I tried to end the relationship six times but his grip of control wouldn’t let me go easily. He guilt-tripped me, twisted my feelings and made me believe that if I left him something terrible would happen – and somehow it would be my fault. The emotional and mental abuse became so debilitating that I didn’t even recognise the person staring back at me in the mirror.
I was in a relationship for three years with this man I thought loved me. At the time it felt exciting. It felt like everything I had been hoping for. Growing up with an emotionally abusive father I was already used to someone else’s needs always being more important than mine or my sisters’. So when I entered this relationship I didn’t realise how familiar certain behaviours already were to me. I didn’t notice the patterns repeating themselves because to me they were normal.
In the final year of the relationship I knew deep down that I needed to get out. But knowing and doing were two completely different things when my anxiety and panic attacks were getting worse. The put-downs became cruel in a way that chipped away at me every day. I slowly became a shell of myself, begging for the bare minimum. I remember expressing how I felt. I remember begging him to hear me. And I remember the smirk on his face – how he looked almost entertained by how much it hurt me.
The abuse didn’t start with big, obvious red flags. It started small – so small that I convinced myself I was imagining it. It started with unkind acts that slowly turned torturous. It started with little comments that seemed harmless but grew into big put-downs that cut deep. It started with love-bombing and romantic gestures that eventually faded into ignoring my needs and then punishing me for having them. Before I even realised what was happening I’d become someone who desperately tried to please others and never stopped to think about myself.
I began to fawn as a trauma response. It was automatic and I didn’t even realise I was doing it. When I eventually left him – I’d become a shell of myself and had lost all energy to keep trying – this showed up constantly in therapy. I apologised all the time, and for everything: for crying, for taking up her time, for ‘emotion dumping’, for simply existing in the room with feelings. I apologised so much that my therapist eventually asked me why I felt the need to say sorry for everything. I didn’t know the answer.
Therapy was the first place I learned that I didn’t have to keep myself small. It was OK to take up space and have needs. Slowly – painfully slowly if I’m honest – I started learning what my needs actually were. I had spent so long putting everyone else first that I didn’t even know what I felt, wanted or deserved.
I began with person-centred counselling. That’s where I first started hearing my own voice again. It was faint, shaky and quiet, but it was mine. It helped me separate what I really felt from what I had been conditioned to feel. After that I went into psychodynamic therapy, which forced me to dig deep and look at where my insecurities came from. It brought up traumas, but it also helped me understand why I attracted the kind of love that hurt me, and why I thought I had to earn even the smallest bit of care.
Alongside that I tried various other therapeutic models over the years, each one offering something different, each one helping in its own way. No single approach resolved everything but together they helped me turn into someone I could recognise again. They helped me understand myself, my past and the patterns I kept repeating. Every style of therapy played a part in my healing, and they still do. Because the truth is I am still healing now.
It has been seven years since that relationship ended, and I’m still learning to put myself first. I’m still unlearning old habits, catching myself apologising and reminding myself that I matter. Some days are harder than others, but I am finally starting to feel like myself again – maybe even for the first time.
Therapy didn’t just help me move on. It helped me rebuild. I now understand that the love I am desperate for could actually come from me. And for the first time in my life I genuinely believe that.