Surviving a Covert Narcissist
Content warning: Emotional abuse, gaslighting, manipulation, trauma.
Please look after yourself as you read. If it feels overwhelming, it’s okay to pause and come back later.
How it began
I met Sam at the end of 2023, beginning of 2024. They were loud, big, and seemed unapologetically themselves — someone who moved through the world with a rawness I found magnetic.
Looking back, I used to describe our relationship as a rollercoaster of highs and lows, but the truth is I was like a frog in a pot of water, slowly boiling without realising how hot it had gotten.
Sam had a difficult childhood, and from that they developed a tangle of toxic, destructive behaviours meant to protect themselves from pain — or even minor discomfort. Everything in our relationship came with unspoken rules. If I didn’t follow them exactly, it wasn’t just a mistake; it was proof I didn’t love them, that I didn’t care at all.
We both have ADHD, and it’s highly likely we’re both autistic. I understand how black-and-white thinking can make small ruptures feel catastrophic. So I tried to give Sam grace. I tried to understand. But looking back now, I see that grace only ever flowed one way.
The slow collapse of myself
One of the most painful parts was how Sam would make sweeping, black-and-white statements that landed as unarguable facts.
If I said “I love you too” in response to “I love you,” it was taken as evidence that I didn’t really mean it — that it was just a programmed reflex. I became hyper-vigilant, on guard, waiting in case they said it, willing myself not to slip up and say the “wrong thing” and upset them. The few times I did slip, I was met with that pained look and the heavy line: “You know what that means to me.”
I was constantly on eggshells. Sam never took responsibility for how this affected me, or tried to change. Only their interpretation of reality mattered. Whenever I tried to point out inconsistencies or share my perspective, it crumbled into the same tired script: “It’s fine — I’m clearly just a terrible person,” which ended any real conversation. I stopped trying.
I stayed far too long, ignoring my gut again and again — not because I had evidence things were improving, but because I desperately wanted them to.
Shifting rules and the erosion of trust
When we started dating, Sam insisted on exclusivity “to build trust,” even though they already had other partners, and knew I was with Triss and Willow. In those first three months, there was no progress toward actually building trust, and no plan for how we’d get there.
It was just a rule designed to protect them from discomfort. That became obvious pretty quickly. The only thing that changed was Sam repeatedly telling me how stressed they were that someday I might want to change the agreement, and that they weren’t ready to handle it.
Whenever I tried to explore how we could make them feel safe, secure, and loved — what trust-building might look like — it was brushed off as “just a time thing.” Meanwhile, they’d throw out comments like how I couldn’t possibly love them if I was interested in anyone else. I absorbed those judgments until I started to hate myself, their criticisms echoing in my head.
Eventually, I told them it was destroying me, that we needed to break up — that it simply wasn’t working. But suddenly, none of it seemed to matter. Sam said we could just drop the agreement, that it was fine… as if it were that easy. I should have trusted my gut and ended things then, before the fear and control really took hold.
Instead, we agreed to some new rules. Outside of our existing partners, the only rule was that I’d tell Sam ahead of time about anything that might upset them. When I pressed for specifics, they came back with two scenarios:
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If I was planning to meet up with someone, or
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If I was starting to catch feelings.
Weeks later, I ended up sexting with a friend and told Sam about it. Suddenly, I was a cheater. Every accusation became a truth inside my head. I went into full fawn mode, desperate to appease them, to fix it, conceding I’d broken rules — even though by the agreement, I hadn’t.
The stark double standard was painfully clear when Sam soon started dating someone new. I was given maybe 12–18 hours to decide what I was “comfortable with,” including whether they needed to use protection. When I admitted I was struggling — that it felt like I was being forced to approve something after the fact, since they were already planning on sleeping with this new person — they said nothing. Just silence.
Red flags I rationalised away
There were so many red flags I judge myself for overlooking. Sam often acted two-faced — cruel or dismissive to people behind their backs, while telling me I was “special,” immune to this side of them because they only behaved that way with people they “didn’t care about.”
But in hindsight, they even treated their supposed best friend like this. I ignored that gut feeling of confusion and discomfort just to keep the peace, a mistake I hope I won’t repeat.
The individual acts of abuse blur together now. It’s like my mind fuzzes them out to protect me, but the pain is still lodged somewhere deep, shaping how I flinch and brace in new situations.
Memories that still echo
One night we went to a club in Liverpool. I ended up having a series of panic attacks and spent most of the night alone outside, trying to calm down. Sam found me and promised we’d spend some time together, just us — but first they needed to pack up their things.
When we went upstairs, they simply went back to having sex with their friend. I stood there, highly dissociated, hoping afterwards they might be gentle with me. Instead, they disappeared. I searched everywhere, growing frantic, until I finally found them. They just shrugged and announced they “thought it best to go away and have a wank somewhere.” That memory still sits sharp and sore inside me.
Living in fear even before it ended
Then there were moments that made it unmistakable just how unsafe I really was.
One night, Sam broke up with me out of the blue and demanded to come over immediately to collect their things. I begged them — please, I needed space, I needed them to leave me alone. But they didn’t care. They drove over anyway, sat downstairs, and demanded I let them into my flat.
A little while later they started messaging and calling me, insisting it hadn’t really been them who broke up with me — it was some “split personality,” so they weren’t responsible, and we were still together.
I was so scared by how completely they disregarded my boundaries, my home, and my safety that I finally asked for my key back. Naturally, they framed it as me “punishing” them, never seeing it for what it was: me protecting myself.
Even after I finally ended things, Sam messaged to say they “didn’t consider us broken up.” When I told my therapist, they asked how I’d feel if the roles were reversed — if I had refused to accept a breakup. The answer was painfully obvious. It would be terrifying.
The aftermath: isolation and fear
After we broke up, it didn’t stop. Sam twisted events, spread outright lies, filed false reports, and encouraged others to report me too. No one reached out to hear my side. The few friends who did just told me they “needed to step away for their own wellbeing,” which felt like code for: “you’re being pushed out, and I don’t want it to happen to me.”
Sam even harassed my friends and family on social media. I deleted my account that tied to a community we had both been part of, hoping it might finally stop — that me removing myself would appease their quest. Even weeks later, Triss was still receiving hateful anonymous messages.
This was a community that claimed to care about safety, inclusion, and compassion — but it ended up being like any other clique I thought only existed in teen movies. Sam enlisted a friend who ran an event, lied to them, pulled in more people with more lies, and that was that. I was out.
Still living with the scars
I was terrified Sam might escalate. I reported everything to my boss and spoke to HR, in case they ever tried to sabotage my work. Thankfully, that never happened. But the fear has stayed.
There are scars and anxieties I carry now that I didn’t even know existed before meeting Sam. It’s surreal how a relationship that lasted around six months can still hurt me this deeply a year later, with no clear sign yet of fully healing.
What I’m learning (slowly)
I’m trying to rebuild trust — not just in other people, but in my own instincts. I’m learning to actually listen when my gut tells me something’s off, instead of overriding it to keep the peace. I’m also trying to be gentle with how long it’s taking. Healing doesn’t have a neat timeline.
Some days it feels like I’ll always carry these scars, like they’re woven into who I am now. Maybe they are. But I hope over time they’ll become reminders of how fiercely I want to protect my peace, my sense of self, my boundaries.
If you’re reading this and hurting
If any of this feels familiar — if you’re still untangling someone else’s reality from your own — I hope you know you’re not alone.
I also want to gently encourage you to speak to someone, ideally a professional who understands trauma and abuse dynamics. A good therapist can help you start to separate what happened from who you are, and work with you to slowly find some semblance of a path forward.
Healing can be messy, non-linear, and excruciatingly slow. Some days you might feel like you’re drowning in old echoes. Other days you might surprise yourself with how far you’ve come. Either way, you don’t have to do it alone.
A few starting points
If you’re in the UK and looking for support, here are some places you might start:
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For women:
📞 National Domestic Abuse Helpline — 0808 2000 247 (free, 24/7, confidential) -
For men:
📞 Respect Men’s Advice Line — 0808 8010 327 (Monday to Friday, 10am–8pm) -
Anyone:
🌐 BetterHelp or similar services — for more accessible online therapy (though it can vary a lot by therapist)
🩺 Local crisis lines or GP referrals — sometimes the first step is simply telling a doctor, “I think I might need help processing abuse.”
💌 My inbox is open if you ever want to share your story or just feel less alone. I might not always have perfect words, but I’ll believe you.
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