Lisa O
Gaslighting doesn’t always come from cruelty. Sometimes it’s born out of habits, not intent. It slips into daily conversations, making you doubt what you felt or heard. The confusion grows quietly. You start wondering if you’re misreading things when you’re not. It’s not about control every time—sometimes it’s about comfort. Still, it leaves one person questioning their own reality while the other insists nothing’s wrong.
They Downplay What You Remember
You tell a story, and they correct you with confidence. The details shift a little—how long something took, who said what, where you were. It seems harmless until you start doubting your own memory. Maybe you’re misremembering, you think. The more it happens, the less sure you feel about simple things, like what movie you watched or when the argument started.
They Call You Overly Sensitive
When you share how something hurt you, they sigh or laugh it off. “It’s not a big deal,” they might say, thinking they’re easing tension. But what you hear is that your feelings are too much. Soon, you stop speaking up to keep the peace. A quiet heaviness follows, like leaving a lamp on in an empty room because the dark feels heavier than silence.
They Use Logic to Dismiss Emotion
They pride themselves on being rational, so when you’re upset, they explain why you shouldn’t be. They make sense of things until you start questioning your reaction. The facts line up neatly, but your feelings don’t fit inside them. After a while, you stop trusting what you feel, thinking reason must always win. Still, some part of you knows the heart keeps its own record.
They Remember Only What Fits
Disagreements start to blur because only their version seems to stick. They recall your tone, your mistake, your part—but not theirs. It’s not always deliberate. People rewrite memories to stay right. Still, it leaves you doubting what really happened. You start thinking you’re the one who forgets things, when all you’ve done is remember the parts they’d rather skip.
They Joke About Things That Bother You
When you finally share something that hurts, they laugh it off. They might say you’re being dramatic, then call it a joke to keep things light. You smile back, unsure whether to defend yourself or move on. Later, it replays in your head, and the laugh doesn’t sound harmless anymore. It’s not that they meant to mock you—they didn’t stop to notice what their humor cost.
They Always Need to Be the “Reasonable One”
In every disagreement, they’re calm, collected, the one who “doesn’t overreact.” You become the emotional one, the irrational one. Their calm becomes another kind of control. When voices rise, they stay steady, and that steadiness makes you doubt your own tone. You start wishing you could sound as composed, even when you know your feelings aren’t chaos—they’re just honest.
They Twist “Helping” into Control
They might say they’re helping—telling you how to handle things, how to talk, what to wear. It sounds like care until you realize you’ve stopped deciding for yourself. You start checking for their approval before making small choices. It’s not about dominance; it’s about comfort. They feel safe when things go their way. You feel smaller without noticing when that started happening.
They Forget Promises Too Easily
They say yes to things, but when you bring them up later, they act unsure. It’s not always deliberate—they don’t carry it the same way you do. You remember because it mattered. They forget because it didn’t stick. After a while, you stop expecting follow-through. You learn to keep proof, screenshots, and reminders. It’s tiring when keeping track starts to feel like part of loving them.
They Explain Your Feelings to You
You tell them how you feel, and they tell you what it really means. They think they’re helping, putting logic to emotion. But it leaves you unheard. You start holding back, thinking maybe they’ll listen next time. They don’t notice the quiet growing between sentences. Soon, you catch yourself editing your thoughts before you speak. That’s when you realize they stopped hearing you long before you went quiet.
They Turn Every Issue Around
You try to explain what’s bothering you, but the conversation always bends back to them. Your tone. Their stress. Their day. Before you know it, you’re apologizing just to calm things down. They don’t do it to win—they do it to escape feeling blamed. Still, it leaves you alone with your frustration. Over time, you learn silence feels safer than trying to be understood.
They Say You’re Overthinking
You bring something up because it feels off—a pause, a distant look, something small. They tell you you’re imagining it. You try to trust them, but the unease stays. You start second-guessing what you notice, convincing yourself you’re reading too much into things. Soon, you stop trusting your own gut. That’s how confusion settles in—not through lies, but through gentle disbelief repeated enough times.
They Apologize Without Change
They say sorry, and it sounds sincere. For a while, you believe things will be different. Then the same habits return, and you realize the apology was just part of the pattern. It’s not manipulation—it’s avoidance. They want peace, not accountability. And you learn that peace without change is just a pause before it starts again.
They Blame Stress for Everything
Whenever tension rises, stress becomes their shield. A bad day, too much work, not enough sleep—there’s always a reason that explains their sharpness. You start giving them space, thinking it’s temporary. But the apologies stop, and stress turns into an excuse. Before long, you’re tiptoeing around their moods, hoping calm will fix what conversation never does.
They Keep Score in Subtle Ways
They remember what they’ve done for you but forget what you’ve done for them. Favors become proof of effort. When conflict comes, they list what they’ve given up as if it balances the scale. You start wondering if love is meant to be tracked. The ledger grows invisible but heavy, like carrying receipts for things that were supposed to be shared.
They Act Surprised by Your Distance
When you finally stop trying, they look startled. To them, everything still feels normal. They didn’t catch the times you pulled away mid-sentence or stopped reminding them of things you’d already said. The cracks were small, so they stepped over them. What they call sudden was really slow erosion. By the time they notice you’ve gone quiet, you’ve already run out of ways to be heard.