For a long time, I asked myself if I was just too sensitive. If I was overreacting. Maybe I was the problem.
I questioned myself constantly. I doubted myself. I lied to myself, saying, “It’s not really that bad,” because that’s what years of emotional and verbal abuse can do. It doesn’t always leave bruises. It leaves self-doubt, confusion, and silence. Actually, it leaves more than that—it strips away your identity and reshapes you into someone else entirely. And not in a good way.
I didn’t even realize how much damage had been done until I started trying to heal.
What Verbal and Emotional Abuse Really Looks Like
Abuse isn’t always loud or violent. Sometimes it hides in everyday conversations, in tone, in control—in the subtle manipulation of someone chipping away at your confidence. For me, it was truly death by a thousand cuts.
Here’s what it looked like in my life:
Dismissal and disrespect: I was regularly cut off mid-sentence, told to “get to the point,” or met with rolled eyes. If I shared a thought, it was often waved off or ridiculed. Even casual conversations became opportunities to be controlled and demeaned.
Constant correction: I was told how to drive, how to sit (“you sit like a woman”), how to eat (“get your elbows off the table”), how to talk on the phone (“you sound so ignorant when you say those things to people”), how to dress (almost daily). I was always doing something “wrong.” Always.
Public embarrassment: Angry looks across dinner tables. Kicks under the table. Sarcastic jabs in front of others. I was corrected and criticized publicly, made to feel small in social settings—as if her goal was to assert dominance in front of others.
Sexual coldness and rejection: In over five years, we were intimate maybe five times a year—and when it did happen, it felt transactional. When she told me to “just get it over with,” it stung more than almost anything else she would say.
Gaslighting and blame: If I brought up being hurt or her behavior, I was told I was being dramatic, too sensitive, “the woman in the relationship,” or that I needed to “grow a pair.” When I questioned her actions, the response was often, “If I’m so horrible, why are you even here?”—turning it back on me.
Personal insults: She mocked my hearing, posture, and body. She made jokes that I’d one day “come out,” told me I looked sick or too skinny, and criticized my clothes, my voice, even how I walked.
Each of these things may not seem like much on its own, but together—and with their constant repetition—they formed a pattern. A daily rhythm of being diminished. Over time, that rhythm rewired how I saw myself.
The Damage It Caused
I didn’t walk away from this unscathed. I’m still living with the aftermath. A little over a year ago, I put a stop to it—threatening divorce and forcing us into therapy. Now, about 16 months later, this is still a work in progress. A healing process.
- I became indecisive, afraid of being wrong and inviting more judgment.
- I struggled to feel joy, because I was in survival mode. I stopped pursuing and asking for the things I enjoy.
- I shut down emotionally just to cope.
- I walked on eggshells daily, hour by hour, anticipating angry, cutting criticism.
- I stopped being vulnerable because opening up became a liability.
- I sometimes obsessed over my flaws, as she worked to convince me I was the problem. But I knew the truth—I just didn’t speak it soon enough.
- I felt sexually invisible, lonely, and deeply unwanted.
This didn’t just affect me—it affected how I showed up in every area of my life: my work, my friendships (or lack thereof), my self-worth. I internalized the thousands of cuts. As I said earlier, they changed me.
I’m still in therapy today. I’m still working on myself—through books, close family, and hard self-reflection. I’m just starting to find my voice again, to speak up for what I want, and to rediscover what I even like or don’t like in every aspect of life.
I worry this all sounds dramatic—and I’m not someone who wants to swirl around in unnecessary pain—but the effects of what happened are real, and they require real work to heal.
Why It Still Matters
Even now, when things are “better,” I carry the scars. I still hesitate before speaking. I still second-guess myself. I still brace for rejection, even when it’s not coming. I call it PTSD, and rightly so.
I know she was dealing with real trauma, menopause, and pain. I know that played a role in how she treated me. But her pain doesn’t justify the cruelty. And healing doesn’t happen by pretending it wasn’t real.
I’m writing this now not because I want to stay stuck in the past, but because I refuse to gaslight myself anymore. What I went through was real. It happened over many years. And if I want to truly heal, I have to stop protecting the illusion of “we’re fine now” and stay focused on the truth and restoration.
This is what it looks like to reclaim your voice after years of silence.
And I’m not backing down again.
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