The Four Faces of Control

The Cycle of Calm and Chaos

It didn’t start with violence. It started with charisma.

He was magnetic; one of those people who can walk into a room and take over the atmosphere like weather. His charm was practiced, effortless, even addictive. In public, he made people laugh. In private, he made reality twist.

What followed wasn’t constant cruelty. It was cycles. Weeks of normalcy followed by days of erratic rage, cold withdrawal, emotional confusion. It was whiplash. There were moments of laughter, generosity, even tenderness, but always with a string attached. I learned quickly that when things felt too quiet, the next storm was already forming.

He never screamed without first softening the ground with kindness. That was his favorite weapon: the contrast. It trained me, and our children, to doubt our instincts.

One day, he’d be logical and almost gentle. The next, a message would land on my phone like a grenade: accusations, victimhood, threats veiled as concern. Then silence. Then another wave of “trying to understand.”

He didn’t want peace. He wanted control disguised as conversation.

The Four Faces of Control

Over the years, I came to know his cast of characters.

1. The Enforcer

This was the voice the children feared most. Loud, sharp-edged, physically imposing. He’d take up space with posture, slam cabinets, growl orders. His tone would be just short of a threat, but never far enough to be called out legally. He used fear like punctuation.

2. The Scholar

This one used words as weapons. He’d memorize articles or philosophical talking points, then wield them in arguments as if reciting law. If you didn’t agree, it was because you weren’t smart enough to understand. His intelligence was always on display, but never for learning—only for proving dominance.

3. The Saint

This was the man the outside world saw most often. He offered to help with neighbors’ yard work, made holiday donations, posted carefully curated messages about community values. In this persona, he was full of service and smiles; until he wasn’t.

4. The Martyr

This is the newest mask. Lately, he presents as fragile, oppressed, misunderstood. He claims to be emotionally destroyed, constantly victimized…by me, by the system, by his past. It’s a masterstroke of manipulation: if he appears broken, how could he possibly be abusive?

Each persona was strategically deployed.

Each allowed him to avoid accountability while gathering allegiance.

The Emotional Dumping Ground

The most damaging performance wasn’t directed at me. It was directed at our children.

He confides in them like they are therapists. He shares details about his relationships, his stress, his fears. He tells them when he’s depressed. He cries in front of them. He tells them Mommy doesn’t care about him anymore. He calls himself “a shell” or “disposable.”

He burdens them with things no child should carry.

When they push back, even gently, the emotional script flips again:

“You’re just like your mother.”

“You don’t appreciate what I do.”

“You’re going to regret this when I’m gone.”

They’ve learned to nod. To pretend. To say “I love you” like it’s a safety phrase.

I see the confusion on their faces. I see the fear behind the silence. It’s not co-parenting. It’s damage control.

The Manufactured Reality

There is a version of our story that lives only in his mind, a cinematic rewrite where he is the wounded hero and I am the villain who abandoned him without cause.

He tells people I abused him. That he tried so many times to leave.

He insists the relationship ended because I was unstable, selfish, vindictive, financially irresponsible.

He forgets, or erases, that I spent years covering for him, protecting his image, building a career I never wanted in order to (solely) provide for the family, enduring the volatility for the sake of our children.

When I try to correct the narrative, I’m accused of being “obsessed with the past,” “misremembering.”

But it’s not obsession. It’s survival, because when someone spins a lie long enough, people start to believe it.

Even he does.

He confuses projection for truth, deflection for clarity. He creates entire histories that never happened. Fights we never had, events I never caused. When you try to show him evidence, he claims the memory is wrong, the context misunderstood, the screenshot manipulated.

He doesn’t just deny reality. He replaces it.

The Living Consequences

I no longer live with him, but I still have to live around him.

Because of shared custody, our lives remain entangled. I have to communicate with him about drop-offs, holidays, and medical appointments. He uses those required points of contact as opportunities to bait, provoke, or manipulate.

Sometimes the messages sound reasonable…normal, even friendly.

Other times, they are an avalanche of accusation, self-pity, and veiled threats. I never know which version will arrive.

The children still have to see him. I prepare them. I support them. I try to untangle the knots he leaves in their minds. But they are weary. They carry a weight that was never meant for them.

Some people say, “At least he’s trying.” They flood his social media with comments about what an incredible man he is, what an outstanding father he is, how he deserves only the best in life. 

But effort without accountability isn’t growth. It’s performance.

Reflections for Readers

If you’re reading this and it sounds familiar. If you’ve seen someone cycle between personas, if you’ve had your reality questioned until you no longer trusted yourself, if your children have become emotional referees, you are not imagining things.

This is what psychological abuse looks like when it wears a smile.

This is what gaslighting feels like when it comes from someone who claims to love you.

This is what surviving sounds like when the story never ends, because it’s still being rewritten.

You don’t need closure from someone who profits from your confusion.

You need clarity.

You need community.

You need the truth told back to you so you remember what’s real.

You are not too sensitive.

You are not making it up.

You are not alone.

Closing

I didn’t write this to feel better. I wrote this so that someone else might feel seen.

Because when the mask slips, when you finally stop believing the performance, it doesn’t end the story.

It begins yours. Not a story of rescue. Not even of revenge. But of reclamation.

And if you’re in the middle of that beginning, you’re already braver than you think.