In this week’s episode, both of our storytellers use a scientific lens to examine their worst relationships.

Part 1: Carlos Maza uses the plague to analyze his brutal breakup.

Carlos Maza is a video journalist focusing on misinformation, media bias, and propaganda. He is the Director of Video at Media Matters for America. He has spent too much of his adult life writing about fascism and hate speech. He would much rather you tell him about you Dungeons & Dragons character.

Part 2: Panagiota Vogdou refuses to see her boyfriend as toxic until a stranger on the bus tells her to go to therapy.

Panagiota was born in Kozani, Greece, and moved to Toronto, Canada, in 2015. She’s a Greek teacher and a flight attendant, but her true passion lies in acting—and, of course, storytelling. Though she’s based in Toronto, she’s always ready to fly anywhere to share her stories. Panagiota has performed in community theatre both in Greece and in Toronto. In 2020, she discovered her love for storytelling, and since then, she’s been sharing her stories onstage at shows like Replay Storytelling, The Story Collider, Tales Told Live, and But That’s Another Story in Toronto—as well as Confabulation in Montreal.

If you or someone you know is in a toxic or abusive relationship, there are resources that can help. Visit storycollider.org/resources for science-backed tips on bystander intervention, combatting victim-blaming, and creating institutional change—as well as support for survivors, and guidance for friends, family members, and educators.

EPISODE TRANSCRIPT

PART 1

I'm in the aftermath of a pretty brutal breakup right now. We lived together, slice of those families, domestic partners, brutal. So I've been thinking a lot about grief.

One of the ways that humans process grief is through metaphors, Stories that take our fragmented sense of, “What the fuck just happened to me,” and turn them into a more manageable sense of, “Ah, fuck! That just happened to me.”

Tonight, I want to try out one of those metaphors on you all. If it works, great. If not, thank you for just keeping me company. My close friends are grateful for the time off.

Heartbreak is a plague. If you look at how humans respond to plagues throughout history, it always starts exactly the same way, with denial. When doctors tried to warn the people of Liverpool that cholera was spreading in the early 1800s, those people rioted, accusing the doctors of making the disease up to collect body parts for research.

When the bubonic plague emerged in San Francisco in the early 1900s, doctors tried to point out that all of these rats were dying in the streets. But instead of listening to them, they were also accused of lying for attention. As one truly mental editorial at the San Francisco Chronicle wrote, “What the Board of Health wants is to make money, and to that ends is willing to ruin the business of the city and terrify innocent families.”

At the beginning of my relationship, I played the part of the anxious doctor, peppering my patient with questions. What does trust mean to you? What does commitment mean to you? What does monogamy mean to you? What's your attachment style? How were you raised and how is that going to affect how we date with each other?

I was raised in a house that was sick with plague and heartbreak, grew up watching rats dying in the streets. So, when love came for me, I had questions.

What triggers you and how do you self‑regulate? What do you mean you've never been to therapy? Why does talking about this make you so mad at me?

At the time, my questions were dismissed as hyper‑vigilance, someone who could just not believe that love was coming to them.

What's wrong with you? Can't you tell that you and I are perfect for each other?

Carlos Maza shares his story on December 5, 2023 at Caveat in New York, NY. Photo by Arin Sang-Urai.

If I was the anxious doctor, my partner was my opposite. A chiseled, CrossFit jock, former frat star and Ivy League‑educated, he would often remind me. He was the ultimate extrovert, charming, beautiful, funny. He could walk into any room and hold court. People noticed him and he knew it. His Instagram and Twitter were avalanches of thirst traps and Fire Island photos.

When we'd go for walks through the park to talk, he could not resist the urge to take off his shirt. When I asked him about his childhood, he accused me of therapizing him. In my gut, I sensed that this was probably not the right partner for me.

But when he looked at me, I felt golden. He laughed at my jokes, he remembered my stories. If I was anxiety, he seemed so sturdy and he was so sure about us.

When we started dating, he said, "I knew we'd end up together the day I met you."

When I told him I loved him, he said, "I got everything I've ever wanted and more."

Nobody wants to be the doctor who warns of a plague because what if you are wrong? What if you are overreacting? What if you ruin something really good? And so I didn't. Rats die in the street all the time.

The second phase of a plague is usually scapegoating. When it becomes obvious that something really is wrong, people look for someone to blame, and that someone is usually a marginalized group.

During the bubonic plague, mobs burned down Jewish communities, accusing Jews of poisoning their wells in order to destroy Christianity. When that same bubonic plague emerged in San Francisco centuries later, people blamed the spread of the disease on poor Chinese immigrants, who were often forced to live in dirty and unsanitary housing conditions.

At the beginning of the AIDS crisis, the religious right blamed the disease on sodomites, who were being punished by God for their sinful lifestyles.

When it became obvious that something in my relationship was wrong too, when small fights started to turn into big screaming matches, when requests for reassurance or repair started to get met with defensiveness and then gaslighting, and then cruelty, I felt rage. And I turn that rage not on my partner, but on myself.

What the fuck is wrong with me? Why am I so needy? Why am I so sensitive? Why do I have to talk about every little thing? Why can't I just trust him? Why can't I just be cool?

I turned my anger on myself for the same reason that we punish scapegoats. Because if the enemy is within, then it can be controlled, subdued. If I could just stop taking things so personally, if I could just learn to express my feelings in exactly the right way, if I could learn to be what he thought I was, the plague would end. Things would go back to normal.

Like in a real plague, the things I was scapegoating were actually the parts of me that were trying to warn me about something important. The parts that probably deserved the most care and compassion, but they were also the parts of me that made me feel weak and pathetic, and so I wanted them gone.

I spent months in therapy asking my therapist, "Why am I fucking up a good thing for no reason?" And I could not believe her when she would say, "You're not.”

You can't fight a plague by killing scapegoats and you can't avoid heartbreak by killing the parts of your heart that yearn for care. Eventually, it was time for phase three, plague fighting.

My partner and I would go to the doctor. We’d take our medicine. We'd go for weekly check‑ins. We face this thing together. I remember the first time we sat for couples counseling, this feeling of relief and hope I had. Like, yeah, maybe we are sick. Maybe something is wrong, but at least we're facing it. The plague can't get you if you wear your mask.

But the problem with plagues is that while it is possible to fight them with perfect policies and perfect adherence, humans are not perfect. We are deeply flawed, selfish, egotistical. We don't really believe that we can get sick or spread sickness to someone else, so we are often reckless, prone to prioritizing our freedom and comfort over those that we care about. All it takes is one selfish human, a few stupid mistakes, to infect someone who is doing everything they could to stay healthy.

I spent month after month in couples counseling, begging my partner to be careful, to think outside of himself, to understand that just because he felt fine did not mean we were not sick. That well‑meaning people can spread the virus too. He should just be humble, adapt, and apologize when he made a mistake.

I kept thinking of this nurse I saw on CNN who was treating people who were dying of COVID and begging them to just call their families and say goodbye, but they wouldn't. Even on their deathbed, they could not admit what was happening to them.

A great many humans have died like this, eventually, so did we.

In the aftermath of a plague, most humans cling to never again. Conservatives promise to defend us by hardening us, creating boundaries and borders that will make sure no scapegoat ever gets in again. Liberals tout the power of medicine and early warning systems. Yeah, we were caught off guard this time, but next time will be different. Next time, we'll see it coming.

In the aftermath of my breakup, I have done both things. Some nights, I go to the gym and lift heavy weights, hardening my body, listening to playlists with titles like Fuck Men and Trust No Bitch, fantasizing about a life of emotional solitude.

Other days, I go down these YouTube rabbit holes, watching videos with titles like, "Five ways to know if you're dating a narcissist" and "How to express your feelings to your avoidant partner without causing them to lash out or shut down." In both cases, I'm trying to convince myself that this was the last time. This heartbreak just a mistake. My suffering just a last rite. The dying of the old me that failed and the birth of the new me that will not fail like that again. In both cases, I suspect I am lying to myself.

To be human, to move through the world is to constantly flirt with plague. Every whispered word, every touch of skin, every exchange of fluids brings with it the risk of infection, of extinction. Even now, you and I are engaged in this deadly flirtation with each other. With every word, I offer you a bouquet of my germs. You breathe them in and offer me yours in return.

Our bodies are built for sickness, which is to say, our bodies are built for other bodies to be moved by them, changed by them, and, yes, sometimes killed by them. And while I can take my precautions, wear my mask, protect my heart, keep an eye out for the rats on the street, ultimately, I know that I can no more shield myself from the dangers of love than I can shield myself from the dangers of the air I have to breathe.

As one priest wrote in the aftermath of the coronavirus, "Plagues are the inevitable consequence of civilization,” trying to live alongside each other, build things together, care for each other. They are not failures. Plagues are the human condition.

All that awareness has not given me an antidote to my anger or hurt or grief. It has made me less eager to find one right now. I am sick because humans get sick. Okay. I will get sick again, because humans get sick. Okay. I'm still sick, because I'm still human. Okay, okay, okay.

Thank you.

PART 2

I am on the bus to Athens to meet my boyfriend. The ride from my hometown to Athens is quite a long one, almost seven hours. I tilt my head to the left and lean towards the window looking out. Oh, in Greece, spring is beautiful. The sun is so bright that it gives life to everything. The mountains are green, the valleys are full of flowers, the smell of roses and lemons is all over the place, and the birds’ singing is loud and lively. But I see everything in gray. There is no color for me.

I feel like a rock is lying on my chest. I want to talk to someone, but no one is there for me. My parents, my sister, my friends have turned their back on me. They refuse to understand.

Panagiota Vogdou shares her story on October 17, 2024 at Burdock Music Hall in Toronto at a show sponsored by RCI Science. Photo by Glenn Pritchard.

I am on the bus to meet him. He is in Athens with work, and he said, "I need you. Leave everything behind and come here."

So I cancel all my family plans and a bunch of work appointments, and here I am, on my way to meet him.

A stranger is sitting beside me on the bus and that stranger is a woman. She's in her early 40s and looks put together. She is well groomed and her clothes smell like freshly‑cleaned laundry. She is wearing a bright shade of red lipstick, and every time her thick red lips spread open, you can see her pearly white teeth. I feel I can trust this stranger.

We start chatting and shortly after, she says, “Hey, you look very sad. What's going on with you?”

I have never taken a question more seriously in my life, so I start narrating all the drama that's going on in my relationship. Everything is bursting out of my chest like a tsunami. When I finish, I see the shock in the stranger's wide‑open eyes. Then I see her thick, red lips uttering, "You, girl, need to see a shrink."

How dare she! How dare she talk to me like that. She doesn’t even know me.

Actually, this is not the first time I hear someone suggesting this.

“Go get a therapist. If you cannot make you get rid of this, someone else should. I'm done. I'm done.” This is my father talking.

“I cannot believe that a person so sharp as you, so empathetic as you are lets someone treat you the way he does. You should ask for help, Panagiota.” This is my best friend from high school talking.

“Love shouldn’t feel like that. You need to talk to someone. You need to go to a therapist.” That whisper is me, the tiniest voice deep inside of me. And now this woman that doesn't know me at all is telling me the exact same thing.

But there is still a part of me that doesn't want to go, because I'm not ready to come face to face with the truth. But what choice do I have left?

Finally, I drag myself to a therapist. Here I am, standing in front of a closed door. I ring the bell. I am ready to enter a cold, clinical room. But when the door opens, the smell of oakwood comes to my nose.

I take a few steps and I see a room full of color, colorful velvet cushions, Thank You cards and gifts from the patients.

Then I see her, the therapist. There is something compelling about her. It's her deep, steady voice, her fearless look, her confident smile. She is trying to make eye contact.

I hate this. I hate it. I hate when people look me in the eyes because I'm afraid they will read my thoughts.

“Hello, Panagiota. What brings you here today?” She says in that warm, velvety voice.

“Why am I here? I shouldn't have come. Why did I come?” I keep asking myself. Well, a part of me just wants to speak with someone, someone who would listen without shouting at me. Another part of me wants help to fix this relationship. And maybe there is a part of me that seeks help to walk away from this relationship.

But the therapist never tells me to leave him. It is as if she doesn't even have any interest in all this craziness that's happening in my relationship. See she wants to learn about my childhood and talk vaguely about love and respect. What I thought would be a one‑stop shop with my therapist, it actually turns out to be a journey that lasts up to this very day.

Fast forward 15 years. I'm now in Canada and I have a whole new life. That relationship is over long ago. It now feels like an accident I had, an accident that caused a wound that is now healed. But a scar is left on me, like those scars that the broken piece of glass leaves on someone. The difference is that this scar is on my soul and no one knows it's there.

It's Saturday night. I'm visiting my friend Yasmin. I knock on her door and she opens it. Right away, Yasmin whispers to me that there is a change of plans. A girl from her work, Winona, has just swung by.

Yasmin seems very surprised because, as she explains to me, she barely knows Winona. Winona came to ask for her help.

“Okay, why don't we all have a glass of wine,” I say.

Yasmin is right. Winona looks troubled. Winona, who, by the way, looks so much like Winona Ryder, avoids eye contact. Her nails are beaten down to the quick. She is moving her head slightly from right to left and she is tapping her leg.

When Yasmin says, "Winona, why are you sad? What happened to you?" Winona takes a deep breath as if she was longing for this moment.

I see her holding back tears. “Oh, no, a tsunami is coming,” I think to myself and I pour some wine.

Winona starts talking about the problem she has with her boyfriend. And as she's talking, an image of a big, six‑pack muscled guy is coming to my mind. There she was, Winona, saying goodbye to her co‑worker when her big guy Rocco picked her up. Rocco started accusing her that she likes the guy. He started making scenarios and acting crazy. Nothing she would say would make him think rationally. She begged him, she cried, all in vain.

When she couldn't take it anymore, she screamed it was over.

He then said, "Don't you see I act like this because I want you?"

I take a sip of wine, and here I am with my boyfriend 15 years ago on the Greek island of Naxos.

I put the glass down on the table and look at the server. “The wine is excellent.”

“You fancy him!”

“No, I don’t.”

“You gave him your phone number!”

“No, I didn't.”

“Yes, you did.”

“No, I didn’t.”

After long hours of hearing scenarios and accusations, I scream, “That's it. It's over.”

“Hey, don't you see I go crazy because I want you? You look even better than Monica Bellucci.” He was creative.

I now hear my therapist saying, “There is a pattern. Narcissists never own responsibility. They always shift the blame.”

Winona is now sobbing. She says that Rocco is a good guy but he's been under a lot of stress at work lately. He has a lot of responsibilities. “He's a very important man, not like me,” says Winona.

I know. I know how the story goes. I heard something similar 15 years ago.

“I am a civil engineer. I build buildings. Do you know how many lives depend on what I do? What do you do, Panagiota? Teaching? In other words, singing and being stupid with kids?”

Hmm, my therapist is right again. Narcissists have a sense of superiority. They tend to elevate themselves by putting the others down. I see the pattern again.

Winona is now determined that it's all her fault. She is the one acting like a child. He is the right one. “That's why I always do what he says.”

I pour myself my last glass of wine and I finish it in one gulp. As Winona is talking, I can still hear his voice. “Panagiota, your makeup is too heavy. Go fix it.” “Your dress is too revealing. No, no, no.” Panagiota, why the hell didn't you tell me that you'd be grabbing a coffee with your sister? Is there anything to hide?”

And as I hear Winona making excuses for her boyfriend, I understand that this is what I was doing. As I see Winona blaming herself, I remember feeling guilty for triggering his anger all the time. “It's always the victim's fault,” says my therapist.

I'm looking at Winona and in her face I see me. Oh, gosh, was I like that? Was I Winona? Yes, I was Winona on the bus going to Athens.

But, now, I'm also the stranger on that bus and I want to help Winona. I go sit next to her, I hug her and tell her, “You have a wonderful life ahead of you, a life of your own. Please don't waste it. Please go see a therapist.”

Thank you.