Survivor Speaks Truth

Tag: Abuse Tactics

  • Blame-Shifting and Projection: A Common Abuse Tactic

    One confusing and destabilizing behaviour in abusive relationships is projection. It happens when someone accuses you of the very things they are guilty of themselves. This is not accidental, and it is not harmless. Projection serves a purpose: it protects their image while slowly dismantling yours.

    When an abuser projects, they shift the focus away from their own behaviour and place it squarely on you. If they are dishonest, you become the liar. If they are unfaithful, you are accused of betrayal. If they are controlling, they label you as manipulative. Over time, this creates a distorted reality where you are constantly defending yourself against accusations that don’t align with who you are, while their behaviour goes unchecked.

    Projection allows them to maintain a self-image of innocence, righteousness, or victimhood. Admitting wrongdoing would threaten the version of themselves they need to uphold—both internally and publicly. By assigning their guilt to you, they avoid accountability and preserve their reputation. In many cases, this is especially effective because the accusations often come with confidence, moral superiority, or even spiritual language that makes you question your own integrity.

    The damage of projection is not just relational—it is psychological. Repeated accusations cause you to second-guess yourself. You may start examining your actions, intentions, and words endlessly, wondering if you really are the problem. This erosion of self-trust is one of the most effective tools of control. When you no longer trust yourself, you are more likely to defer to their version of reality.

    Projection also keeps you on the defensive. Instead of addressing real issues—patterns of control, dishonesty, or harm—you are pulled into endless explanations and justifications. Conversations become circular. Concerns are flipped. Accountability is reversed. You leave interactions feeling confused, drained, and unsettled, often apologizing for things you didn’t do to restore peace.

    A key indicator that projection is at play is the absence of responsibility. When concerns are raised, they are denied, minimized, or turned back on you. There is little curiosity, reflection, or willingness to change. Instead, you are met with counter-accusations, character attacks, or claims that you are “too sensitive,” “imagining things,” or “causing problems.” Projection thrives where humility is absent.

    It is essential to recognize that projection is not a misunderstanding—it is a defence mechanism. It functions to protect power, image, and control. Recognizing it does not require proving intent; it requires noticing patterns. If accusations consistently mirror the other person’s behaviour, and if addressing concerns only results in blame being redirected toward you, your discomfort is valid.

    If you find yourself constantly defending your character, questioning your sanity, or carrying shame that does not belong to you, pause. You are not required to accept accusations that do not reflect your actions or values. Boundaries are not cruel, and clarity is not unloving.

    Projection keeps abusers safe from exposure, but it comes at a cost to those on the receiving end. Naming it is not about retaliation—it is about reclaiming reality. When you understand that projection protects their image, you can begin releasing the burden of false guilt and start trusting yourself again.

  • Is it Love or a Trauma Bond?

    Many people who have been in unhealthy or abusive relationships find themselves asking a painful and confusing question afterward: Was that love, or was it a trauma bond? The two can feel almost indistinguishable when you are inside the relationship or even long after it ends. Both can involve deep attachment, longing, loyalty, and intense emotion, but they are formed in very different ways and lead to very different outcomes.

    Healthy love is grounded in safety and consistency. It grows steadily, marked by mutual respect, accountability, and emotional security. In a loving relationship, there is space to be yourself without fear of punishment, abandonment, or retaliation. Conflict may exist, but it can be addressed without intimidation or manipulation. Love tends to bring a sense of calm over time, not constant anxiety. You don’t have to earn kindness, prove your worth, or shrink yourself to keep someone close.

    A trauma bond, on the other hand, is formed through cycles of pain and relief. It develops in relationships where there is emotional, psychological, or physical harm paired with moments of affection, remorse, or connection. These intermittent moments of closeness create powerful attachment because the same person who causes pain also becomes the source of comfort. The bond forms not despite the harm, but because of it, conditioning the nervous system to associate relief from distress with love.

    This is why trauma bonds often feel so intense and consuming. Prolonged stress followed by brief emotional relief creates a surge of bonding hormones in the body, making the attachment feel addictive. Leaving can feel physically painful, and logic alone often isn’t enough to break the bond. You may miss the person deeply, even while knowing they hurt you, question your own judgment, or feel confused about what was real. This response is not a sign of weakness or lack of intelligence; it is a biological survival response to repeated emotional threat.

    There are often signs that indicate a trauma bond rather than healthy love. The relationship may feel overwhelming or obsessive rather than supportive. You may stay because of who the person is, “when things are good,” rather than how they consistently treat you. There may be a strong sense of responsibility to fix, rescue, or tolerate behaviour that causes harm. The emotional highs may feel euphoric, while the lows feel devastating, leaving you in a constant state of anxiety rather than peace.

    Trauma bonds are often mistaken for love because many people were conditioned earlier in life to associate intense feelings with connection. If chaos, unpredictability, or emotional neglect were part of childhood, calm and stability can feel unfamiliar or even unsafe. A trauma bond can feel meaningful because it activates old wounds and unmet needs, creating a powerful longing to be chosen, valued, or seen for who you truly are. But real love does not require suffering to prove its depth.

    Healing begins with naming the truth. Acknowledging a trauma bond does not invalidate the feelings involved; the attachment was real, but it was rooted in survival rather than mutual, healthy love. Healing often consists of regulating the nervous system, creating a sense of safety, breaking cycles of intermittent reinforcement, and learning what a secure connection actually feels like. Grief is part of this process, but it does not require romanticizing the harm that occurred.

    On the other side of a trauma bond is a different experience of love—one that may feel quieter and less dramatic at first, but far more grounding. It is a love that allows you to breathe, to rest, and to exist without fear. Peace can feel unfamiliar when chaos has been the norm, but peace is not the absence of passion; it is the presence of safety.

    If you find yourself asking whether it was love or a trauma bond, that question itself is a sign of awakening. Love does not cost you your identity, thrive on fear, or require endurance to survive. You don’t have to condemn the past to heal from it, but you do deserve to tell yourself the truth. And the truth is that you are worthy of a connection that feels safe, steady, and free.

  • They Know Exactly What They’re Doing

    For those of us who naturally see the best in people, it can feel almost impossible to accept the truth that some people intend the harm they cause. You tell yourself they “didn’t mean it,” “weren’t thinking,” or “didn’t realize their actions or words were hurtful,” because facing the reality of their intentional actions is deeply painful. Yet more often than not, the harm was not accidental. It was calculated, conscious, and deliberate. One of the most evident signs is that people who cause harm can control themselves when it benefits them. Someone who screams, mocks, or belittles you in private can somehow remain calm, charming, and composed in front of church members, coworkers, or anyone whose opinion matters to them. A person who claims they “can’t control their temper” suddenly becomes gentle when there’s an audience. Someone who insists they “didn’t know their words were hurtful” somehow manages to choose their tone with surgical precision when speaking to people they want to impress. Selective behaviour is not an accident; it’s evidence of awareness. If they can control their actions and tongue depending on the crowd, they know what they’re doing.

    This truth also becomes evident in the way they manipulate their words to suit the audience. They may speak harshly at home, but soften their tone in public. They may accuse you of being “too sensitive,” yet carefully craft their words for others to ensure they appear kind or reasonable. Their narrative shifts to whatever makes them look good and you look unstable. People who genuinely have no idea they’re causing harm don’t need evolving stories. But those who knowingly hurt you will bend their version of events depending on who they’re trying to convince. And watch what happens the moment consequences are possible—when their job, reputation, or access to you is at stake. Suddenly, they can regulate themselves with ease. The insults fade, the volume lowers, the charm turns on instantly. Someone who can adjust their behaviour that quickly was never out of control; they chose to be reckless with you because they assumed there would be no consequences.

    Even their remorse reveals awareness. They often only express regret when exposure or loss becomes a threat, not when they recognize the pain they’ve caused. That isn’t repentance—it’s self-preservation. A person who genuinely didn’t realize they were hurting you wouldn’t need to be caught or confronted before acknowledging their behaviour. Accepting that people know what they’re doing when they hurt you isn’t about becoming hardened or bitter; it’s about becoming honest. You can still have a soft heart and believe in goodness, but you must stop rewriting someone’s character to fit the potential you hope they have. Abusers and emotionally unsafe people rely on your compassion to protect them from accountability. But healing requires truth, and truth requires naming what happened. Recognizing that they knew and chose their actions toward you is a crucial step in reclaiming your strength, your clarity, and your freedom.

  • Silence Protects the Abuser, Not the Survivor

    Silence is often mistaken for peace, but for a survivor, silence is something entirely different. It is the place you retreat to when speaking feels dangerous. It is the space you hide in because telling the truth has never been met with safety. People on the outside don’t understand this—they wonder why you didn’t say something sooner, why you stayed, why you kept quiet. But they don’t realize that silence is not chosen lightly. It is shaped by conditioning, experience, fear, and by the knowledge of what happens when the truth threatens someone who lives behind a mask. Abusers cultivate silence. They depend on it the way a fire depends on oxygen. They groom you to downplay the harm, keep secrets, and question your own reality. They convince you that no one will believe you, that speaking up will make things worse, that you’re too dramatic, too emotional, misremembering, that you are overreacting, or too sensitive. They rely on your empathy, your loyalty, your desire to “keep the peace,” your hope that the good moments mean something. They weaponize your love. They twist logic, Scripture, or your words until you wonder if maybe staying quiet is easier than being destroyed. Silence becomes the price you pay to avoid punishment.

    But silence never protects the survivor—it protects the abuser. It keeps their reputation intact. It allows their lies to stand unchallenged. It preserves the image they’ve curated for the world: the charming spouse, the devoted parent, the respected professional, the person who could “never” do what you’re saying they did. Silence hides the truth that would expose the cruelty happening behind closed doors. And while you carry the weight of wounds you didn’t cause, they walk freely, confident that your silence will shield them from the consequences of their actions. That is how abuse survives—not because survivors are weak, but because abusers are strategic. They understand that their greatest threat is your voice. They know that if you ever speak, the illusion they rely on begins to crack. So they keep you quiet through fear, gaslighting, manipulation, shame, and spiritual distortion. They condition you to believe that your silence is necessary, noble, godly, or protective, but it isn’t. Silence is the cage they build around you.

    Yet something powerful happens when a survivor finally decides to speak. The moment the words leave your lips, even if your voice trembles, the darkness loses its grip. The truth begins to breathe. You feel the weight shift, not because everything becomes easy, but because the burden is no longer carried in secret. Speaking up does not create destruction—abuse does. Telling the truth does not divide families—abuse does. Naming the harm does not ruin reputations—abuse does. Survivors do not speak to punish. They speak to stop generational cycles, heal, protect their children, and reclaim the part of themselves that learned, for far too long, that their voice didn’t matter. And with every truth spoken, another layer of shame falls away. People may still choose to believe the lie. Some will prefer the illusion. Some will take the easy narrative rather than confront the real one. That is the cost of honesty in a world that idolizes appearances. But even then, your voice matters. Because silence protects the abuser, but truth protects the survivor. And once you step into truth, even if it costs you relationships, comfort, or approval, you step into freedom. You step into clarity. You step into the life you were meant to live before someone convinced you that hiding was safer than being heard. Silence may have protected them, but it will not protect them forever. There comes a day when the truth rises—in a whisper, sometimes in a roar—but either way, it rises. And when it does, you realize that your voice was never the danger. Your silence was. And choosing to speak is the moment everything begins to change—not because the past disappears, but because you finally refuse to carry it alone.

  • Cognitive Dissonance: The War Between Heart and Mind

    Cognitive dissonance is one of the most tormenting psychological effects of abuse — the invisible tug-of-war inside your mind that makes you question your own reality. It’s the tension between what you feel and know, the mental chaos of trying to reconcile love with harm, and hope with truth. For survivors, it’s not simply confusion — it’s survival.

    Abuse often begins with affection, connection, and the illusion of safety. The person who will later hurt you first studies you — learning your dreams, fears, and vulnerabilities. They mirror your values, speak your language, and convince you that you’ve finally found someone who understands you. When the cruelty begins — the demeaning comments, gaslighting, and manipulation — your mind refuses to accept it at face value. It clings to the version of them who once made you feel safe, seen, and special. You tell yourself they didn’t mean it, they’re stressed, or they’ll change. You remember the good days like lifelines, hoping they’ll come back. That’s cognitive dissonance — your brain trying to bridge the impossible gap between who they pretend to be and who they truly are.

    It’s not weakness. It’s wiring. The brain naturally seeks harmony between beliefs and experiences. When something doesn’t make sense — like “they love me” and “they’re hurting me” coexisting — the mind will do anything to restore order, even if it means rewriting the truth. It’s safer to believe the abuse is your fault than to accept that the person you love is intentionally harming you. It’s less painful to hope they’ll change than to face that they won’t. This is why victims stay. This is how trauma bonds form — through cycles of punishment and reward, cruelty followed by crumbs of affection that feel like proof of love.

    Abusers exploit this confusion masterfully. They use intermittent reinforcement — one moment cold, the next kind — training your nervous system to crave their approval. You start apologizing for things you didn’t do, shrinking smaller, trying harder, and walking on eggshells. You believe that if you can love them right, the good version will return. The truth is that version never existed. It was a carefully constructed mask designed to keep you hooked. But when you realize it, you’re already entangled in a web of fear, self-doubt, and shame.

    Even after you leave, cognitive dissonance doesn’t fade overnight. In fact, it can intensify. You may find yourself defending them, missing them, or second-guessing your own memories. You’ll replay conversations, wondering if you exaggerated or misunderstood. You might even feel guilty for leaving. These conflicting emotions can make you feel crazy, but you’re not. You’re detoxing from manipulation — from a distorted reality that rewired your brain to question itself. Healing requires confronting those contradictions head-on.

    Freedom begins when you allow both truths to coexist: I loved them, and they hurt me. You can grieve the person you thought they were without denying the abuse that happened. You can honour your love without excusing their cruelty. Healing is not about forgetting the good moments but remembering the whole picture — the context, the cost, and the pattern. The brain slowly relearns that truth, even when painful, brings peace, while illusion always brings chaos.

    Recovery from cognitive dissonance is like reassembling a shattered mirror. You pick up each piece of truth and place it back where it belongs. You replace fantasy with facts, guilt with grace, and confusion with clarity. It’s painful at first because your mind must unlearn the lies that once made you feel safe. But as clarity comes, the fog lifts. You start to see the abuser’s tactics for what they were — manipulation, not love. Control, not care. Performance, not partnership.

    Healing involves more than understanding what happened intellectually; it requires retraining your body and mind to trust truth again. Writing things down helps anchor reality when your mind romanticizes the past. Therapy, trauma-informed support, and community with other survivors can help you name what you experienced and remind you that you’re not alone. Most importantly, self-compassion is crucial. You stayed because your heart was hopeful. After all, your empathy was used against you, because your love was real — even if theirs wasn’t.

    Cognitive dissonance dissolves not through force but through truth spoken gently, again and again, until your mind and heart finally agree. You begin to see that peace doesn’t come from pretending it wasn’t that bad, but from admitting it was. And yet, here you are. Still standing, healing and learning to trust yourself again.

    The truth may hurt, but it also heals. The lies kept you bound; the truth will set you free. And in time, you will realize that clarity — even when it breaks your heart — is the most merciful gift you could ever give yourself.

  • Two Faces, One Truth: Abuse Is Always a Choice

    When you’ve lived through abuse, one of the hardest truths to face is this: yes, an abuser can control themselves. That statement alone can take years to fully accept, because so many of us were conditioned to believe their behaviour was caused by stress, anger, or circumstance. We were told, “They just snapped,” or “They didn’t mean it.” But deep down, you start to notice a pattern that exposes the truth—if they can control how they speak, act, and appear in front of others, they can also control themselves behind closed doors. What changes isn’t their ability—it’s their audience.

    Abuse is not a loss of control. It’s the calculated use of it. Abusers are often deliberate, strategic, and painfully aware of when to turn on the charm and when to unleash cruelty. They can smile in public, offer compliments, and appear calm and collected when it benefits them. They know how to impress, gain sympathy, and make people believe they are kind, faithful, and respectable. Then, when the doors close and the witnesses are gone, they become someone else entirely. That shift isn’t an accident. It’s manipulation at its finest—maintaining power while keeping the victim silent and confused.

    If an abuser were genuinely unable to control themselves, they would treat everyone the same way. But they don’t. They never yell at their boss, curse at the pastor, or shove a stranger in line at the grocery store. They know precisely when to restrain themselves. They’re fully capable of appearing calm when there are consequences at stake. That alone proves that their behaviour is a choice. What they “lose control” of is not their temper—it’s their mask, and only when they think it’s safe to do so.

    This duality—the charming public persona versus the private cruelty—is one of the most confusing parts of abuse. The person everyone else sees is often kind, attentive, and generous. People speak highly of them, trust them, and defend them. Meanwhile, you’re living with a version no one else knows. You watch them praise others while criticizing you, raise their voice in rage one minute and then greet a friend sweetly the next. You begin to question your own perception. You think, “Maybe it really is me. Maybe I am too sensitive.” That confusion is part of their design. By maintaining a spotless public image, they create a shield of credibility for themselves and a cloak of doubt around you. If you ever speak up, they’ve already built a world that won’t believe you.

    The truth is that abusers are experts at image management. They study people’s reactions, learn what earns trust, and tailor their behaviour accordingly. It’s why many of them seem “so nice” or “so godly” in public. They use charm as a form of control and faith language to manipulate. Some even quote Scripture or speak about forgiveness while ignoring repentance. But God is not mocked. His Word says that self-control is a fruit of the Spirit. If someone truly walks with Him, that fruit will be visible not only in church pews or social circles but in the hidden corners of home. You can tell a tree by its fruit; rotten fruit can’t be disguised forever.

    What many call a “loss of control” is the deliberate use of anger as a weapon. Rage becomes a tool to dominate, to silence, to make you walk on eggshells. And when the storm passes, the abuser often acts as though nothing happened. They may even cry or say sorry to reset the power balance, not out of conviction. The goal isn’t reconciliation—it’s control. True repentance leads to change; manipulation leads to repetition. That’s the difference between a heart that wants healing and a person who wants to win.

    The Bible warns about those who appear righteous outwardly but are full of hypocrisy and wickedness within. It’s a verse that hits differently when you’ve lived it. Abusers don’t just harm people—they distort truth itself. They make evil look good and good look evil. They convince you that silence is loyalty and endurance is love. But real love does not destroy. It doesn’t leave you trembling or apologizing for being in pain. Love is patient and kind. Love protects. Love rejoices with the truth. And that’s why truth is so threatening to an abuser—because truth unmasks what they’ve spent so much time trying to hide.

    It’s heartbreaking how often victims are doubted because the abuser’s mask is so convincing. People see the public version—the friendly, composed one—and assume that’s who they really are. They can’t imagine that the same person who leads worship, coaches little league, or helps a neighbour shovel snow could be cruel in private. But that’s how abuse works. It thrives in darkness and relies on disbelief. The difference between how an abuser behaves in public and how they behave in private is one of the most evident proofs that their actions are intentional, not impulsive. They choose when to appear kind, be cruel, and play the victim themselves.

    The truth may be painful, but it’s also freeing. When you finally understand that their behaviour wasn’t because of you, your shortcomings, or something you did wrong—it was because of their desire to control—you stop trying to fix what you never broke. You stop believing that if you just prayed harder, loved more, or forgave faster, they would change. You start seeing their words for what they are—excuses. And you start seeing yourself as God sees you—worthy of peace, safety, and love that doesn’t leave bruises on the heart.

    So, can an abuser control themselves? Yes. They’ve been doing it all along. They control their temper when the police drive by. They control their tone when the pastor calls. They control their story when they need sympathy. The only time they “lose control” is when they think there will be no consequences. That’s not lack of control—that’s abuse.

    If you’ve ever questioned your reality because they seemed so different around others, please know this: you’re not imagining it. You’re seeing the truth that others haven’t yet seen. And though they may deceive people for a time, nothing hidden stays hidden forever. The Bible says, “There is nothing concealed that will not be disclosed, or hidden that will not be made known.” God sees every mask, every manipulation, every secret act of cruelty done in the dark. One day, all of it will be brought into the light.

    And when it is, remember this—it’s not your job to expose them; God promises to reveal the truth. Your job is to heal, to walk in freedom, and to trust that the same God who saw every moment of your pain will bring justice in His time. They controlled themselves when they wanted to; now you can take back the control they stole from you. Because truth, once seen, cannot be unseen—and it’s truth that sets you free.

  • The Hidden Dangers of Shared Custody When Abuse is Present

    When a relationship ends because of abuse, the challenges rarely stop with separation. For many survivors, the most brutal battles begin afterward—inside courtrooms, mediation sessions, and parenting agreements that force not just ongoing contact, but shared decision-making with the very person who caused harm. Family courts often insist on joint custody, arguing that if the abuse wasn’t directed toward the children, both parents should still have equal say in their upbringing. But that reasoning is deeply flawed. Abuse is never limited to one target; it contaminates the entire environment. When someone chooses to harm the other parent, they’ve already proven they cannot make safe, selfless, or sound decisions in the best interest of their children.

    Abuse isn’t a single moment—it’s a mindset rooted in control and entitlement. When a parent has abused their partner, they’ve shown they value power more than partnership and winning more than well-being. Believing that person can suddenly transform into a cooperative, fair co-parent is a dangerous misconception. Granting shared custody and shared decision-making in those circumstances doesn’t promote the child’s welfare—it gives the abuser continued power to dominate, manipulate, and punish under the protection of the law.

    True co-parenting requires trust, respect, communication, and a willingness to prioritize the children above all else. Those elements do not exist when one parent has a history of abuse. Survivors often find themselves forced into what professionals call “parallel parenting,” though even that term minimizes the reality. The abuser continues to exert control through communication, decision-making, and the children themselves—using visitation schedules, school choices, medical care, and extracurricular activities as opportunities to create chaos. What the courts label as “joint decision-making” often becomes court-endorsed coercion, where every choice is a battleground and every discussion reopens old wounds.

    Even when the abuse wasn’t directed at the children, they are still profoundly affected by it. Children do not feel safe with someone who has harmed the parent they love. They sense tension, instability, and fear even when no one speaks of it. They watch one parent shrink while the other dominates, learning that love can be something to fear. The message they internalize is not about safety or security but survival. And when they’re forced into situations where both parents are expected to “cooperate,” they carry a heavy emotional burden that no child should have to bear.

    The power imbalance doesn’t disappear when the relationship ends. In fact, shared decision-making often magnifies it. Abusers tend to have more financial resources, public charm, or social credibility while survivors are left fighting to be believed. The abuser may present as composed and reasonable, while the survivor—still managing trauma—is dismissed as emotional or “high-conflict.” It’s a cruel paradox: the person who created the instability appears calm, while the one who endured it seems reactive. And within that dynamic, the abuser often continues to manipulate outcomes, controlling from a distance through court orders, forced cooperation, and paperwork.

    The emotional toll of this arrangement is enormous. Survivors live in constant vigilance—anticipating conflict, bracing for the subsequent power struggles, and monitoring their words. The ongoing exposure keeps them tethered to the trauma they’ve fought so hard to escape. Yet, even within this complex system, there are ways to reclaim small pieces of peace. Survivors can document every exchange, communicate only through monitored apps like OurFamilyWizard or TalkingParents, and remain calm and factual in all written correspondence. Every act of composure weakens the abuser’s control and strengthens the survivor’s credibility.

    It’s also essential to seek trauma-informed legal and emotional support. Lawyers and counsellors who understand coercive control can help survivors navigate a system that often misunderstands it. A strong network—trusted family, friends, church, or community—can offer perspective and protection when isolation threatens to take hold. Most importantly, survivors must prioritize emotional regulation and healing. Children draw stability from the parent who remains calm and consistent, even amid turmoil.

    The truth is, someone who abuses their partner cannot be trusted to make healthy joint decisions about their children. The same traits that drive abuse—entitlement, lack of empathy, and manipulation—make collaborative parenting impossible. Children may be required to spend time with that parent, but they instinctively know where safety lives. They feel the difference between control and care, fear and love, chaos and peace. They may not have the words to articulate it, but they always know who protects their heart.

    Leaving abuse is not the end of the story—it’s the beginning of rebuilding a life rooted in truth and safety. Every boundary held, every calm response, every prayer for strength teaches your children what real love looks like. The abuser may share custody and decision-making on paper, but they will never share your courage, faith, or integrity. And in the end, that’s what your children will remember—the steady, unwavering presence of the parent who made them feel safe in a world that often wasn’t.

  • Hurt You, Blame You: The Manipulation of False Victimhood

    There are few things more disorienting than being wounded by someone you trusted, only to have them turn around and claim they are the one who has been wronged. It is not enough that they inflicted the pain — they also rewrite the story to put themselves in the center as the victim. This tactic is not how normal, healthy people respond to conflict; it is a hallmark of manipulation, and it is one of the ways abusers maintain control over those they harm.

    When you love someone, mistakes will happen. Words may come out wrong, tempers may flare, and feelings may get bruised. In healthy relationships, those moments are met with accountability. A sincere apology is offered, an effort is made to repair the damage, and both people walk away with a deeper understanding of one another. Abusers, however, do the opposite. Instead of owning the harm they cause, they deflect responsibility and recast themselves as the ones who have been unfairly treated. Suddenly, the person they hurt is left with their own wounds and the burden of defending themselves against untrue accusations.

    This reversal is deeply confusing. Survivors often replay the events in their minds, asking themselves if they are overreacting, if maybe they misunderstood, or if they somehow caused the whole thing. That cycle of self-doubt is precisely what the abuser hopes for. The more you question yourself, the quieter you become. The more you silence your instincts, the easier for them to continue controlling the narrative. Over time, you can feel invisible, as if your voice and your truth don’t matter.

    What makes this tactic so effective is the sympathy it wins from others. When an abuser positions themselves as the victim, outsiders often rush to their defence. People may rally around the one causing harm, while the actual victim is left isolated, disbelieved, and even blamed for the situation. This compounds the trauma, because not only are you living through the pain of betrayal, you’re also experiencing the loneliness of being misunderstood.

    The truth is that causing deep hurt and playing the victim is not normal conflict. It is not just a misunderstanding; it is not two people simply seeing things differently. It is deliberate manipulation to keep the focus away from accountability and leave the real victim silenced and confused. Once you can see this pattern for what it is, you begin to understand that you are not crazy, you are not overreacting, and you are not the one to blame.

    Healing from this kind of manipulation means reclaiming your story. It means naming what happened and refusing to carry guilt that does not belong to you. It means surrounding yourself with safe people who will listen and believe you and learning to trust your perspective again. You were there. You know the truth. You do not need to accept the false narrative forced on you.

    Abusers may try to steal your voice by turning themselves into the victim, but the truth has a way of cutting through lies. You don’t have to live under their distorted story forever. Your pain is real, your experience is valid, and your freedom is possible. When you step out of the fog of manipulation, you can see clearly that pretending to be the victim while causing harm is not strength, it’s not righteousness, and it’s not love — it’s abuse. And you are not bound to it anymore.

  • Abusers Don’t Abuse Everyone: The Hidden Reality Behind the Mask

    One of the most misunderstood truths about abuse is this: abusers don’t abuse everyone. Some can be incredibly charming, helpful, and even appear selfless—especially if they are covert narcissists. This is one of the biggest reasons survivors often face disbelief when speaking up. To the outside world, the abuser may seem like the nicest person you could meet. They might be active in their community, generous with neighbours, and even affectionate with certain friends or family members. But behind closed doors—when the audience is gone—the mask slips, revealing their true nature. Abuse isn’t random. It’s targeted. Many narcissistic abusers choose one or two specific people to scapegoat, harm, and control, while treating others very differently. This selective cruelty allows them to maintain a flawless image, making it nearly impossible for others to believe the victim’s account. It isolates the victim, who may even doubt their reality: “If they’re so nice to everyone else, maybe it is me.”

    Covert narcissists are exceptionally skilled at hiding their abuse. They may present themselves as humble, misunderstood, or even wounded souls needing compassion. They use this carefully crafted persona to gain sympathy from others, deflect suspicion when accusations arise, and position themselves as the real “victim.” Sometimes they even spread subtle misinformation or outright lies to paint the actual victim as difficult, unkind, or unstable. When the public persona of an abuser is drastically different from the private reality, survivors face an uphill battle for validation. People who have only seen the “good side” can’t reconcile it with the survivor’s account. This disbelief is compounded by the fact that many people don’t want to accept that such cruel and manipulative behaviour exists—especially in someone they know or admire. This leaves survivors not only dealing with the trauma of the abuse itself but also the pain of being doubted or dismissed. It’s a second wound—often deeper than the first.

    Abuse thrives in secrecy and disbelief. The public charm, the selective kindness, and the carefully curated image are all part of the abuser’s control. They know exactly how to play the role that keeps them safe from accountability. The truth is, not everyone sees the abuse. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t real. If anything, it makes it more dangerous. Having one person who truly sees and believes them can make all the difference for survivors. And for the rest of us, the responsibility is clear: listen without judgment, educate ourselves about narcissistic abuse and manipulation, and never assume that someone’s public kindness is proof of their private integrity. When we understand that abusers don’t abuse everyone, we strip away one of their greatest weapons—the mask that hides their cruelty—and we take one step closer to a world where survivors can speak and be heard.

  • Would More Time Have Changed the Outcome?

    One of the common questions survivors of abuse wrestle with is this: Would time have changed the outcome? If I had waited longer before committing and gotten to know them better, could I have spared myself the heartbreak? Could I have seen the red flags earlier? Could I have known?

    These questions can circle endlessly in the mind, like a continuous loop. They come from a deep desire to make sense of something that feels senseless, bring order to chaos, and find logic in something that seems unthinkable. After all, if there’s a reason, then maybe there was a way it could have been prevented. And if it could have been prevented, the pain might not feel so permanent.

    But the hard truth is that you can ask a thousand variations of those questions and never find an answer that truly satisfies. When someone is committed to hiding who they really are, time is not always the great revealer we wish it to be.

    Abusers are often skilled at deception. They know how to say and do all the right things to win trust. Some even present themselves as the ideal partner—attentive, charming, kind, spiritual—because that image is part of the grooming process. Many are patient and calculated in their deception, willing to conceal their true selves for months, years, or even decades if it means keeping control. Waiting longer, unfortunately, does not guarantee clarity when a person is determined to stay hidden.

    That is one of the painful aspects of abuse: it is built on deliberate deception. It’s not that the victim was naïve, blind, or unworthy of trust—it’s that the abuser chose to conceal, lie, and manipulate. You could have waited longer, asked more questions, sought more advice, and still not uncovered the truth until the abuser chose to reveal it—or until the mask slipped on its own.

    The “what if” questions often morph into self-blame: I should have known, been wiser, caught it sooner. But these thoughts place the weight of responsibility in the wrong place. Trusting someone is not a failure. Believing in the good you saw is not a weakness. The shame belongs to the one who betrayed that trust, not the one who gave it in good faith.

    It’s also important to remember that abusers are often very strategic in how they control the narrative. They may surround you with half-truths, isolate you from those who might see the truth, or use religious language to make themselves seem righteous. They can be so convincing that even those closest to the situation may not see what’s happening. If an entire community can be fooled, it’s not reasonable to expect that more time alone would have guaranteed that you would see through the act.

    So, would time have changed the outcome? The answer is no. Because the problem was never about how much time was given—it was about how much truth was hidden. Abusers reveal themselves when it benefits them, not when it protects you. They control what they show and for how long.

    The danger of endlessly replaying these questions is that they keep you stuck in the past, carrying blame that doesn’t belong to you. Healing begins when you release that burden and acknowledge reality: you were deceived, not because you failed, but because someone was determined to hide. That is their guilt to bear, not yours.

    While we cannot go back and change the past, the future can be different. The wisdom gained, the strength forged in pain, and the clarity born from experience can help shape the way forward. The “what if” questions may never give you the peace you’re looking for, but choosing to let go of them opens the door to a new kind of peace that comes from truth, healing, and freedom.

    You don’t need to ask if more time would have saved you. The better question is: What will I do with my time now? The answer can be this: You will live it free from self-blame, anchored in truth, and open to the life still waiting for you.