Sometimes, out of nowhere, a thought would hit me.
Was I the abuser? Was I the one who destroyed my relationship? Or was I actually the victim?
I didn’t dwell on it constantly, but I’d find myself replaying situations in my head, wondering if my words or reactions were wrong. Other times, in the middle of an argument, I’d question myself in real time — Am I being unreasonable? Am I out of line? Or am I just defending myself?
I didn’t set out to hurt anyone. I never wanted to cause pain. But I also know that in moments of defensiveness or frustration, I could come across as irrational. I could be bitter. I could make digs that I didn’t truly mean. Were these digs an insight in to my own self loathing
Sometimes, I reacted before thinking. Sometimes, my emotions got the best of me. And sometimes, I let my fear of abandonment control my responses.
And now, I can’t help but ask…
Was I toxic? Or was I just wounded?
The Patterns I Noticed in Myself
For the longest time, I couldn’t figure out why love never felt safe. Even when I was happy, even when things were going well, something inside me never let me relax. I was always on high alert, always waiting for the other shoe to drop.
I started to realise that my fear of being abandoned was controlling the way I saw everything. Instead of embracing love, I was analysing it. Instead of trusting, I was questioning.
Is she being extra nice because she’s about to leave me?
What is she hiding?
Why does this happiness feel so temporary?
It’s hard to admit, but sometimes, even in the best moments, I wasn’t really present. I was already preparing for heartbreak before it even happened.
And the worst part? I didn’t even realise I was doing it.
Am I an Abuser?
This question came from something she said when she wanted to leave.
I think back to the moments she told me she was done, when she tried to walk away, and how I reacted.
I panicked.
I said things that sound manipulative now — things like “There’s no point in me continuing” or “I have no reason to be here now.”
And the worst moment — the one that makes me ashamed — that was last Christmas.
I can’t even remember what the argument was about, but it escalated. She tried to leave the bedroom, and I physically stopped her.
I shouted, “You’re not leaving! You’re going to stay here and listen to me for once and stop walking away when you don’t like what I have to say!”
Even writing that now, I feel it. The shame. The self-hatred.
Because that wasn’t me. That wasn’t who I really am.
But in that moment, I wasn’t thinking — I was reacting. Reacting from fear, from abandonment wounds, from feeling unheard, from complete emotional overload.
This wasn’t just about the argument that night.
This was about every time in my life I had felt abandoned.
Every time I had felt unheard.
Every time I had been afraid that love would leave me, just like before.
Was I Abused?
For so long, I questioned if I was the abuser. I picked apart every argument, every reaction, every moment where I had lashed out in anger or frustration.
But at some point, I had to ask myself another question — was I also being abused?
It’s a hard question to ask because it feels like a betrayal of the person you love. But the reality is, two people in a relationship can both be hurting each other without realizing it.
There were times I felt manipulated, times I felt shut down, times I felt like my emotions weren’t valid.
There were moments where I felt like no matter how much I explained myself, my words weren’t being truly heard.
I was always walking on eggshells, terrified of saying the wrong thing because I didn’t want to trigger an argument or make her feel like I was attacking her.
I struggled to express my own needs because I was afraid they would be dismissed or twisted into something else.
And the more I held things in, the more I exploded when the emotions became too much to carry.
That’s the thing about emotional wounds — when they aren’t acknowledged, they don’t just disappear. They fester. They build up. And eventually, they burst out in ways that don’t make sense, at the wrong times, in the wrong ways.
I’m not saying I was innocent in all of this. I take full responsibility for the ways I hurt her. But I also know that I wasn’t the only one in pain.
And looking back now, I can see that there were moments where I was not just reacting to my own fears — but also responding to the way I was being treated.
Not all abuse is obvious. Sometimes, it’s subtle. Sometimes, it looks like constant doubt, withdrawal, emotional shutdowns, or guilt trips that make you feel like you’re always the one who has to change.
And that’s what makes it so hard to recognize in the moment.
Because when you love someone, you don’t want to believe they’re hurting you.
And when they’ve been hurt before, you don’t want to believe they might be projecting their own pain onto you.
So you keep trying. You keep pushing. You tell yourself if you just fix yourself enough, things will be okay.
But what if the problem isn’t just you?
What if the problem is the unspoken wounds you’re both carrying — and how they’re playing out in ways neither of you fully understand?
Was It Abuse? Or Just Trauma Clashing Against Trauma?
Now, I see both of us more clearly.
Real love feels safe, while a trauma bond feels like survival. Real love makes space for growth, but a trauma bond keeps you stuck in cycles. Real love can exist without pain, while a trauma bond thrives on highs and lows. Real love doesn’t make you afraid of losing it — trauma does.
We weren’t just two people in a relationship. We were two pasts colliding, two wounds pressed against each other, bleeding into something that looked like love but often felt like war. That doesn’t mean the love wasn’t real. It means it got tangled in the pain, making it hard to separate what was love from what was fear.
She came from a past of gaslighting and abuse — trapped, made to feel small, powerless. She had learned that love meant walking on eggshells, that expressing her feelings led to punishment. Maybe when I tried to stop her from leaving, she saw it as control. Maybe she thought I was flipping the situation, making her responsible for my emotions.
I came from a past of abandonment and fear — never realising how much they controlled me. I wasn’t just afraid of losing her; I was afraid of losing love itself, of being alone, of being unwanted.
When two people with unhealed trauma collide, they don’t just hurt each other — they trigger wounds that existed long before they ever met.
She wasn’t fighting me; she was fighting everything her past had taught her about men like me.
I wasn’t fighting her; I was fighting everything my past had taught me about being left behind.
We were never enemies.
We were never abuser vs. victim.
We were just two people in love, unknowingly hurting each other because of the pain we hadn’t healed from yet.
How Fear of Abandonment Distorted My Reality
When I look back, I now see something I couldn’t at the time.
The love was always there.
She loved me. She showed it in all the little ways — through the things she did, the patience she had, the way she stood by me through my worst moments.
But instead of fully seeing it, I was too caught up in protecting myself from losing it.
I would overthink things that didn’t need to be analysed. I would assume the worst instead of trusting her actions. I would react from a place of fear, not logic.
And when conflict arose, I would go on the defensive.
Instead of hearing what she was trying to say, I heard an attack.
Instead of opening up, I would shut down or lash out.
Instead of sitting with my emotions, I would push them aside until they exploded.
I see it clearly now — I was in survival mode, not love mode.
Owning My Actions — But Also Understanding Them
I’m not excusing what I did.
Stopping her from leaving that night was wrong.
Saying things that felt manipulative in the moment was wrong.
But for the first time, I understand why I did it.
I wasn’t trying to control her.
I was trying to stop my world from falling apart.
I was trying to protect the love I thought I was losing.
And I can only hope that, somehow, she can see that too.
The Influence of Outsiders: Do They Only Hear the Bad?
One of the hardest parts of a broken relationship is realizing that other people are now forming opinions about you based only on the worst moments.
When someone turns to a friend, family member, or even a therapist to talk about relationship struggles, they rarely share the full story.
Do they tell them about the love, the effort, the small moments of kindness?
Or do they only talk about the fights, the hurt, the frustration?
Does the person listening see both sides, or just the version they were given?
What happens when that outsider — who has never been inside the relationship — begins to shape the way one partner sees the other?
If an outsider only hears the bad, their advice may become flawed or even harmful. Once a person’s image is altered in someone’s mind, it’s hard to undo. It can shift how they see their partner, how they react to them, and ultimately, the entire outcome of the relationship.
At what point does external advice stop being helpful and start becoming interference?
And what happens when that outsider doesn’t like you to begin with?
What if the person offering advice has always been skeptical of your relationship?
What if they were waiting for a reason to say, “I told you so”?
It’s easy to say “don’t let other people’s opinions influence your choices,” but the truth is, when someone is hurt, they seek validation.
If they’re only venting about the bad times, that’s all people around them will see.
And slowly, their entire perception of you can be reshaped by voices that were never in the relationship in the first place.
That’s when people start saying things like:
He’s toxic.
She’s manipulating you.
They’ll never change.
And suddenly, everything you built together gets reduced to a one-sided narrative.
I don’t blame her for needing support. I don’t blame her for turning to the people she trusted.
But what I do wonder is — did they only hear the bad?
And if that’s the case, did she start believing only the bad, too?
The Power of Advice — And How It Can Be Misleading
Not all advice is good advice.
Not all people are capable of being neutral.
Sometimes, even well-meaning friends and family push their own past experiences into someone else’s situation.
Maybe they were hurt in their own past relationships, so now they only see red flags in everyone else’s.
Maybe they’ve never liked your partner and have been waiting for an opportunity to tell you to walk away.
Maybe they just don’t have the full picture — and without realising it, they’re shaping someone else’s decision in a way that might not be best for them.
It’s not about blaming others for the outcome of a relationship, but it is about recognising that people are influenced by the voices around them.
And if someone is constantly surrounded by voices that only tell them, “leave,” it becomes much harder for them to see any reason to stay.
The Sad Reality of Seeking Support
The sad truth is that when people turn to external influences, they rarely bring up the good parts.
When someone goes to a friend or family member, they usually aren’t saying:
“We had a really great day together, and I love them deeply, but we had a fight today, and I just need advice.”
Instead, they’re saying:
“They hurt me. They said this. They did this. I don’t know what to do.”
And so, the person they confide in only hears one side.
That person then forms their own opinion — not based on the full picture, but based on what they’ve been told.
That opinion then gets repeated back to the person who is struggling.
And that’s when real damage can happen.
Suddenly, an issue that could have been worked through becomes permanent.
The person receiving advice might start seeing their partner differently — not based on their own experiences, but based on what others have told them to believe.
And before they even realise it, they’re being pushed toward a decision they may not have fully made on their own.
The Role of Thought Process and a Clear Head in Seeking Advice
One of the biggest realizations I’ve had is how your emotional state can dictate how you interpret advice.
If you go into a conversation looking for answers while you’re angry, you’re going to pick out the answers that justify your anger.
If you’re feeling rejected and heartbroken, you’re going to focus on the answers that confirm your worst fears.
And if you’re feeling hopeless, you’re going to gravitate toward the responses that make you feel like there’s no way forward.
I used to tell people, “Approach advice with a clear head and an open mind.”
But looking back, I never actually did that myself.
I would seek out advice when I was emotional, and I didn’t realize that I was only hearing the parts that aligned with how I already felt.
That’s why people can take the same advice and interpret it in completely different ways — because the way you hear things depends on where your mind is when you receive them.
This is how catastrophising starts.
This is how people take a temporary issue and turn it into something permanent in their minds.
And this is why so many relationships end not because of what actually happened — but because of how one person processed it in an emotionally heightened state.
My Personal Philosophy on Advice and Opinion
For years, I’ve lived by one belief when it comes to advice:
No one has the full answer. The best way to find clarity is to gather as many perspectives as you need, take them all with a pinch of salt, and put together what resonates with you.
When I gave advice to people, I never just told them what to do. Instead, I would say:
“I can give you my opinion, but don’t just take my word for it. Take in different perspectives, weigh them out, and find what makes the most sense to you.”
But here’s where I got it wrong in my own relationship — I never communicated that belief.
So when I asked others for advice, she saw it as me doubting her, as if her opinion wasn’t enough.
“Why do you always have to ask others? Why can’t you just listen to me?”
I now see that maybe if I had explained my core belief about advice, she would have understood that it wasn’t about not trusting her.
It was about how my mind works.
Maybe then, she wouldn’t have felt like I was dismissing her. Maybe if I understood this triggered her because of past abuse then I would have made her opinion feel more valid.
Maybe then, she would have understood that I wasn’t trying to devalue her perspective — I was just trying to make sure I was making the right decisions in the way I always have.
Maybe if we had understood this about each other, we could have navigated things differently.
The Lesson: Balance is Key
Seeking advice isn’t bad — but it has to be done with awareness.
I’ve realised that getting multiple perspectives is helpful, but only if you approach them with the right mindset.
You have to ask yourself:
Am I looking for real advice, or just confirmation of what I already feel?
Am I approaching this with a clear mind, or am I acting on emotion?
Am I truly considering both sides, or am I focusing only on the parts that validate my perspective?
Because if you don’t ask yourself those questions, you’re not really seeking advice.
You’re just looking for someone to tell you what you want to hear.
If I Had the Chance, I Would Know How to Love Her Better
Now that I see things a little clearer, I realise just how much could have been different.
If I had understood her trauma at the time, I would have known how to react.
If I had been able to speak openly about my own, she would have understood me too.
If we had been able to break down our walls at the same time, we wouldn’t have seen each other as threats — we would have seen each other as the wounded, hurting people we truly were.
I know her in a way I didn’t fully see before.
I understand now why she shut down, why she pushed me away, why she sometimes acted like she didn’t care — when deep down, I know she did.
I understand that she wasn’t cold — she was protecting herself.
I understand that she wasn’t always running — she was trying to survive.
And I know that if she could see my traumas the way I now see hers, she would understand too.
The love between us was never the problem.
But the hurt, the mistrust, and the pain — that became bigger than the love.
But does it have to be?
Is it stupid to throw love away just because we couldn’t figure out how to navigate our wounds?
Is it really over, or is it just that we didn’t have the right understanding at the right time?
Because if there is still love, still something real beneath all of this — then walking away from it would be the real tragedy.
What If She Had Shown Me More of Her Past?
Looking back, I wish she had let me see all of her past traumas — not just glimpses, not just fragments, but everything.
Maybe if she had, I would have opened up more myself. Maybe if I had truly understood her fears, I wouldn’t have just seen her shutting down — I would have seen why she shut down.
I wanted to know her past not to use it against her, not to manipulate her, but to understand her. To see her fully — so I wouldn’t mistake her walls for indifference.
But now, I understand why she kept those parts of herself so guarded.
She had been through severe abuse. She had been gaslit, manipulated, made to feel small and powerless. So maybe, deep down, she thought that if she showed me those vulnerabilities, I would use them against her too.
And that thought kills me.
Because it would have been the opposite. It would have shown me that she did care when I was in pain. It would have shown me that she wasn’t as cold as she sometimes seemed. It would have shown me that she, too, was breaking inside — but just in silence.
I never knew that.
I never knew that she cried over things too. I never knew that my pain affected her as much as it affected me. I never knew that while I was releasing my trauma, she was holding hers in, keeping it hidden.
Maybe she did that to protect herself. Maybe she did that because she saw what happened when she was vulnerable with someone before.
And maybe, if we had both broken down together instead of in isolation, maybe if we had both opened up fully, maybe if I had seen her hurting alongside me instead of turning away, we would have connected on a much deeper level.
Maybe I wouldn’t have felt so shut out, so worthless, so to blame. Maybe I would have seen the truth earlier.
Maybe I would have realized my own trauma too.
Final Thoughts: A Tragic Love Story of Two Wounded Souls
Writing this, my eyes are filled with tears.Because this was never just a failed relationship. This was never just two people who argued.This was never about winning or losing.
This was a tragic love story.
Two people who loved each other so deeply, so intensely — but whose past traumas built a toxic environment around that love. And the saddest part? The love was never the problem. The problem was everything we had carried before we even met. I just hope she doesn’t hate me for the mistakes I made while fighting my own demons.
I just hope she can see past the pain and remember the real me.Because now, for the first time in my life…
I finally see myself.
—
Previously Published on Medium
