Gaslighting

There are many forms of abuse, and all of them are despicable, but the one weighs on me the most, is emotional abuse. Emotional abuse is when someone continually reaffirms your worst fears about yourself, and uses it to keep you down, rather than lifting you up.

Emotional abuse scares me, because it creeps up on you like a toxic fog that thickens and closes around you so slowly, you don’t realize it until it has seeped into your every pore and left scars on your veins.

I was in a relationship for a while, that I thought was amazing. I was infatuated with him, and one day he slammed me against a wall. That was the end of it. I bolted out of there and cut all contact. I was so proud of myself, too, because I really cared about him and sticking to my resolve was hard, but I knew that it was for the best. I told myself I was a person who doesn’t take abuse sitting down, and that anyone who tried to hurt me would get shown the door.

I then entered another relationship. For nearly a year I let him slowly and gradually turn me into an emotional wreck. It crept up on me ever so vaguely. A gas bill hadn’t been paid on time and they called, asking for the whereabouts of the payment. When he came home, I approached him.
“Hey that check didn’t get mailed out; I thought you said you took care of it?”
“No.” His brow furrowed. “You said you were going to take care of it. I can’t believe you forgot–” he stopped himself, took a deep breath, and smiled. “You know what? Don’t worry. I’ll call them and fix it. It’s okay.” He then gave me a kiss and that was the end of it. I was relieved that he was so understanding, and upset with myself for having forgotten to take care of something so important.

Over the next months, I started forgetting a lot of things. DVD rentals wouldn’t get returned, mail wouldn’t get dropped off, phone calls weren’t made, and each time I was either under the distinct impression he had said he would be the one to do it, or I had no recollection of the errand ever being discussed, and yet every time I was reminded that this was not the case, and that it had somehow escaped my mind.

Instance after instance piled up. Eventually, I tried making notes of things after a conversation, because I felt like I was losing my mind.
“No, no I distinctly remember it. You said you were going to return the DVD because it’s right next to Starbucks and you’re going there anyway,” I said, replaying the event in my mind as I spoke.
“Honey, no offense but this kind of thing happens all the time with you. Remember the check last month? And the dry cleaning last week? It’s okay, sweetie, you’re just forgetful. It was wrong of me leave it up to you. You’re too stressed. I’ll take care of it.”

Slowly and systematically, control was taken from my hands. I felt helpless, confused, and pathetic. I became completely dependent on him, because clearly I was unable to handle the simplest task. I felt grateful to have someone so patient in dealing with my many flaws.

It got to the point where I thought about seeing a doctor. I was depressed, constantly fatigued, and felt myself going insane. When I brought the subject up, he reminded me that seeing a “shrink” would go on my medical record, and the negative connotations surrounding clinical depression. He told me there wasn’t anything wrong with me, I was just the kind of person who needed someone to look after me, was easily overwhelmed, and that there was nothing the matter with that, that he would stand by me and help me.

He made me feel like no one but him understood me. I didn’t have the energy to spend time with friends, and when I did talk to them about my relationship, the only thing I could say was how supportive he was in spite of my many blunders and mistakes. I was the screwball girlfriend with the angelic boyfriend with the patience of a god.

I finally reached a point where I could not make myself get out of bed. I called in sick to work because the thought of putting on pants was more than I could bear. The thought of brushing my teeth, washing my clothes, or even emptying the dishwasher was more responsibility than I could handle.

The less I could manage, the more there was to criticize. When was the last time I had cooked? When was the last time I had taken out the trash? When was the last time I had even remotely cared about my own physical appearance?

The thing is, when you are systematically made to believe you are out of control, you start to lose control over everything. You become so discouraged you don’t even begin to try.

I went up a couple clothing sizes, and felt even more miserable. He told me I would feel less depressed if I got out more, did more, ate better, and maybe worked out once in a while. His comments were always true, technically, but they carried a patronizing sting that made me feel pathetic for not being able to do it on my own; like a child who still needed to hold a hand to cross the street and a little chart with golden stars to get the simplest chore accomplished.

Finally, I felt so overwhelmed that I went to see a doctor. I didn’t tell him about it, because whenever I approached him with my feelings of despair and agony, he would point out how much different it would be if I would just take some initiative and “get over it”. I knew he thought seeing a doctor was taking the easy way out, but I had lost the energy to care, or try. I just wanted to feel like I had some semblance of control, even if it meant taking a pill.

I was incredibly fortunate to come across a doctor who could see the signs for what they were, and after what seemed like a lifetime, I was able to escape the toxic situation I had been trapped in for so long.

The effects of this relationship have not completely left. There are many times, to this day, I become so easily overwhelmed over things that previously would have left me un-phased. I still struggle to figure out whether something happened the way I remember it, or the way another person claims. I still find myself documenting everything I do for fear of losing my sanity.

I second guess people’s genuine patience, wondering if they’re being a caring and good person, or trying to manipulate me. I question everything and doubt everyone.

Emotional abuse is hard to recognize, and even harder to prove. Yet, the bruises it leaves hurt every bit as much as those left by physical abuse, and the scars it leaves on your soul are just as real as the ones people can leave on your skin.