“It’s good to have you back” is a phrase that characterises most of my recent interactions: while walking around the park with my parents, as I hugged an old friend, over a cuppa with some close colleagues, while browsing Ann Summers with my college child (. . . I am a cool parent, leave me be). The list goes on. With each repetition of this phrase, my guilt only increases.

For context, I didn’t actually go anywhere. At least not physically. After graduating, I only moved a 25-minute bus journey from central Cambridge. However, my whole life had become subject to such subtle control that, quite unwittingly, I went completely MIA.

From the outside, things seemed rosy - I’d just graduated from a university that I’d always dreamt of attending, I’d moved into a swanky flat with my partner and I’d secured myself a decent graduate job to afford it. In fact, I explicitly remember my supervisor commenting at graduation dinner that I seemed very happy and settled. 

To those privy to a little bit more information, there were glaring cracks in the foundation of the relationship I had just changed my whole life-plan for. From unexplained silent treatment, attacks on my sexuality, endless ridicule and isolation, there were few red flags that weren’t present. Despite my parents and two friends trying to nudge me to see this, I skipped into the sunset of what I thought was a new beginning. 

Now, I was aware that there were some problematic dynamics to the relationship but, being only 10 months in, I was firmly convinced that they were merely teething problems. With a bit of communication, I was convinced we’d be a dream team. 

Unsurprisingly, moving in together did not forge a new frontier in constructive and respectful communication. Living with one another exacerbated every single problematic behaviour. 

Silent treatment no longer lasted a night, it went on for days and had no discernible cause. Is he ignoring me because I made him the wrong dinner? Is it because I spoke about my day at work? Is it because I hadn’t ironed his shirt well enough? Expressing an opinion that differed to his would get me relegated to the futon in the spare room. Suggesting things for us to do together rather than just sitting in the flat warranted a torrent of put-downs: extra, weird, childish, pathetic. My interests were stupid, my accent painful, my appearance masculine, my music taste shit, my desire to go visit my parents and friends needy. I’d get an accidental elbow in the head or a playful smack across face when I interrupted his mobile football game. Wear a pair of shorts and he’d cringe or faux-gag and pinch my cellulite so hard I was left bruised. Sex went from mutual, adventurous and fulfilling to one-sided and degrading. The list goes on.

If I raised any of this or appeared to get emotional, I was told I was too sensitive and had brought it on myself. I cannot convey the depth of my belief that I was the problem; that if only I was a better partner, he’d treat me with respect and love again.

Of course, there were happy and lovely moments in between but they became fewer and further between as time went on. The intermittent reinforcement from that only made me work harder at changing myself, as I was convinced that doing so would make those moments last.

Within the space of a month and a half, I had become a highly anxious shadow of who I used to be. Coming home after work terrified me and I’d have to give myself pep talks before walking into the flat: “whatever gets said today, he doesn’t mean it negatively and you probably deserved the comment. Just take it on board and avoid doing whatever you did again in the future.” 

The people close to me tried to make me see how problematic the whole setup was, but I had an internal series of justifications that, in retrospect, make me want to cry. The two I remember most clearly are “he’s right, he didn’t hit me that hard I just bruise easily” and “if I’m this annoying to the person who loves me, imagine how much I irritate others. I’m lucky he’s with me!”

Being told that he shouldn’t be treating me like that or that I should expect significantly better from a partner didn’t resonate with me in the slightest. Hearing those things actually pushed me further into the belief that I was a terrible partner - if healthy relationships aren’t like this, and I’m causing his behaviour, there must be something seriously wrong with me. 

From the outside, this may sound utterly ridiculous, especially to those who know me. In every other area of life, I will not stand for being belittled in any way, shape or form. I hope that shows how insidious this type of situation is. 

What changed it all was an Instagram story. I know that sounds hideously millennial but it’s true. Someone I knew from sixth form uploaded a very candid and brave account of her own experience of narcissistic abuse. Every single line of it spoke to me. 

Yes, I did spend my time walking on eggshells. 

Yes, I did feel responsible for his outbursts. 

Yes, I did feel like I couldn’t be myself. 

But . . . wait . . . it isn’t my fault? 

Hearing my life repeated back to me through the experience of someone else was a game changer. If she could detail exactly the same situations and scenarios I was going through but that had happened in her relationship, maybe this wasn’t all on me. 

From then on, I tested a few things out. What will he do if I put my foot down and say I’m not happy with being spoken down to all the time? Will he lash out if I do things without getting his permission? And, most importantly, how will he respond when I share my desires and goals in life? When all of the above got me into trouble, I knew the relationship was undeniably dead in the water. 

Breaking point was being told I was pathetic for wanting to see my mum when she was unwell. With logistical help from dad, I got compassionate leave from work, jumped on a train and surprised her anyway. As I hugged my mum, both of us streaming with tears, that was the first time I heard “it’s so good to have you back.” We both knew she meant more than me being back in Manchester. 

When I reluctantly returned to the flat, I knew I had to end things. He’d always said that, if things didn’t work out, he’d stay with his parents who lived down the road, until I found somewhere new to live. I banked on that, but it didn’t materialise. 

It quickly became apparent that there would be no respect for my emotional or physical boundaries, so I stuffed a bag-for-life full clothes, grabbed my passport and ran. I’m incredibly lucky to have had very accommodating family members who lived only 15 miles away and a manager who was willing to put me up for a bit if they couldn’t. 

Everything that’s happened since I left has only confirmed it was the right choice, and my goodness is it a good feeling to be able to be myself again. It wasn’t an instant transition; I still catch myself self-regulating in accordance with his dictates. Slowly but surely, however, I’m getting back to me. I found a house with friends and I’m loving it. I’m going to travel, take language lessons, spend as much time with family and friends as I want, get tickets for the gigs I wanted to go to, play at an open mic, finally go to a pride parade, and that’s just the start. 

Looking back, it’s terrifying to think I was in that situation, but it’s also proved an invaluable opportunity for learning. Why did I let my boundaries crumble? How can I prevent that in the future? What are my deal breakers? What do I even want from a relationship? 

All of that wouldn’t have happened though, if I hadn’t seen my life reflected back to me in the life of a friend. The power of a shared experience alone got me out of an unhealthy situation and gave me the desire to grow from, rather than continue to be crushed by it. I hope this gives someone else the mirror I found in that story.