My relationship to the vegetable garden started out in a whirlwind of excitement. Innocently enough, the seed catalogs lured me with glossy photos, promising luscious harvests.

“This is the year,” I proclaimed, “that I will grow our food.”

I lovingly prepared the ground to receive the seeds, sparing nothing for the plants that would bear the nutritious, organic bounty. Fertilizer, lime, gypsum, sea salt, mycorrhizal fungi, minerals etc. All went into the creation of this future harvest.

In the spring the garden was so charming! It love-bombed me with its lavish flowers and growth. It promised harvests so bountiful, that I’d be providing food for my family, friends, and neighbors.

At first, there were a few tomatoes and a cucumber or two, just enough to let me experience the thrill of producing my own food from seed to table.

And then things started going terribly wrong. There was a black hole of problems; the bugs, the viruses, the hot weather, the never-ending demands of my time and resources.  But I felt so needed, so loved. I desperately craved the dopamine hit of another harvest.

In this manner, the garden pulled me in. There was that one beautiful heirloom tomato that was nearly perfect when the birds took a chunk of it and left the rest to rot on the vine. I kept hoping. If I can just keep these plants alive through this stifling heat, maybe, maybe I’ll reach that ultimate high.

I grew frustrated as my garden pulled me deeper into its vortex of control and manipulation. Little did I know the red flags were all there that should’ve sent me running from this toxic relationship. Here are the red flags you should look for if you suspect your garden may be a narcissist:

Red Flag: Blaming you for everything that goes wrong.

Garden: I was terrified as that rabbit came at me with its giant teeth and stripped my leaves voraciously. You should’ve protected me.

You: But I didn’t know there was a rabbit.

Garden: Pfft. There are always rabbits.

Red Flag: Separating you from your loved ones

Garden: While you were enjoying that glass of wine with your husband on the patio, grasshoppers were ravaging me. I can’t do this by myself!

You: I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I’ll get some grasshopper bait, I promise.

Red Flag:  Future faking

Garden: Look at my glorious flowers that will bear fantastic harvests!

You: I can’t wait to reap all the crops! I’ll be cooking, baking, canning, and freezing all summer!

Red Flag: Fragile ego

You: The squash vine borer moths have been relentless. I can’t be out here 24/7 shooing them away to keep them from laying their evil eggs on your bare stems. Can’t you keep one plant alive so I can have a zucchini?

Garden: There’s organic squash at the farmers market every week. How do they do it? They obviously care more. If you can’t figure it out, then quit!

Red Flag: Lack of Empathy

You: But it’s been over 100 degrees for 47 days with no rain! I can’t afford to water the whole lawn and you every day!

Garden: You should’ve thought of that before you planted all these seeds. I’m disappointed in your gardening skills. I expected so much more of you. Do you think you’re in the Pacific Northwest or something?

Red Flag: Gaslighting

You: I thought I planted a whole row of green beans here? I could swear they were 3” high yesterday, now they’re gone.

Garden: You didn’t plant anything there. You should keep better notes if you can’t remember anything correctly.

Afraid of losing you, the garden allows small victories

Occasionally the garden dials it back.

You get that dopamine hit and then you’re back.

You buy a $4 organic cucumber at the grocery store and swear to yourself it’ll be the last one you’ll have to buy.

Your friends ask “Oh, are these from your garden?” And you hang your head in shame.

How did it get so toxic? I swear I went organic all the way.

I entertain the thought of leaving vegetable gardening behind and making a weekly trip to the farmer’s market instead.

But then I see the Instagram posts of beautiful, bountiful harvests.

The gardening community mocks me with its abundance. They empower the garden by telling me what I did wrong.

The whole group is harvesting squash by the ton while I’m left holding a limp plant that seemed to be thriving yesterday.

But it hurts too much to be this vulnerable. I can’t tell others the real story of my gardening life, so I hide. I don’t divulge how much that organically grown, heirloom tomato really cost me in terms of dollars and emotional toil.

I know I say I’ll leave, but I’ll never go. After all, I’ve invested so much at this point. I can’t leave.

Is this really a harmful relationship?

I take a small break – a sabbatical of sorts – when the weather turns frigid.

But then one day a catalog arrives in the mail.

Maybe if I had a greenhouse…