My Life-Changing Reflection
What narcissistic abuse really looks like.
My abuser had struck again. I stood there. Gripping the sides of the bathroom counter. Feeling the edges sink into my hands. I was burning with anger. Doing everything in my power not to let it out in the form of a primal scream that had been building inside of me for years. My head hung low, tears slipping down my cheeks. I watched them splash into the sink. I looked up and glanced at myself. My hair was stringy, hanging down past my shoulders. It had been falling out for years, getting thinner and thinner. I too was getting thinner. Wasting away under his constant verbal and emotional stomping. He was relentless. I was the thinnest I had been since high school. My eyes were puffy and red. Dark circles under them from consistent lack of sleep.
I stared at myself. I was miserable, demoralized, and desperate to get out. It was the moment I realized I had to file for a Protection From Abuse (PFA). Strongly encouraged by my family to do so, I was too afraid. But at that moment I knew; I had to get him out of the house and file for divorce. He had taunted me about obtaining a PFA. Told me I would be laughed out of the courthouse; as he stood there one night — laughing at me. He had reached a new level of cruelness I didn’t realize he was capable of.
Our children were sleeping soundly upstairs. We had been sitting at the dining room table. It was strewn with papers. He finally agreed to go over our finances with me — something he had been hiding from me for over a decade. I could never get a straight answer from him — on anything. He was impossible. Our arguments were circular — never-ending word salads. They left me confused and exhausted.
He was particularly malicious that night. I knew that the “budget” he put together and laid before me was all nonsense. Knew this was all just another one of his scare tactics. He was attempting to get me to stay by insisting I would get barely any support money. And that’s when he said it: “Do you know what you should do? Go stand in front of a mirror and tell yourself to shut the f**k up. Because you don’t know anything.”
His verbal abuse had been escalating over the years. I got up and walked to the bathroom. Dehumanized. His words cut deeply — brutal and unbearable.
As I glanced in the mirror, I did not tell myself to “shut the f**k up.” Quite the contrary. I found my voice at that moment and knew what I had to do. It wasn’t his words that night — but my reflection — that gave me the courage to make the decision. I was a shell of who I used to be. He had whittled away at every ounce of strength and courage I had in me. Ruined my self-confidence and self-worth.
It was the final straw. The turning point. But it wasn’t the first sad encounter I had with a mirror and myself.
I stood in front of a different mirror years prior. Our daughter was asleep, taking her afternoon nap. Our infant son was sitting at my feet. It was a sunny afternoon and I was staring at the perfect finger-shaped bruises he had left on my arm the night before. One of many red flags. We had gotten into an argument. He followed me as I was attempting to get away — grabbed my arm and pushed me down on the stairs as I was trying to escape his tyranny. He squeezed my arm tightly as he was screaming at me — his face close to mine. I can still feel his hot breath on my skin. I bowed my head and turned it to the right. Waiting for it to be over.
I had learned over the years how to protect myself from his verbal assaults. Knew that if I shut down, kept my mouth closed, and waited, he would spew whatever vitriol he had in him, and then leave me in peace.
That’s when I saw her. I looked up the stairs and our daughter was standing there watching. My sweet, innocent, beautiful little girl. We had awoken her. She stood there. Still and staring. It was one of the last things I wanted her to witness. As soon as I could get away, I went upstairs, crawled into bed with her and we cried together.
I often regret not leaving after that. I had considered packing our bags and sneaking away with the children. But I stayed. I don’t have a good answer for why I didn’t leave that day — and I have been asked. I was too exhausted. Too caught up in the lies and dysfunction. I wasn’t ready yet.
Years later, I finally was.
Looking at myself that night in the mirror I knew I deserved better. Shortly after, I went to the courthouse to obtain a PFA. I was shaking and crying. A kind woman was there to help me fill out the paperwork. She was a gentle reminder of the good in this world. I listed examples of the types of abuse I had endured: verbal, emotional, physical, sexual, digital, and financial. All of them. I sat before the judge as he read over what I had written. He looked up and asked if my husband was “crazy.” I said I believed he was. He granted me the PFA.
The physical abuse I faced within my marriage, thankfully, was rare. But the emotional, verbal and financial abuse I suffered from in my almost 20-year relationship with him was even more damaging. That type of prolonged abuse leaves scars on your soul that will never go away. Healing from the constant gaslighting is taking me years and a lot of therapy and hard work to get past. I suffer from panic attacks. And I scream — that scream that I held in for so long will now suddenly, unexpectedly, erupt. My emotions will build and build and overwhelm me. And the only way I can release them is by screaming — in the shower, my closet, the car.
I lived a nightmare and in many ways, it continues.
I know so many others are suffering, trapped in unhealthy relationships. But it is possible to become untangled from an abuser. As a survivor, I see the importance of talking about it. I hope my story gives others the courage to find peace in their life. It can be done.
