These feelings are reading cues. They can overlap, change, and differ from your own.
He wasn't charismatic. He was quiet, helpful, and funny. At first, he seemed intelligent and generous. He showered me with gifts, but there was a strange pattern to them: the generosity happened in public, while the cruelty happened behind closed doors. The only exceptions were the mockery, which he performed openly.
He mocked me constantly. He targeted my speech, making fun of the mistakes I made because I speak three languages. Sometimes I would mix up genders or use the wrong word, and he would use that to undermine me. He would make me verify my knowledge on the internet incessantly, questioning if my skills were real, and then belittle me for not knowing enough. It was insidious.
I spent years agreeing with him just to make the suffering stop, believing the problem was me, until I realized he was turning my brain inside out.
One specific gesture haunts me to this day. He would constantly pull at my tops or tunics, telling me to hide my hips. He demanded I hold his hand at all times. I wasn't allowed to show affection to anyone else. I couldn't call my son "my baby" or "my little one" unless he was the one saying it. If I tried to show love to my friends or family, he would shut it down. It started subtly, but once he moved in with me and we signed a lease together, the rules became absolute.
I stopped seeing people. He accused me of having affairs with my boss and a friend I had known since babyhood, for nearly forty-five years, like a brother. I tried to explain that these were platonic, long-standing friendships, but he refused to believe me. He convinced himself that I was cheating, and he would show up at my workplace to "help" me. He would follow me around, hovering over me while I worked. One day, a colleague looked at me and asked if I was being beaten. I told him no, I wasn't beaten, but it was worse.
The isolation was total. Our families never met. He cut me off from everyone. He would ask me, "Do you love me?" every hour of the day. If I didn't hold his hand in public, he claimed it meant I didn't love him. He forbade me from using his first name; I had to call him "my love" or "my darling." If I didn't comply, it was my fault. I felt like a vessel to be filled or emptied, depending on his needs.
The psychological toll was devastating. He told me I was crazy. He told me I was bipolar. He told me I was ruining everything. For years, I agreed with him. I told him he was right, just to make the fighting stop, because the suffering was so intense. I became physically ill. I had multiple surgeries related to my gynecological, urinary, and intestinal health. I felt like I was dying inside.
The turning point came when I started watching reports on abuse and realized what was happening. I heard someone say, "He's turning your brain inside out." That was the moment I stopped believing him. I realized I wasn't crazy. I realized that my friends and family were trying to reach out, but I had pushed them away because I believed his lies. I realized that he didn't love me; he just wanted someone to take care of him because it was cheaper and he didn't want to be alone. He had a lady for everything at home, but I did everything.
I was in a state of submission. I thought I was building a family, that I was in love. But once I started asking questions and trying to understand what was happening, he stopped holding back. He became relentless. I had to leave, not because I wanted to, but because I had to survive. I had to stop believing that the problem was me. I had to stop believing that I was the one who was broken. I had to realize that I was the one who was being destroyed.
This story describes one person’s experience. It does not diagnose anyone, and similar situations may not have the same meaning.