Shame, Guilt, and Gaslighting: Escaping the Man who said “it was all my fault”
Sharing my story is not about reliving the trauma; it’s about giving others a voice. If one person reads this and realises they are not alone, if one person sitting in silence knows they can leave, then it is worth it. You are not crazy. You are not to blame. You deserve peace.
By Featured Writer, Michelle Smith.
It started with a slap.
We were on a minibus in Malta, laughing, drinking, tipsy from the excitement of being away together. Then, without warning, his hand struck my face. I felt the sting, automatically rubbing my cheek with my hand, my mind froze. He looked me straight in the eye and said, “You imagined it.” That was the first time he made me question my own reality, a quiet, insidious start to the gaslighting that would follow for years.
I met this person when I was vulnerable. I’d recently left a fourteen-year relationship, was recovering from a severe rheumatoid arthritis flare, whilst raising a two-year-old son. He told me heartbreaking stories of being wronged, cheated on, and betrayed. He said he felt utterly broken. I wanted to believe I could heal him, be the safe place he claimed to need. At first, he charmed me completely, but soon, the cracks appeared. He quit his job, spent my money, disappeared for nights at a time, and every time I questioned him, he turned it back on me. “You know it’s all your fault,” he would say. Bringing up a long list of times I was moody, crazy, psychotic, trying to tell him what to do. And I started to believe him - believe it was my fault - that if I could just reign my moods in, stop the nagging and be less sentient, he would be a better man.
The abuse escalated. Insults became shoves, shoves became punches. By the time I fell pregnant, I told myself he’d change once our child arrived, but love doesn’t excuse violence. Even pregnant, I was hit, punched, and left with black eyes. My self-worth eroded; my coping mechanism became heavy drinking, not while pregnant, I want to add, and comfort eating.
After our daughter was born, there were brief moments of tenderness, three weeks of him being attentive. I prayed we had turned a corner. Then the pattern returned, worse than before. He called me ugly, worthless, psychotic, and hysterical. I was always moody; he even got my son involved in calling me moody. He threatened to call social services, saying I was a useless mother, neglecting my children in favour of heavy drinking, and used jealousy and manipulation to control my every move.
The final straw came in 2010. I was holding my daughter when he smashed a picture frame over my head, then pinned me to the wall by my throat, squeezing tightly, making me gasp for air, while spitting and screaming vile words in my face. That night, something inside me snapped. I knew I had to survive for mine and my children’s sake.
Calling the police took weeks. I downplayed the abuse at first, afraid of escalation. Eventually, I told the truth. He was arrested and charged. In court, he was found not guilty, “my word against his.” The legal outcome didn’t matter as much as reclaiming my voice; I had survived.
Freedom didn’t feel like freedom at first. Debt, mortgage arrears, and repossession loomed ahead. I was drinking heavily, barely eating, and exhausted from years of abuse. Support from a domestic abuse charity changed my trajectory. New locks and alarms were fitted at the house, I was given counselling, and legal guidance. Slowly, I began to breathe again.
We moved into a new home just before Christmas 2011. Safe. Quiet. Peaceful. I cooked for my children, laughed with them, and realised I had been holding my breath for years. Recovery wasn’t instant; there were setbacks, relapses into drinking, sleepless nights, nightmares, but throughout, I kept choosing life.
Therapy helped me understand the patterns: my empathy had been weaponised, my desire to help had been exploited. I learned that loving someone doesn’t mean fixing them; it means protecting yourself and your humanity. Even years later, healing continues, triggers remain, but they no longer control me. I’ve severed the emotional ties that once bound me to him. I’ve learned to forgive myself for the times I stayed and believed his lies.
Today, I sit in a four-bedroom detached house, the very kind he once mocked me for. He said, “When I’m living in my big house, don’t come asking me to take you back.” I never did. And I never will.
Sharing my story is not about reliving the trauma; it’s about giving others a voice. If one person reads this and realises they are not alone, if one person sitting in silence knows they can leave, then it is worth it. You are not crazy. You are not to blame. You deserve peace.
Healing is not forgetting. It’s remembering who you were before the fear and shame took hold and choosing to love the person you were, back into being. There is life after abuse. There is hope. And it begins the moment you stop believing it’s all your fault.
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