The Monster Behind the Mask: Surviving Mr. Hyde

Healing doesn't happen on a timeline. Sometimes it looks like laughter in the morning and spirals of doubt by night. Sometimes it's holding your partner's hand, even as your body braces for a betrayal that isn't coming. That’s the reality of being in a new relationship after surviving narcissistic abuse — and if you know, you know. Before my husband, I lived in survival mode. Narcissistic abuse has a way of rewiring your entire being. You learn to second-guess everything: your words, your worth, your memories. You learn to read between lines that aren’t even there, constantly trying to stay one step ahead of someone who thrives on confusion and control. So, stepping into a healthy relationship wasn’t just unfamiliar — it felt almost impossible. Suddenly, I was with someone who didn’t explode when I expressed an opinion. Who didn’t punish me with silence. Who didn’t twist my words or make me feel small to feel big. My husband came into my life like a calm after the st...

The Mask Monsters don’t always look like monsters. They don’t have fangs or claws. They don’t lurk in shadows or hide under beds. The worst ones? They walk among us. They shake hands, smile in photos, and say all the right things. And they wear masks —masks so convincing, so expertly crafted, that even the people closest to them can’t see the truth… until it’s too late . I know this because I married one . At first, he was perfect . Charming. Funny. Charismatic. The kind of man who could walk into a room and have everyone eating out of the palm of his hand. But behind closed doors? Something was off. There was always something wrong —little things that didn’t add up. Flashes of cruelty disguised as jokes. Gaslighting so subtle, I didn't even realize it was happening. I told myself I was imagining things. That I was overreacting. Until one day… I wasn’t. The Slow Descent into Hell It started with control . Little by little, he isolated me , cutting me off from friend...

Co-parenting during the holidays is already a challenging balancing act. You’re trying to coordinate schedules, manage traditions, and ensure your kids feel loved and supported. But when toxic communication creeps into the picture, it can disrupt your focus and threaten the joy of the season. It’s become a sad pattern over the years—every holiday, he finds a way to inject negativity into what should be a joyful time. Whether it’s hurtful messages, creating unnecessary drama, or failing to follow through on his commitments, he always manages to cast a shadow over the season. But I’ve decided that this year will be different. I won’t let his actions ruin the holidays for me or my children. I’m choosing to focus on the love, joy, and stability I can provide, because that’s what my kids deserve, and it’s what I deserve too. Recently, I received a hurtful and baseless text from my ex-husband. It read: “Right 👍🏻 the new one is so fortunate you are no longer taking [sic] kids. Dang shame I ...

 The ending of a relationship with an abusive partner is often viewed as the closing of a dark chapter. And, in many ways, it is. The initial escape brings a newfound sense of freedom, a chance to exhale without the constant tension of walking on eggshells. It’s a release that survivors dream of for years. But for those of us who share children with an abuser, leaving is only the beginning of a more nuanced, exhausting battle. It’s the battle of parenting while someone who once took pride in dismantling you now attempts to chip away at the very stability you’re painstakingly trying to build. He spends the time he has with them weaving lies, each one more absurd and damaging than the last. “Your mom ruined my life,” he’ll say, his voice tinged with an infuriating blend of indignation and self-pity. I see the stories in their eyes when they come home. Their expressions carry a mix of confusion and sadness, torn between their love for both parents and the emotional whiplash of conflic...

 A few years ago, I made the hardest decision of my life—to break free from the man who had slowly chipped away at my soul. On the surface, he was charming, charismatic, the kind of person who could walk into a room and effortlessly draw people in. To everyone else, he wore a mask of confidence and likability. But behind that mask lurked a monster—a textbook example of narcissistic personality disorder with a dark triad of traits: narcissism, Machiavellian manipulation, and psychopathy. He was my husband, the father of my children, and for too long, my nightmare. For years, I was trapped in a cycle of psychological and emotional abuse so subtle at times that even I began to doubt my own reality. I was the sole financial support for our family because he simply refused to keep a job. Every time I tried to broach the subject of money or financial planning, he would stonewall me, leaving me alone to figure it all out. And when things inevitably went wrong—when bills piled up or debts ...