What a wild love story, borderline personality disorder, and a stolen key fob taught me about the parts of ourselves we hide — and what happens when someone draws them out.
Hi everybody. I get a lot of requests to be on my podcast, and I’ll be honest — I usually pass. But when Stephen Paul Edwards reached out, something about him intrigued me. Stephen is a writer with a PhD in spiritual counseling, and he’s the author of a book called The Venus Fly Trap. It’s a memoir about a relationship that was, by any measure, extraordinary. Wild. Funny. Erotic. And also deeply painful.
We had one of those conversations where forty-plus minutes felt like five. And I walked away thinking about themes that come up constantly in my work with couples — the parts of ourselves we exile, the relationships that force us to look at those parts, and the terrifying freedom that comes when you stop hiding.
I want to share some of what we talked about, because whether or not your story looks anything like Stephen’s, I think the underlying dynamics are going to feel very familiar.
How a Flower Question Became a Prophecy
The title of Stephen’s book came from the woman herself — and the way it happened tells you a lot about this relationship.
Stephen had just met her. They were texting about their first date, and he asked her a simple question: what’s your favorite flower? She said Bird of Paradise. Stephen, who has a very English, very dry sense of humor, texted back something like, “No way, mine too. But it’s a bit expensive. What’s your second favorite?”
She texted back within seconds: Venus fly trap.
And there it was. She was telling him exactly who she was, right from the beginning. She could be the Bird of Paradise — beautiful, exotic, stunning. And she could be the Venus fly trap. Both were true. Stephen said something that stuck with me: deep in his subconscious, he knew. He knew she was the Venus fly trap and he was the fly. But his desire to be with her overrode that intuition.
I talk about this with clients all the time.
That moment where something hits you intuitively — a warning, a knowing — and then your ego, your loneliness, your need to be with someone, pushes that knowing underground. It’s one of the most human things we do. And it’s one of the most costly.
A Fantasy Life That Wasn’t Real Life
Stephen was living in a 7,500-square-foot mansion. He was making a million dollars a year. He was driving a Rolls Royce. And the woman he fell for — he calls her Tamar in the book — was a former international supermodel. Five-eleven. Gorgeous. Extraordinarily intelligent. Extraordinarily intuitive.
And she had acute borderline personality disorder. All nine diagnostic symptoms, off the charts.
The stories Stephen told me were the kind you can’t look away from. They almost got thrown off a luxury cruise ship after having sex on the penthouse veranda while passengers watched from the deck above. She got banned from his entire neighborhood after the police showed up with dogs and six sheriff’s cars. She threw a fake engagement party for them at a bar in Miami without telling him. She stole the key fob to his Rolls Royce so he couldn’t leave her hotel — then pretended she had no idea what he was talking about.
And through all of it, Stephen loved her. He still does. He told me that directly, and I believe him.
But here’s what I found most striking about the way Stephen described their life together: he called it a fantasy world. Not real life. They didn’t have kids. They traveled constantly. They stayed in beautiful hotels. They had a sex room in the mansion and played backgammon in between everything else. It was exciting and intense and it was, by his own admission, not sustainable.
He compared her to heroin. And he said the same thing a heroin addict would say: I know I can never go near her again. Because if I do, I’m right back where I was.
Borderline Personality Disorder: What I Want People to Understand
I want to pause here and say something about borderline personality disorder, because I think it’s important.
BPD exists on a spectrum, like most things in our field. Some people have milder forms that are very treatable. They can manage it. It doesn’t run their lives. Other people have it acutely, and the picture is much harder.
In Stephen’s case, Tamar’s BPD was severe. And the piece that made it truly heartbreaking was this: her father had put her in an asylum when she was sixteen years old. So she would never go to therapy. Never. Because in her mind, if anyone found out she had this issue, they’d put her back in. That fear was so deep and so primal that it closed the door on any possibility of treatment.
That’s the part of this story that, as a clinician, really gets to me. The disorder itself is painful enough. But when someone’s early experiences have made them terrified of the very help that could give them relief — that’s a kind of trap that’s much harder to escape than any relationship.
And I think Stephen understood that. When he finally made the decision to end the relationship, it wasn’t because he stopped loving her. It was because he realized this particular disorder, at this severity, in a person who would never accept treatment — there was no path through it together. As he put it: do you want a life, or do you want a life like that?
The Parts We Hide and the People Who Draw Them Out
This is where the conversation really got into territory that I think about every day in my practice.
Stephen said something I loved. He said Tamar was the greatest gift he’d ever received from another person. He called her a “master teacher.” What she taught him, he said, was to own the part of himself he’d been hiding his entire life.
We all have a light side and a dark side. Most of us spend enormous energy keeping that dark side out of view. Not just from other people — from ourselves. We judge it. We shame it. We pretend it doesn’t exist. And then we wonder why we make decisions that don’t make sense to us, or why we’re drawn to people and situations that seem so clearly destructive from the outside.
I do trauma work. I use Internal Family Systems therapy, EMDR, different modalities. And one of the core ideas across all of this work is that we have parts. Some parts are easy to present to the world — the kind, the loving, the competent. Other parts are harder. The insecure parts. The vengeful parts. The sexual parts. The parts that are selfish or needy or afraid.
When we exile those parts — when we push them underground because they’re not acceptable to us or our family or our culture — they don’t disappear. They run us. We can’t make good decisions because we’re being driven by parts of ourselves we refuse to acknowledge.
Stephen was drawn to Tamar because his outside mirrored his inside. He’d been diagnosed as manic depressive at sixteen. His whole life had been up and down. He loved the excitement, the adventure, the fact that they didn’t live a normal life. That wasn’t just about her being exciting. It was about a part of him that needed that intensity to feel alive.
And by the end of writing this book, Stephen said something that I thought was remarkable. He said: there’s nothing left to hide. I have nothing left to hide. What a way to live. That’s a kind of freedom most people never get to.
A Couple I Worked With — The Ring on the Finger
Stephen’s story reminded me of a couple I saw years ago in Newport Beach, California. Good-looking couple. They came in and I asked what brought them to therapy. She held up her left hand, pointed to her bare fourth finger, and said, “This is why we’re here.”
So I looked at him and asked why he hadn’t proposed. He said he wanted to. He loved her. But she needed to get her emotions under control first. He used the word “mayhem.” Their conflicts were mayhem.
And she said: if you put a ring on my finger, maybe there wouldn’t be mayhem.
He said: maybe the problem is that you sleep with other men because you’re angry at me when I don’t put the ring on your finger.
And she said: I wouldn’t sleep with those other men if you gave me the ring.
You can hear the trap, right? It’s circular. In her reality, he was the villain and she was the victim. It’s the same dynamic Stephen described. This roping-in quality where you’re put in a position where you can’t move. Like a straight jacket — and as Stephen said, he was helping her put it on.
I eventually shared with this man that I believed she had borderline personality disorder. I showed him the nine diagnostic criteria from the DSM. And I watched his body relax. Because even though part of him knew something was off, the gaslighting had been so effective that he’d internalized it. He thought the problem was him. Just hearing that it wasn’t — that there was a name for what was happening — freed him from an enormous weight.
The Slow Loss of Self That Comes with Gaslighting
One of the things Stephen talked about that I think is so important for people to hear is how gradual the process of losing yourself really is.
He didn’t wake up one morning and realize he’d lost his mind. It happened little by little. He wanted to believe her so badly that each small distortion of reality seemed manageable. She’d make accusations out of thin air — claiming she could smell another woman’s perfume on him, saying she’d seen a picture of someone, none of it real — and he’d try to manage it. He’d agree with her. He’d make jokes. He’d rationalize.
That’s what we do when we’re in these situations. We rationalize. We tell ourselves it’s not that big of a deal. And each time we do that, we give away a little more of ourselves. Until one day you realize you’re not sure what’s real anymore.
And the person doing the gaslighting? In many cases, they don’t fully know they’re doing it. With BPD, the accusations feel real to them in the moment. Their fear of abandonment is so intense that it creates a reality in their mind — and then they project that reality onto you. She’d text him pages of awful accusations, and then when she was done, she’d text “I love you.” She was emoting. Whatever she was feeling came out, got projected, and then when the wave passed, the love was back.
I’ve seen this pattern hundreds of times. It’s confusing and it’s crazy-making, and it’s not your imagination.
Why Stopping and Looking Inside Changes Everything
I think one of the most important decisions any person can make — and I really believe this separates people who have better lives from people who don’t — is the decision to stop running and look inside.
Stephen spent most of his life going two hundred miles an hour. He told me he journaled, but he never read his journals. That’s such a good detail, because it captures exactly how people run. They go through the motions of self-reflection without ever actually doing it. The journal exists, but the looking doesn’t happen.
About three years ago, Stephen took a break from relationships and gave himself time to actually reflect. And writing the book became that process. He said he’d find himself writing and laughing at what happened, then crying at what happened. It was cathartic in a way that just living through it never could have been.
That’s what happens when you stop. The emotions that were too big to feel in the moment finally get their chance. And when you let them through, something shifts. You develop a deeper relationship with yourself. You stop performing a version of yourself and start actually being yourself.
Stephen said he’d been performing since he was a teenager. I think a lot of people can relate to that. You put on a version of yourself that the world finds acceptable, and you run with it for years — decades — until something forces you to stop. Sometimes that something is a crisis. Sometimes it’s a relationship that blows your life apart. And sometimes, if you’re fortunate, it’s a choice you make before the crisis forces it.
Childhood Trauma and Why We’re Drawn to Who We’re Drawn To
Both Stephen and Tamar had childhood trauma. Stephen was diagnosed as manic depressive at sixteen. Tamar’s father was a billionaire who raised her like a princess and then had her institutionalized as a teenager. They both carried deep wounds into adulthood, and those wounds shaped who they were attracted to and why.
This is something I see over and over in my practice. Childhood trauma doesn’t just affect how you feel about yourself. It affects who you choose. The partner who feels like electricity, who makes you feel more alive than anyone else, who you can’t seem to walk away from — that person often fits with your wounds in ways you don’t fully understand until you stop and look.
I’ve spent years developing a program called Healing Infidelity from the Inside Out, and the “inside out” part is the whole point. The external behaviors — the cheating, the lying, the chaos — are symptoms. The real work happens when you turn inward and ask: what part of me was looking for this? What was I running from? What did this person or this situation give me that I didn’t know how to give myself?
I also think there are societal reasons we end up in these patterns. We’ve been taught to hide from ourselves. If a feeling isn’t acceptable to our family or our culture, it goes underground. We exile it. And then it runs us from the shadows.
Monogamy, Sexual Freedom, and Learning to Handle Complexity
Stephen and I had a really interesting exchange about what he called “the new sexual revolution.” His take was that people are more sexually liberated than they were fifty years ago, and that this liberation keeps building on itself. Women are claiming parts of themselves that used to be forbidden. Social media lets us see into lives we never would have seen before. The boundaries around identity and sexuality are shifting in real time.
And I think he’s right. But here’s where my clinical mind goes: with that freedom comes complexity. And complexity requires skills that most of us were never taught.
I wrote a book called The Long, Hot Marriage, and I’ve chosen a monogamous lifestyle myself. And I’ve had to evolve in how I think about this. I’ve worked with couples in polyamorous relationships, and some of them do it in a very healthy, intentional way. I’ve worked with monogamous couples who do it in an unhealthy way. The structure isn’t the issue. The issue is: do you have the emotional maturity and communication skills to honor whatever contract you’ve created?
In my own marriage, I can tell my wife that some part of me wants to flirt with a woman half my age. And she’ll say, “Yeah, you’re a creeper.” And we laugh. Because that part of me is allowed to exist. It’s acknowledged. It’s not exiled into the shadows where it could cause real damage. That’s what I mean by handling complexity.
For Stephen, the issue wasn’t that Tamar was bisexual or non-monogamous. The issue was that her behavior was driven by a disorder that made real partnership impossible. She was smart enough to articulate interesting ideas about monogamy — and Stephen acknowledged that. But the illness underneath meant those ideas were serving a compulsion, not a philosophy.
If Any of This Sounds Familiar…
I’m sharing all of this because Stephen’s story, as wild as it is, contains threads that run through so many of the relationships I see in my practice. The gaslighting. The losing yourself. The choosing someone who matches your wounds. The rationalization. The way excitement and trauma can feel almost identical when you’re in the middle of it.
Your version of this might not involve a Rolls Royce or a cruise ship or a stolen key fob. But if you’re with someone and you feel like you’re in a straight jacket — and part of you knows you’re helping them put it on — that’s worth paying attention to.
And if you’ve come out the other side of a relationship like this, and you’re trying to make sense of what happened and why you stayed — please know that making sense of it is some of the most important work you can do. Not to assign blame. Not to beat yourself up. But because understanding the parts of yourself that were running the show is how you stop repeating the pattern.
Stephen’s book is available at VFT23.com, where you can also get a free e-version and a bonus book called Madness and Mayhem. I’d recommend it. Not just for the stories — though those are something — but for the honesty. Stephen said that by the time he finished writing, he had nothing left to hide. That kind of radical honesty is rare, and it’s the thing that makes real healing possible.
If you’re dealing with a relationship that feels impossible to understand, or if you know you need to stop running and start looking — reach out. That’s what I’m here for. You don’t have to figure it out alone.
About This Article
This article is based on a podcast conversation between Todd Creager, LCSW, and Stephen Paul Edwards, author of The Venus Fly Trap. Clinical observations are informed by over 30 years of practice specializing in couples therapy, infidelity recovery, and trauma work using Internal Family Systems (IFS) and EMDR. Client details in Todd’s clinical examples have been changed to protect privacy. Stephen’s book The Venus Fly Trap and bonus book Madness and Mayhem are available at VFT23.com.
Todd Creager, LCSW, is a licensed clinical social worker and relationship therapist. He is the author of The Long, Hot Marriage and the creator of the Healing Infidelity from the Inside Out program.
Watch The Interview with Stephen Paul Edwards
About Stephen Paul Edwards
Stephen Paul Edwards is a writer, speaker, and spiritual development coach with a PhD in spiritual counseling. Originally from England, Stephen spent years working alongside Tony Robbins before launching his own personal and spiritual development program.
His memoir, The Venus Fly Trap, tells the raw, funny, and heartbreaking story of a relationship that changed his life and forced him to confront the parts of himself he’d been hiding for decades.
His bonus book, Madness and Mayhem, gives readers a taste of the full story – get a free version here: https://bit.ly/3MvAtAa
