The Self Storage Unit Accusation That Never Happened

Welcome to the Self Storage Unit Circus (Music Optional, But Strongly Implied)

If you’ve landed here fresh, welcome to the third act of the most unhinged circus I’ve experienced. For context, I’ve been documenting the psychological thriller in Good Luck Getting Rid of Me that is my former relationship with a man I distastefully refer to as Voldemort. It’s been a ride. Think Gone Girl meets Breaking Bad, but with worse acting and a lower IQ.

This post is part of an ongoing saga of digital abuse, emotional war crimes committed by a man wearing fake charm and stolen underwear, and now, the grand finale of delusion: a fabricated self storage unit break-in. Yes. He really said that.

If you’re wondering how we got here, I recommend starting with:

• Surviving BPD and NPD: ADHD, Addiction, and Everything in Between
• 7 Things the Narcissist Did After I Blocked Him
• Vindictive Narcissist Behaviour: When Love Turns to Rage
• I Thought Gaslighting Meant Candles

By the time you’re done, you’ll understand that what you’re reading now isn’t a one-off glitch in the matrix. It’s the natural next chapter in a saga where the villain is equal parts manipulative, paranoid, and completely off his head on meth.

Cue the clown music, and let’s unpack how Voldemort tried to invent a burglary and cast me in it without even checking my location. Spoiler: I wasn’t in the same country. I wasn’t even on the same continent.

So here’s how it went down: out of nowhere, Voldemort started spinning a tale so cooked it could’ve come with a side of fries. According to his drug-fogged brain, someone had broken into a self storage unit. Not just any storage unit, of course. His. And naturally, in the realm of cracked logic and meth-tinged conspiracy, that someone was me. You know, the man who was very much not in Atlanta at the time. Not even in the same fucking hemisphere.

My Friend the Master Thief (Apparently)

This wasn’t just some half-baked theory muttered into his vape pen. He got the full cast involved. His mother, who had previously limited her input to passive-aggressive remarks and selective silence, suddenly sent a text blaming my much older friend. Yes, a man who can barely walk at this point in time, the practically housebound man in his 60s who can barely walk to the toilet, was accused of orchestrating a high-stakes storage heist. Because of course he was.

The Problem for Voldemort? Reality.

My Google Maps timeline, immigration stamps, phone records, bank card usage, and common fucking sense all say the same thing: I was in Europe the entire time. Not once did I even glance at Atlanta on a map in 2025. But Voldemort, deep in the swamp of untreated BPD and powdered delusion, decided that I had spoofed my GPS. That’s right. According to him, I am somehow a tech mastermind who faked my digital footprint across multiple platforms just to cover up a break-in that never happened.

From Fitbit Lies to Storage Fiction

Let’s not forget, this is the same man who told me his ankle monitor was a fitness tracker. The same man who genuinely believed my older friend, the one with only one working hip and a bad back, was helping me commit international robbery. Surveillance footage? None. Police report? Nada. Stolen items? Vague at best.

This is just another delusional fever dream playing out in Voldemort’s own junkie, cracked cinematic universe.

Lies on Loop

And yet, he’s been telling people this crap. Not in whispers, but in full voice. He’s spinning this tale to actual human beings who, god help them, believe it. As if I flew across the Atlantic, Mission: Impossible’d my way into a self storage unit, stole God-knows-what, and jetted back to Europe like nothing happened. I didn’t even know the address of the unit. I still don’t.

The Dildo Incident (Yes, This Actually Happened)

Now, if you’re thinking “surely it couldn’t get more ridiculous,” let me remind you this is Voldemort we’re talking about. A man who weaponised lies like a toddler flinging spaghetti, but also had the gall to steal a dildo. Yes. A dildo. Not as part of a heated lover’s quarrel, not during some emotionally charged scene from a gay soap opera, but as a petty, pathetic keepsake on his way out of my life.

Picture this. We were in my home in Europe. I had finally had enough and involved the police to get him out of my apartment and, ideally, off my planet. Eight uniformed officers showed up to do what international law apparently failed to: remove a dangerous, deranged junkie from my living space. As they prepared to escort him out for my safety, one of them asked, “Is everything accounted for?”

And that’s when it hit me. That stupid dildo. A gift to myself. A bit of a gag purchase, really. He had once gone on and on about how much he loved it. Red flag? Maybe. But I never expected to be standing in front of a full police squad running a mental dildo inventory. Still, I turned and said, “Actually… I think something’s missing.”

Everyone froze. He reached into a bag like a magician about to pull out a rabbit. First item? A bottle of Listerine. I couldn’t suppress my laughter.

“Nope,” I said. “Not what I’m looking for.”

Then, with the solemnity of a man revealing state secrets, he pulled out the dildo. The dildo he stole. And held it up like he was presenting the Crown Jewels.

Eight police officers. Not one laugh. Not even a smirk. The silence was deafening. I, however, lost it. Somewhere between horrified and hysterical. I honestly wish I had let him keep it so he could finally do what he was always threatening to do to other people: go fuck himself.

What kind of man steals a dildo out of spite? Voldemort, that’s who. The same man who accuses disabled pensioners of breaking into a self storage unit from across Atlanta when the man has one barely functioning lung.

Or… the Far More Likely Scenario

What’s more beliveable is this. I was sipping café con latte in Italy, not robbing his imaginary fortress. The only thing I stole was my peace back from his chaos.

Or… Voldemort got fucking high, sold some shit because his flabby arse has zero value, even to meth users, and the next day promptly forgot about it.
Which one, dear reader, is believable?

And Still, the Circus Rolls On

To be fair, law enforcement eventually caught on. After months of me screaming into the bureaucratic mess that is Atlanta Police, someone finally blinked and realised maybe, just maybe, a man who impersonates people online, harasses victims across borders, and steals sex toys might be worth looking into. They followed him to Savannah. Then to another little corner of Georgia. Now, according to their last polite update, they’re getting close.

The problem? They’re doing it with the urgency of a snail on Ambien, using tracking methods last seen in a 1940s war film. Meanwhile, Voldemort is out here using modern tech like spoofed GPS, fake accounts, burner numbers, and possibly smoke signals to keep harassing me from whatever crack house he’s rotting in.

All while genuinely believing I flew across the Atlantic, broke into a self storage unit I had no knowledge of, guessed the access code, and made off with his ugly, tasteless wardrobe like some kind of gay international raccoon.

But the police have verified I wasn’t in Atlanta since May 2024, so he can make that shit up all he wants.

You do have to step back and admire the level of delusion. It’s practically an art form. And honestly? I thank him. Really. Because every time he comes up with a new lie, a new accusation, a new tragic little fantasy, I get another golden chapter for my book (I’m sure I’ve mentioned it several dozen times, it’s called Good Luck Getting Rid of Me).

I could not make this shit up. And even if I tried, no editor would believe it. Too far-fetched, too wild and too unhinged.
But lucky for me, Voldemort exists. And apparently, he wants to co-write this book one unhinged act at a time.