There Is No Ethan: How Three Women Caught America's Biggest Catfish

by Anna Akbari

There were the polyamorous Burning Man devotees, all eager to convert me;

Thanks to these and countless other nonstarters, I knew what I did and didn’t want in a partner. But rather than a checklist of dealbreakers, I had one big ask: I wanted an equal. Someone who matched my energy and curiosity.

I’d met more than a few Jewish men in New York who casually dated women from diverse backgrounds, but were clear they only wanted to marry a Jewish woman.

“Ok, I can’t talk politics anymore,” I announced without further explanation. “Are you going to San Diego with a dude?” he said, unceremoniously pivoting.

It reminded me of the Wall Street guy, the first and only emotionally abusive boyfriend I’d had. His cruelty was crippling, and yet I felt irrationally connected to him.

My usual fear of being “too much” didn’t surface with him.

When she told me this, I was stunned. All of it sounded improbable and a little insane. What an incredible leap of faith! And yet, it worked and they were happy.

I was just typing out all my thoughts at this point. Our comfort level was high after nearly a week of nonstop communication. I didn’t have much of a filter left.

Body language, vocal tone, eye movement—it would tell me far more than whatever words he typed in that moment.

He had a way of inserting playful levity into these horrible, cruel, dramatic moments. He knew how to kill, then disarm, all with words. All in a matter of minutes.

his eagerness to reflect on our relationship and lay it all out for me in such a precise and elaborate fashion was a huge turn-on.

“I mean a sick cosmic joke,” I clarified, annoyed.

Patience was never my strong suit, and emotionally avoidant ex-boyfriends had scolded me for pushing too hard for movement, so I worried I was being unreasonable in my expectations and repeatedly apologized for them.

The whole thing was depressing me.

was equal parts sympathetic and sulky. I was also starting to feel stupid.

Knowing always soothed my nerves, regardless of the reality. It was the uncertainty that killed me.

was trying to be completely practical and take a leap of faith in the name of love. The cognitive dissonance was making me crazy.

The unfair judgments killed my confidence.

Insatiable curiosity and a nagging what-if got the best of me. Not to mention very real feelings and a deepening emotional attachment.

It was a breaking point for me. Something in me snapped. Anger swelled. He was either fucking with me or taking me for granted. Neither sat well with me.

When guys behaved like that, they were usually sending a signal: I’m not that into you. And that was my cue to leave.

it was the exact wrong movie for that moment: It featured a Scotch-drinking, boxers-wearing Jewish divorcé who meets the New York sophisticate of his dreams.

Normally a confident, ballsy, takes-no-shit professional woman, I folded in on myself until I was nothing more than a wounded child, unable to advocate on her own behalf.

his words crippled me, but it was his silence that broke me. I can’t handle avoidance. It’s my Achilles’ heel. I’d rather have someone scream in my face than refuse to engage.

“I backed out—no real reason, just that I’m a douche,” he responded, dismissing his actions. I thought my head might explode. But despite my anger, I once again became small.

The only escape from this mental hell was meeting. No more digital limbo.

My life had been a long series of obstacles, and I’d built up some resilience. Big, messy, intense life stuff didn’t scare me. I didn’t seek or demand perfection; I just wanted real. I wanted him.

It was a role I was born to play—not just with anyone, but with someone I cared about. I’m the person people can count on. The protector. The caretaker. I show up when it matters most.

believed everything I said to him, but by this point, I also believed he was manipulative and deceptive.

Romantic courtship, he wrote, was focused less on sexual compatibility and more on “sympathy displays.”

Couples are constantly testing each other on how compassionate they can be.

Instead of focusing on his bad behavior or unverifiable claims, I obsessed over my own lovability.

still felt close to him. How could I not? He was—ironically—the most consistent, attentive person in my life. He wanted to know every detail of what I thought and did.

Plus, I hated being misunderstood.

this felt cruel.

My brain is such that it needs to understand things. I’m not a naturally suspicious person at all—in fact, I’m incredibly trusting.

Detached and divested. And maybe I was. It was a form of necessary self-preservation.

How could we not? New York was a small big city.

Curiosity was also a huge piece of what continued to drive me.

his tenacity seemed to confirm it. He did the chasing,