Surviving Abuse and Reclaiming Life

 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 grew—he was quick to point the finger at me, twisting the narrative to make it seem like I was the one failing. I was the scapegoat for his irresponsibility, his lack of ambition, his utter refusal to take accountability.

The Devil is in the Details

There were days when I could feel the storm coming before it even hit. His rage would build slowly, until suddenly, he’d explode—sometimes for days on end. Sleep was impossible. He’d wake me up in the middle of the night just to tear into me, pacing back and forth, in and out of the room, hurling insults like they were daggers. If I tried to escape by sleeping with the kids, he’d follow me there too, stomping through the house, flipping on lights, making sure no one could find peace. It was always the same—money, cleaning, things he never lifted a finger to help with, but still found a way to blame me for. And this was after I’d worked a full day, sometimes commuting 300 miles, only to come home and face another round of this torture. It didn’t matter how much I did—nothing was ever enough.

But he didn’t just break me down—he turned on the kids too. If they left a bed unmade or a dish in the sink, he’d take pictures and send them while they were in school, making sure they felt the sting of his anger from miles away. We all got to a point where seeing his name pop up on our phones sent a jolt of panic through our bodies. Even when I worked from home, he wouldn’t let me be. He’d barge into my workspace while I was in meetings, spewing venom, making noise, demanding things that were so absurd they didn’t even make sense. He contributed nothing—except when he was mad. That’s when he’d unleash his fury, tearing through the house like a hurricane, leaving a path of destruction only to throw it all back in my face as if it were my fault.

And then there was the money. We were broke, always scraping by, but he spent like we had endless credit. I didn’t dare say no. I knew the kind of hell that would rain down on me if I did. He had this dream of buying a house, but with destroyed credit, no savings, and barely enough income to keep the lights on, it was a fantasy. Of course, he blamed me for it. He still does, saying I’m the one who sabotaged any chance we had of owning a home. And when it came to the kids? They dreaded him. He made their lives a living hell at school, causing problems, embarrassing them in front of their teachers. It got to the point where they begged me not to let him come to any school events.

Even after his hip replacement in December 2020, he found a way to turn it into another weapon. To this day, he acts like it just happened, using it as an excuse to demand special treatment, to justify his cruelty. It felt like I was living in some twisted version of Misery, but instead of the injured man being terrorized, he was the one doing the terrorizing. I was the caregiver, but he was the one holding me hostage in a nightmare that never ended.

He accused me of emotional tyranny, of manipulating him with pregnancies to "trap" him, even though our children were very much wanted. He painted me as a monster to anyone who would listen, claiming I had threatened self-harm to control him, that I had maritally raped him for years. None of it was true. But the thing about narcissists is that they are master storytellers, able to twist reality until even you start to question your own role. For a long time, I believed I was the problem. I questioned my sanity, my worth, and my ability to be a good mother.

The worst part of it all was seeing how this abuse seeped into my children’s lives. They witnessed their father’s manipulation, his rage, his constant need to undermine me. It was like a dark cloud hung over our household, suffocating any sense of normalcy or peace. And yet, I stayed—for them. I stayed because I believed that leaving would somehow hurt them more. I was wrong.

The breaking point came when I realized that staying was destroying us all. My family was disintegrating before my eyes, and I had to choose whether to let it crumble completely or pull us out of the wreckage. So I chose to fight. I chose to leave.

The Struggle to Break Free

Divorcing him was not the end of the battle; in some ways, it was only the beginning. As anyone who has dealt with a narcissist knows, they don’t take losing control lightly. He fought the divorce every step of the way, weaponizing our children, trying to turn them against me. He refused to engage in co-parenting discussions, much like he had refused to engage in any meaningful way during our marriage. Every decision, every conversation, was a power struggle.

But I persisted. For the first time in years, I allowed myself to dream of a future free from his grasp. I could see the toll it had taken on my kids, but I also saw how resilient they were. Slowly, we began to heal. I remarried a man, who is everything my ex could never be—kind, supportive, loving. He doesn’t just provide stability for me, but for my children as well. He’s shown them what a healthy relationship looks like, what respect and empathy mean in practice. And in doing so, he’s helped me rebuild the parts of myself that I thought were lost forever.

Sympathy for the Devil?

Here’s the part that still feels complicated. Despite everything—despite the lies, the manipulation, the cruelty—I sometimes find myself feeling sorry for him. Not for the way he treated us, but for what I know is happening inside him. You see, narcissists are fragile, terrified people deep down. Their outward confidence and bravado hide a deep-seated fear of inadequacy. And as much as I hate to admit it, it’s hard to watch someone I once loved self-destruct. His life is unraveling now, as he loses control of his own carefully constructed facade. He’s isolated, bitter, and continues to blame the world for his downfall. And while I know it’s not my responsibility anymore, there’s a part of me that mourns for the man I thought he could be—the person he pretended to be when we first met.

But that sympathy doesn’t mean I excuse his behavior. I don’t. He’s responsible for his actions, and I refuse to carry the weight of his choices any longer. I think, for a long time, I stayed because I thought I could fix him. I thought if I just loved him enough, if I sacrificed enough, he would change. But people like him don’t change unless they want to, and they rarely, if ever, do.

Thriving After the Storm

Today, my children and I are thriving. It hasn’t been easy, and we still carry the scars of what we’ve been through. But we are healing. My children are finding their footing, learning to trust again, and I’m watching them become stronger, more resilient with each passing day. I, too, am learning to trust myself again, to embrace the life I have built with Alex—a man who shows me every day that love is supposed to feel safe, not suffocating. That marriage is a partnership, not a battleground.

Leaving an abusive relationship is never simple. It’s messy, painful, and terrifying. But it is also freeing. It’s reclaiming your life, your voice, and your sense of self-worth. It’s teaching your children that they don’t have to settle for less than they deserve. It’s a journey, not a destination, and I’m proud of how far we’ve come.

For anyone who finds themselves in a similar situation, I want you to know this: You are not alone, and it is not your fault. The monster behind the mask is not your responsibility. You deserve peace, and you deserve to live free of fear. It might take time, it might take help, but it is possible to break free. It’s possible to heal.

I didn’t think we’d make it to the other side, but we did. And if you’re reading this, I want you to know—you can too. You are stronger than you know. Keep fighting. Keep believing. There is life after the storm, and it is more beautiful than you can imagine.