This is the 8th installment of Dating, Unhinged, an exclusive series for PLAYBOY from writer, model, and viral content creator Isabel Timerman — better known to her loyal followers as IsabelUnhinged. She started posting videos in 2022, using social media as an outlet after a messy breakup. With her candid, painfully relatable posts, she quickly amassed a devoted following and millions of views. Now crowned the “Empress of Delululand,” she leads the delulu movement, encouraging women to embrace their fantasies with humor and positivity. Her satirical yet honest approach to dating has made her a powerful voice for those seeking empowerment through unfiltered authenticity.

The worst fight I ever had with a boyfriend started over a movie. I wanted to watch Buffalo 66 for the third time and he insisted on The Shawshank Redemption. A 24-hour fight ensued—not the passive-aggressive silent treatment kind but a full-blown Olympic marathon of fiery texts, blocking and unblocking, crying and hurling insults that made Real Housewives brawls look like kindergarten spats. We said things neither of us could ever take back, including, “Your taste in movies sucks” which, for me, was absolutely unforgivable. 

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In hindsight, I could have just laughed it off. Could have just said, “You’re right. Let’s watch your movie.” But no, I chose chaos. I launched verbal attacks at him, forgetting—or maybe refusing to acknowledge—that he was a human being with feelings and didn’t exist merely to absorb and assuage my insecurities and abandonment issues.. At the time, I was in college, intoxicated by both Titos and the newfound freedom of being able to smoke weed in my room without getting grounded. It was there where I tripped and fell into my first real relationship—a guy I was sure I loved in a way that felt larger than life and cinematic. He was patient, handsome, loyal, the kind of guy who brings you soup when you’re sick and looks at you with that unblinking gaze that manages to say, wordlessly: “You are my sun, moon and stars.” He was a Midwestern farm boy from a postcard-perfect town with married parents who still kissed each other on the lips. He was also religious, thought acid burned holes in your brain and only missed class once when he got hit by a car on his bike. Meanwhile, I had pretended to get hit by a car to get out of class once because I was too hungover to make it. For some bizarre reason, we fell in love.

In high school, I didn’t date. Like, at all. Maybe it was because I was obnoxious and edgy in that way that made every lacrosse player in math class wildly uncomfortable (even the teacher seemed vaguely terrified of me). There was no one sliding an arm around me in the hallways, no promposals with cringey puns delivered on a poster board.  Instead, I was the girl who asked a guy to prom herself, only to get an “uh… sure” delivered with the enthusiasm of a DMV clerk. My senior superlative was “Most Likely to Catcall a Freshman,” which the headmaster promptly vetoed. My senior quote: “Love Me or Hate Me, It’s Still an Obsession.” (Which was fitting because by graduation everyone sort of did hate me).

By the time I got to college, I was convinced I’d missed some crucial training on How to Be Loved. So when this guy came along–a real boyfriend, someone who was sweet and gentle and seemed to worship me in a way that felt both intoxicating and foreign—I was completely unprepared. I didn’t know how to accept it, much less reciprocate it. So I began testing the relationship, pushing at its edges to see how much I could get away with. He wasn’t my boyfriend so much as an emotional vending machine: I’d press a button and out would come thoughtful gifts, endless affirmations and affection. And because I was immature and scared and also kind of awful in a way I’m only now starting to really confront, I took full advantage. I didn’t treat him like a partner but like an assistant, and one never up to the job. To be clear, he wasn’t Mother Teresa. He was passive-aggressive, a little judgmental, and never let me live down the time I wore leather pants to meet his parents—like I’d shown up in a spiked collar with a whip. But whatever his flaws, they paled in comparison to mine.

Our fights started early—me nitpicking over something trivial, like the way he chewed or how he texted “goodnightt” with one extra T. But instead of clapping back or telling me I was acting certifiably insane, he just… apologized. Profusely. Endlessly. For existing in ways that mildly inconvenienced me. And the worst part was I felt a twisted, electric jolt of pleasure every time he begged for my forgiveness—a rush, like I’d stumbled on some secret cheat code for emotional control. I got off on his panicked reassurances that he’d do anything not to lose me. That was basically the template for our entire relationship: me pushing, him apologizing, me feeling this hollow high at the power of it all. I tested his limits constantly, partly because I wanted to know if he had limits, and partly because I think I wanted to break them—just to see what would happen, an emotional arsonist.

I was also unreasonably jealous, for no good reason other than the fact that I’m a Scorpio and we come preloaded with trust issues. I needed his location, his passwords (but, of course, didn’t share mine), and I demanded he block his fifth-grade girlfriend because why was she still liking his photos? If I’d been dating me, I would’ve run as far away as I could. But he didn’t. He stayed. Until, inevitably, he dumped me. He never explained it. He had a deep sense of moral certainty and once he decided, he decided.  Maybe because his mom or that one friend who hated me on sight finally sat him down and said, “Bro, this isn’t love—this is psychological warfare.” Or maybe he just hit the breaking point I’d been daring him to hit for two years. (Even unconditional love has conditions.)

Either way, it ended. And when it did, I was hit with the kind of brutal clarity that feels like waking up from a nightmare—except the nightmare was me. The guilt came rushing in like a freight train, a crushing realization that I’d taken something good and pure and ground it into dust because I didn’t know how to appreciate it—or because appreciating it would’ve meant confronting all the ways I felt fundamentally undeserving of it.  

There’s this bizarre cultural myth that love isn’t real unless it’s a little toxic. Drama, apparently, equals passion, and passion equals the kind of love people write angsty poetry about, turn into hit songs or indie films. You’re supposed to be someone’s everything, their entire world and that seems to demand soul-crushing fights, a cycle of destruction and repair, as if feeling somehow means hurting. And if it doesn’t, congrats, you’re probably in a healthy relationship, but good luck turning that into a masterpiece. 

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Here’s the thing about young love—the part no one tells you, and you only figure out after the damage is already done: it’s not supposed to be some dark psychodrama that leaves you sobbing into your pillow at 2 a.m. Young love should be easy. Not easy in the sense of boring or dull, but easy in the sense of uncomplicated, in the way that the best parts of youth itself are uncomplicated. At that age, love doesn’t have to bear the weight of all the stressful stuff that adulthood brings: mortgages, screaming toddlers, disappointing sex lives and passive aggressive in-laws. Love, when you’re young, should feel like sneaking backstage during a concert, not surviving a hostage negotiation. 

 It’s been six years since my ex dumped me, and I’m proud to say I’m still blocked on every form of social media including Spotify. Rumor has it he still calls me his “psycho ex” and recounts our relationship like it was the plot of a low budget horror movie. (At least I know I’m not forgettable?) If he ever stumbles across this, I hope he knows that I’ve grown, I’ve changed, I’ve learned from my mistakes. And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.  Like, at least a little. That said, it’s been six years, so maybe it’s time to let my name retire from circulation? I mean, it’s not like I keyed his car or poisoned his dog or anything. 

All jokes aside, if you’re reading this and thinking, “Oh no, this sounds like me,” I’m telling you to stop. Stop the pattern of self sabotage. Because real love isn’t about control, power, or who picks the movie. It’s about showing up, holding on, and learning not to sweat the small stuff—because it’s almost always small stuff. Don’t blow up something good just because you can. I know—it’s easier said than done. But learn to pause. Take a deep breath. Bite your tongue when your partner does something that annoys you. Because one day, you’ll miss those little annoyances. One day, they’ll be gone, and all you’ll have left are the echoes of words you can’t unsay.

I have a new boyfriend now. It’s been three months and we haven’t had a single argument, a record that makes me feel proud and a little suspicious. I think I finally understand what love is supposed to look like—not some volatile, all-consuming fire but something steady and peaceful. Something worth cherishing and protecting.

This time, I’m not going to weaponize his feelings for me or push his boundaries just to see how far he’ll bend before he cracks. This time, I’m choosing to build and trust. Unless, of course, he forgets to text me back or likes another girl’s photo or something. Then, well, no one is safe. 

Catch up on Dating, Unhinged:

The Noah Effect: Are Nice Guys Finally Trending?
How (Not) To Get Your Ex Back
The Crazy-Hot Matrix, Explained
To Ghost or Not to Ghost
Once Upon a Cosplay
Confessions of a Love Bomber
Beware of the Undercover THOT