Covert Narcissistic Abuse: My Story of Gaslighting and Control

Part One: Why This Site Exists 

No one will believe you.
Not at first.
Not when you’re calm.
Not when you choose your words carefully.
And definitely not when the fucking story has already been told without you.

Let’s get something clear early.

This is not a book about diagnosing a partner or labelling an ex.
It’s not a catalogue of disorders or a character assassination.

It’s a book about patterns — about what happens when someone slowly interferes with your sense of reality while appearing perfectly reasonable to everyone else.

And yes — I’m going to use the word cunt.

Not because I’m angry. (Well… not only because I’m angry.)
But because sometimes “emotionally manipulative individual exhibiting maladaptive interpersonal coping strategies” doesn’t quite capture the experience.

Cunt does.

If that word offends you, this book probably isn’t for you.
If it makes you laugh and wince at the same time — welcome. You’re in the right place.

There’s another reason this book exists — one that doesn’t get discussed enough.

It is incredibly difficult to explain these dynamics to anyone who hasn’t lived through them.

Family don’t fully get it.
Friends don’t really get it.
The outside world never sees it.

Even therapists sometimes struggle — not because they’re bad at their job, but because some of this sounds genuinely unhinged if you haven’t experienced it firsthand.

Because if I hadn’t lived it, and someone sat me down and calmly described the lengths some people will go to just to protect their ego and avoid accountability, I would’ve thought they were the problem.

Truly.

I’d have said, “There’s no way a grown adult would manipulate, lie, gaslight, rewrite reality, and quietly damage someone’s reputation… just for validation.”

It sounds paranoid.
It sounds exaggerated.
It sounds like the kind of story you instinctively judge.

Until you live it.

Then you realise some people will burn entire lives down rather than be seen clearly.

That’s why you second-guess yourself.
That’s why you struggle to explain it.
That’s why you end up here — trying to make sense of something invisible that caused very real damage.

This isn’t a revenge story.
It isn’t a diagnostic manual.
And it’s definitely not about pretending I was perfect.

It’s about how intelligent, capable, self-aware people can still end up questioning their sanity while dating someone who “seemed amazing at first.”

Because here’s the uncomfortable truth no one tells you:

You don’t get trapped because you’re weak.
You get trapped because you’re human — and because you possess qualities that someone else wants to borrow without earning.

The early days are almost always good. That’s the point.
If they were awful from the start, you’d run a fucking mile.

This book walks through the stages — not to dwell, but to name them.
Because once you can name something, it loses power.

So if you’re reading this and thinking:

This feels familiar.
This is uncomfortably accurate.
Fuck… this might be about me.

Good.

You’re not stupid.
You’re not broken.
And you’re not alone.

Let’s start at the beginning —
before it all turns into a steaming pile of shit.

Stage One: The Hook

When it feels like rescue, chemistry, and fate all rolled into one dangerously convenient human.

I met her at a low point. Not the poetic kind.
The real one — where life hasn’t just knocked you down, it’s sat on your chest and asked if you’re done yet.

I’d just split from my previous partner of 12 years, who I loved deeply. She had a young daughter when we met. We were engaged and we had a son together, and the idea of becoming another broken family statistic crushed me. I came from that. I never wanted it for my boy, or for his sister.

He’s 19 now — one of the kindest humans I know, I still have a relationship with his sister who now has a daughter of her own, we are still a family and their mum, and I are genuinely best friends — but back then, I was shattered.

I spiralled. I used meth. I fell in with a shit crowd. I became erratic, unreliable, and deeply committed to self-destruction.
I was in full fucking self-destruct mode and, somehow, absolutely killing it.

At my worst, I had nothing to my name. I’d blown about $140k of a disability payout on moronic shit. I was using around $800 a day in meth and living like a fucking hermit crab — hiding, rotting, avoiding mirrors and responsibility equally.

Eventually, something shifted. Not a miracle. Just exhaustion.

So I decided to pull my fucking head in and be the father my children deserved.

And like many bad ideas that feel hopeful at the time, I also decided to start dating.

Stage 1: How The Bait Was Taken (My Story)

I met Her on a online dating app so the hook is very fitting. She looked sweet. Nerdy, even. Not flashy. Not chaotic. Safe-looking. We chatted, it flowed easily, she flirted, I flirted back, and before long we met up.

Our first date was actually great. I took her four-wheel driving down the beach. We lit a fire, only just, I had bit of trouble getting it started which she found quite amusing and made for a good lighthearted atmosphere, we had a few drinks, talked shit, laughed. We kissed. I didn’t push for sex. I stayed the night — then stayed another night because she asked me to.

She seemed like she had her life together. She dressed nice,
Nice house. Clean. Fridge stocked like an actual adult lives there. A “good mum” vibe. Friends. Stability. The opposite of chaos — which, at the time, was my full-time personality.

She showed a lot of interest in me. Compliments. Enthusiasm. Attention that didn’t feel forced.

I told her about my past drug use. She didn’t flinch. She was accepting. Warm. Supportive.

She was 13 years younger than me. I have a spinal injury but I’m functional. At the time, I was on disability benefits and not working — something I carried quiet shame about. She didn’t judge it. In fact, she leaned into it.

She paid for everything. Bought me gifts. Booked weekends away. Cooked for me.
She said she liked spending money on me. Said she really liked me.

The sex was intense and frequent — two to three times a day — and she made it very clear she thought I was incredible. Loud enthusiasm. No ambiguity. I felt fucking amazing.

We watched TV together every night. Same shows. Same humour. Same bed.
Cuddling. Routine. Domestic comfort speedrun.

After about four weeks, she asked me to move in.
Not because it was practical — because “we basically see each other every day anyway.”

And honestly?

It didn’t feel crazy.

It felt like I’d finally landed somewhere soft after free-falling for years.

The Part That Sealed It

She didn’t just accept me.
She accepted my son.

After only meeting him a handful of times, she bought him a genuinely thoughtful birthday gift. She set up a room for him at her place so he had somewhere that was his. She made his school lunches. She spoke to him with respect. She cared for him in a way that looked — and felt — like actual compassion.

If you’re a parent, you already know what that does to your defences.

That doesn’t feel like dating anymore.
That feels like family forming.

She was happy. Smiling. Easy to be around. A genuine pleasure.
Same stupid sense of humour as me. We laughed a lot — proper, dumb laughter. The kind that makes you think, finally, someone who speaks my language.

She didn’t show jealousy. She didn’t interrogate me. She didn’t need reassurance every five minutes. She seemed secure. Balanced. Grown up.

She had a good relationship with her mum and dad. No obvious drama. No chaos spilling everywhere.

So when I thought, this feels like love, it didn’t feel naïve.

It felt reasonable.

Because when someone:

Accepts your past

Accepts your limitations

Accepts your child

And seems genuinely happy doing it

You don’t think you’re being hooked.

You think you’ve finally been chosen properly

and being recently recovered from addiction, I latched onto it like it was fucking crack cocaine.

The Vulnerability Hook

(Or: How to Hand Someone the fucking gun AND LOAD IT )

She asked about my family.

At the time, that story was fucked.

My mum had basically disowned me — and honestly, I wasn’t exactly making a strong case for being lovable. Addiction, erratic behaviour, meth and booze doing laps around my nervous system. I told her all of it.

And she listened.

She said things like, “A mother should never abandon her child, no matter what.”
She validated the hurt. She made it feel safe to say out loud.

Around that time, I properly pulled my head in. I studied mental health and alcohol and other drugs. I graduated with two diplomas. That first year overlapped with being with her.

I started working again. Started my own building business. Employed two to three workers. I was doing well. Rebuilding.

It felt like a redemption arc with a supportive partner cheering from the sidelines.

After about nine months, she started hinting about marriage.

I was 38. I wanted to settle down.
So I dove straight the fuck in like a man who had learned absolutely nothing from history.

I proposed.

Venues. Dresses. Food. Planning a life.
This wasn’t casual anymore. This was serious.

She posted the good news on social media saying how happy she was to soon be my wife, smiling showing the ring off and basking in the comments of congratulations and happiness from family and friends.

Around that time, I reached out to my mum to make amends. I apologised for my behaviour and raised feelings of neglect from childhood I needed to address. That part didn’t land well — accountability is easier than emotional honesty — but contact resumed. We were talking again.

Over time, She began finding faults in my mum. Subtle at first. Then sharper. She made little effort to get to know my family. We spent most Christmases and holidays with her family instead.

Over nine years, my family saw Her only a handful of times.
They saw her kids once or twice.

And the deepest shit I trusted her with — my shame, my wounds, my worst chapters — didn’t stay safe forever.

Later, when I confronted her, she’d reach for those confessions and drop them like a fucking atomic bomb on my self-esteem.

But at this stage?

It still felt like love.

The Warning From the Past You Ignore

There was an EX yes and he treated her badly, cheating, neglect and so on. You know how it goes, she would say he wasn’t attracted to her anymore and that he left her and the kids.

She told me he’d cheated on her. Said they didn’t have a bad relationship, exactly — but she spoke to him like absolute shit. Sharp. Dismissive. Contemptuous.

She told me that he drank a lot and would rather be at the pub with mates than at home with her and the kids, that he showed no interest in her and she felt very unwanted. the opposite to me. I love being at home, that’s mine where I can relax, spend time with the people I love and entertain guests

I witnessed it one day an outburst of hatred and yelling at him in front of the kids and her parents, I was like what the fuck just happened where did this person come from.

Afterwards, I checked in with him.
“Hey mate, you alright?”

He looked at me and said, calmly:

“Mate… you have no idea what you’re getting yourself in for.”

No drama. No bitterness. Just that.

At the time, I brushed it off.
Because when you’re hooked, any warning sounds like bitterness from someone who “lost.”

But fuck me — those words ring out now like an air raid siren.

Her Ex didn’t look like a villain. He seemed calm, respectful, a good dad. Not aggressive. Not unstable. And honestly? Not like the type to cheat.

Her parents looked on like this was common which was the first thing that struck my cunt o meter, but still I explained it away in my head because she didn’t treat me like that nor would I ever fucking stand for that shit.

So I did not over think what I just witnessed.

What Stage 1 Actually Is

The hook isn’t evil.

It’s just fucking powerful.

It feels like:

Relief after chaos

Acceptance after shame

Belonging after loss

And when you’re in that state, intensity feels like intimacy.

Because the hook doesn’t hurt you.
It just makes sure that leaving — or being discarded later — will bring you to your fucking knees.

Emotionally.
Physically.
Financially.
And sometimes, just for fun, legally.

When it happens, it feels like total destruction. Like your life got flattened overnight.
And almost no one will really get it.

Not because they don’t care —
but because they never saw it.

They didn’t see the slow erosion.
They didn’t hear the conversations that made no sense.
They didn’t feel the conditioning that taught you not to talk, not to ask, not to reach out.

By the time you’re in trouble, you’ve already been trained to shut the fuck up.

One-Line Truth

If someone feels like they understand you deeply very early, ask yourself whether they’re connecting — or collecting.

In Stage 1, it feels like love.
Later, you realise it was preparation.

(Yes, that was more than one line. Already off to a gaslighting start.)

Stage 1 — What Was Actually Happening

The Hook, Explained Without Killing the Mood

Love Bombing (The Quiet Kind)

This isn’t the over-the-top movie version.

It’s steady, consistent warmth.
Attention.
Praise.
Availability.
Sex that makes you feel chosen, wanted, irreplaceable, like genuine intimacy.

It feels healthy because it’s not chaotic.
It feels safe because it’s constant.

And because it arrives when you’re vulnerable, it doesn’t feel like excess — it feels like relief.

Accelerated Intimacy

Things move fast, but smoothly.

Living together quickly.
Future talk early.
Emotional depth before real-world stress has even shown up.

You tell yourself:

“When you know, you know.”

What’s actually happening is intimacy without testing.
No boredom.
No disappointment.
No pressure.

Just intensity — which is not the same thing as stability.

Rescue Framing

They accept you exactly as you are.

Your past.
Your mess.
Your shame.
Your limitations.

It feels incredible — especially if you’ve recently been at your lowest.

But acceptance without boundaries isn’t love.
It’s positioning.

Because if someone meets you when you feel broken, they quietly become the reference point for your worth.

The Reconnaissance Phase

Early in the relationship—what I now think of as the reconnaissance phase—they’re not bonding with you.
They’re testing you.

They’ll say or do something deliberately upsetting, often during a good moment or a special event. Times when you’re relaxed. Happy. Off guard. They’re watching how you react, how much you tolerate, how quickly you recover.

I remember an early weekend away, a quiet forest retreat. One of those places that’s meant to slow you down. She asked me to take a photo of her climbing a tourist-trap tree. As I’m taking the photos, out of nowhere, she snaps:

“You fucking ruin everything.”

Then she just stared at me.

No explanation. No context. Just silence, like she was waiting to see what I’d do.

I was shocked. I threw her phone on the ground, told her to take it herself, and walked back to the car.

A few minutes later she got in beside me. Said nothing. Acted like everything was fine. Like the moment hadn’t happened at all.

That was the first time I saw the mask slip.
And it was the first months of dating.

The next day we visited a small town nearby. We were walking through a reserve, kangaroos lazing around in the morning sun. I walked toward them and my knee suddenly went out from under me. I fell forward onto the ground.

She laughed. Instantly. Loudly. With what looked like genuine enjoyment.

She didn’t ask if I was okay. Didn’t offer a hand. Didn’t check if I was hurt.

Sure — it was awkward. Maybe even a little funny. But you ask are you okay first. That comes before amusement.

What stood out wasn’t the laugh. It was the delight she seemed to take in someone else’s embarrassment.

Testing (Without You Noticing)

Small, quiet tests start early.

They might:

disagree gently and watch how you respond

pull back slightly and see if you chase

say something unfair and note whether you challenge it

reward certain reactions with warmth

cool off when you assert yourself

They’re not arguing.
They’re observing.

You’re being calibrated.

What makes you apologise?
What makes you explain?
What makes you stay quiet?
What makes you work harder for connection?

Every response gets logged in the database of control.

They watch how you respond to disrespect.
They watch how you respond when empathy is withheld.
They note whether you brush it off, minimise it, or tell yourself you’re being too sensitive.

Once they understand your reaction pattern, they adjust. Not to be kinder — but to control you more efficiently.

And once it works, they keep using it.

The Emotional Probe

While you think you’re connecting, they are gathering intel.

They ask:

about your childhood

about your regrets

about your fears

about who hurt you

about what you need to feel safe

And because it feels warm and validating, you answer honestly.

You think:

“I’ve never opened up like this before.”

That’s not an accident it’s a deliberate gathering of emotional information that will be weaponized to use against you when the time is right.

Unearned Investment

Money.
Gifts.
Trips.
Emotional labour.

All before trust has actually been built.

This accelerates attachment and creates imbalance — even if it feels generous at the time.

Because later, that investment quietly turns into:

“After everything I’ve done for you…”

Early Isolation Seeds

Nothing dramatic.

Just subtle drift.

More time with them.
More time with their people.
Less effort toward yours.

It doesn’t feel like isolation.
It feels like prioritising the relationship.

But over time, your world gets smaller — without you agreeing to it.

The Fuck-o-meter™

An entirely unscientific but disturbingly accurate self-assessment.

Tick the boxes honestly.
No one else is watching.
(And if you lie to this, you’re definitely fucked.)

🟢 Early Days: “This Feels Great”

☐ It moved fast but felt right
☐ They felt like home almost immediately
☐ You felt seen, chosen, understood
☐ Sex was frequent, intense, validating
☐ They accepted your flaws with suspicious ease
☐ You thought, finally, someone mature

Score: Relax. Probably normal. Probably.