Disclaimer: This story is a personal reflection based on my own lived experiences. The views expressed are my own feelings and interpretations at the time.
She leaned over my shoulder one night while I was texting my son goodnight.
Within seconds, everything changed.
Her eyes narrowed, her tone sharpened “Who are you saying you love?”
I remember freezing. It wasn’t anger that hit me first, it was confusion.
I’d just messaged my son, good night, love you.
But in her mind, that simple message turned into betrayal.
I had to call my son there and then, put him on speaker, just to prove it was him.
That moment should have told me everything I needed to know.
When you have to prove your innocence to someone who’s already decided you’re guilty, the truth no longer matters.
It’s not about honesty. It’s about control.
The Early Red Flags
It wasn’t the only time she hovered over my phone.
Once, in a taxi on holiday, I was replying to a message and didn’t think much of it. When we got out, she turned and said, “Who’s Colin?”
She’d been reading my screen over my shoulder.
It was invasive, embarrassing — but back then, I excused it. I told myself she was just insecure, maybe scared of getting hurt.
That’s what good people do when they love someone who doesn’t trust them — they try harder to prove they’re safe. They hand over their phone, they over-explain, they apologise for things they didn’t do.
But every time you prove your innocence, something inside you breaks a little. Because love shouldn’t need evidence.
The Night Everything Spilled Over
One of our early dates ended in something I still struggle to talk about.
We’d both been drinking. I said something she didn’t like something small, something ordinary and suddenly a high heel was in her hand.
She hit me several times on the arm and side. It left bruises.
I didn’t tell anyone. I made excuses for her.
I told myself she didn’t mean it, that it was just the drink talking.
But aggression doesn’t start big. It starts small with raised voices, with accusations, with “Who’s that?” over your shoulder.
And the worst part is how quickly you start normalising it.
When Love Turns Into Fear
A few months later, it was my birthday. We were out celebrating, both of us drinking, and in a moment of what she called playful passion, she bit my neck hard. I told her it hurt and asked her not to do it again. She laughed, leaned in, and did it anyway.
I walked away to cool off, trying not to let the night spiral. When I came back, I found her on my phone, deleting photos of us. It stopped me in my tracks. It was like she wanted to erase what we’d shared, rewrite the story before it was even over.
That night summed up so much of the relationship intensity followed by distance, affection that hurt, and apologies that never really came.
By the end, we weren’t even together at least not officially. We still did things together, still had a holiday planned, but something had shifted.
She started being secretive about who she was out with. Messages were vague, details were missing.
One day I snapped. I looked at her phone.
She caught me, and that was it. I became “the bad one.”
The one who couldn’t be trusted. The lowest of the low.
It didn’t matter that she’d spent months checking mine, accusing me, deleting photos, or lashing out when she drank. The moment I broke and did the same out of fear, not control I became the villain in her story.
The Double Standards of Control
That’s how these relationships work.
They write the script, hand you your lines, and when you stop playing your part, they call it proof.
Proof that you were the problem.
Proof that you’re unstable, jealous, too emotional.
The double standards were everywhere.
It was perfectly acceptable for one of her male friends to send her flowers — “just a friendly gesture,” she said.
But when a close female friend of mine gave me a quick peck on the cheek, it turned into days of tension, accusations, and emotional punishment.
The rules always bent one way hers.
They project everything they’re doing onto you until you start to question your own sanity.
You begin apologising for reactions that any human would have to constant mistrust and manipulation.
I look back now and see the pattern for what it was: control dressed up as love, jealousy disguised as passion, guilt used as a leash.
When the Fog Finally Lifts
It’s strange how differently everything looks once the emotions fade.
When you’re in it, you justify, explain, and make excuses because you love them, and you want to believe the best.
But when you step back, when your heart finally stops defending what broke you, you see it clearly for what it was.
The jealousy. The double standards. The guilt that was never yours to carry.
You stop asking, “Why wasn’t I enough?” and start realising, “It was never about me at all.”
It’s only when you’re no longer emotionally invested that you can finally see it for what it was.
What I’ve Learned
If you’re constantly explaining yourself to someone who doesn’t want to believe you, you’re not in a relationship you’re in a trial.
And the verdict is already decided.
Love doesn’t require proof.
Trust isn’t built by showing your phone or swearing you’re loyal.
Real love lets you breathe, move, and exist without being watched or accused.
I learned that when someone needs to control you to feel secure, it’s not love they’re protecting it’s their own fear of being exposed.
And when they finally do what they always accused you of, they’ll still find a way to make it your fault.
The day I stopped defending myself was the day I started healing.
Because I finally understood: I was never guilty just with someone who needed me to be.
Closing Reflection
If this sounds familiar, know this being doubted doesn’t make you untrustworthy.
Being accused doesn’t make you guilty.
And being controlled doesn’t mean you deserved it.
Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is walk away before you lose the parts of yourself you fought so hard to protect. Pick up a copy of The Narcassist Handbook https://mybook.to/C9Q1