One truth at a time.

One step forward—even if it’s a shaky one.

I speak, because silence only serves him.

And I’m done serving him anything—especially my silence.

🫶🫖 𝓙𝓡𝓣

https://www.stolenvalour.ca/2025/03/14/sean-baldacchin-canadas-most-decorated-un-soldier/