I Thought I Was the Problem Until Therapy Said Otherwise

I lived in London, paying high rent and spending thousands on private skin treatments, all while trying to keep my life together. I was broke, yet I sought therapy for personal issues before I even had the words to describe what was happening with my boyfriend. I didn't know who to talk to. I didn't know if his insecurities were projections or if I was actually doing something wrong. I felt insane.

Our arguments happened in Amsterdam and Korea, places that should have been beautiful, but became stages for his control. He romanticized arguing as growth, telling me that the pain we felt was just us getting stronger. He refused to take photos together, a small detail that felt like a rejection I couldn't quite name at the time. He blamed me for his public outbursts, making sure that when he screamed or acted out, I was the one left apologizing.

I spent years believing I was the problem, faking tears and feeling insane, until a therapist showed me the pattern of abuse I had been living in.

I started deleting texts from my brother because I was terrified he would see them. I voice-noted myself daily while moving to Brighton, trying to keep a record of my own sanity. I kept his lock screen private, hiding my life from him. I even faked tears for a long time, a performance I didn't realize I was putting on until much later.

The turning point came when my brother called me to come home. I realized I was being manipulated. But the full picture didn't come until I went to a therapist specializing in narcissistic abuse. She identified the toxic, abusive cycle I was stuck in. I learned the term "narcissistic abuse," and suddenly, the pieces of my life that felt broken started making sense.

One specific incident stands out. I had worked on a piece for months, pouring my soul into it, and he ruined it. It wasn't just a disagreement; it was a destruction of my effort. Later, I ran an event in America where I saw him. He clicked a link on a tweet I had posted a week prior. He brought up a conversation in front of twenty people, twisting the narrative in public. When I showed him a screenshot proving he had been stalking my social media accounts, he denied saying things that friends had reported. He denied reality.

I screamed at him to stop calling me a gaslighter. I felt sick when he used that word against me. He abruptly left a club the moment I arrived, a silent punishment that left me standing alone. I ignored him point-blank, but the guilt lingered. I felt guilty for hanging out with mutual friends, as if I had betrayed him by simply existing.

The breakup happened drunk, followed by a sober conversation where he broke up with me. I thanked God for the breakup, but the aftermath was heavy. I felt emotionally numb. I experienced panic attacks whenever I saw him. I stopped leaving the house to avoid running into him. I felt stuck and unable to move on.

Now, I look at old videos of myself and I don't recognize the person in them. I physically recoil from photos of myself from that time. I learned to love myself again, but I still carry the weight of the uncertainty. I will never know the truth of what happened. I don't know if he meant his words or if he was just playing a role. I still question if I was the problem, even though I know now that I wasn't.

I hope this story helps others get help. I hope someone tells them that they are not the problem. I hope they find a therapist who can name the abuse before they lose themselves completely. I am not the person I was then. I am someone who knows the difference between growth and destruction.