How Surviving Narcissistic Abuse Changed the Way I See America
A Therapist on Divorce, Gaslighting, and Shared Reality
The moment I began to question my own sanity wasn’t during a fight. It happened on our first anniversary, celebrated over Zoom when plans for a brief separation collapsed and I found myself without a place to land.
She asked if we could “keep things light.”
At the time, I was homeless — sleeping in my car, catching sunrises at random dog parks along I-70, and splitting Cheesy Gordita Crunches with my two-year-old Brittany Spaniel. The separation had unfolded abruptly and without warning, and I was still trying to understand whether my marriage was ending or merely suspended. There had been no shared reckoning, no agreement about what had gone wrong, no timeline — only a vague request that I remain available, patient, and calm while she “took space” in our Los Angeles apartment.
Keep things light. As if the circumstances didn’t exist. As if the rupture were a mere inconvenience rather than the central fact of our lives. If my cell service hadn’t been so shitty, I’m pretty sure she would have seen my pupils turn to 🤯’s.
I remember thinking: Am I missing something? When did performative nonsense become a part of our marriage? And then, more quietly:
Am I crazy for thinking this whole situation is fucking insane?