When I met Ben, I was ready for a new beginning. I was 35, had lost 75 kilos in two years thanks to a gastric bypass, and—for the first time—felt comfortable in my own skin. Tall, slim, dress size 38—I could feel something like confidence waking up in me.
I was looking for “Mr. Right,” a man who would finally bring stability and respect into my life. Someone even my family would approve of. I had no idea I was sliding into a toxic relationship that would change everything—a relationship that would test me in ways I never imagined.
Ben seemed like the answer to all my longing.
Charming, self-assured, a skilled mechanic proud of his factory job. No drugs, his own income, a presence that hovered somewhere between confidence and arrogance.
“Hey, baby,” he said, “I’ll take care of you. Trust me. I’ll show you the way. I’ll give you the perfect life.”
And I wanted to believe him.
I didn’t realize I was about to lose my hard-won freedom—and my self-worth—piece by piece.
As so often with narcissists, the other side appeared once he felt secure.
For us, that was the day he moved in with me—into my tiny two-room flat.
We’d only known each other a few weeks, and everything in me screamed: too soon!
But Ben was not someone you simply told “no.” Those who contradicted him were punished—
not with violence, but with words. With actions that cut deeper than any slap in the face.
That was how the poison began to work.
The subtle wrecking by words
At first, Ben’s jabs were barely noticeable, wrapped in charm and a smug smile.
“Not really your thing, is it?”
Or: “You’re not one of those women who think they’re smarter than their man, right?”
Almost harmless. Almost funny.
But those lines accumulated—like drops slowly eating through stone.
Only the stone was my self-esteem.
Whatever brought me joy, he found a way to belittle it.
A new dress? “Meh. You’ll never look like the women on the billboards anyway.”
A win at work? “Probably just luck.”
He was never openly cruel.
But the constant undermining was relentless.
No bruises. No evidence.
Just an empty space inside me that grew week by week.
Control by silence
If I dared to push back—even in small ways—Ben answered with silence.
Not the silence of someone who needs to think.
The calculated, punitive silence of a man who wants you to feel you don’t matter.
Days without a word.
Two people sharing a flat, like solitary confinement.
I asked simple questions: “Should I do laundry?” or “What do you want for dinner?”
No reaction. No glance. Nothing.
The message was clear:
You’re not worth an answer.
Caught in a web of dependency
By the time I realized how toxic it all was, I was already entangled.
Shared finances. Daily routines. Dependencies that wound around my life like roots.
All part of his strategy.
Any time he sensed I was reclaiming a bit of independence, he reacted—
calculating, precise.
Once he emptied our joint account and left me with unpaid bills.
Every step toward freedom was countered with a new attempt at control.
The book that opened my eyes
It took a book to understand what was really happening:
The Verbally Abusive Man.
For the first time, I had language for my reality: gaslighting, devaluation, emotional blackmail.
There it was, in black and white.
I saw my life on those pages.
And it scared me.