A Survivor's Guide to Narcissistic Abuse,
Gaslighting, and Reclaiming Your Power
Copyright © 2026 by Jane Smith
All rights reserved.
Jane Smith writes under a pen name to protect her family.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without the written permission of the author.
This is a memoir. The events described are true to the author's memory and experience. Some names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of those involved.
First edition.
For the women still in the dark.
You are not alone.
I grew up in a flat in a tower block in the East End of London. From the outside, it looked like a normal working-class home — dad worked long hours, mum kept the house running. But inside? The silence was louder than anything.
My dad was usually gone before I woke up and home after I was in bed. But when he was there, the rule was clear: "Children are to be seen, not heard." I wasn't allowed to speak when adults were talking — even if it was just my mum and dad chatting in the lounge. If I interrupted, I was shut down or shamed.
I remember overhearing my mum once tell her mother that my dad was jealous of me. I was six years old. His only daughter.
By the time I was ten, the lounge was "his space." If he came home and I was watching TV, I'd be told, "It's your dad's time now," and sent to my room.
I learned quickly: Stay quiet. Don't take up space. Don't upset him.
Disobedience wasn't met with a warning — it meant physical punishment. I was spanked so hard with my knickers pulled down that my body learned to freeze before I even got in trouble.
Only now, decades later, have I realised I was living with undiagnosed ADHD the whole time. The impulsiveness, the blurting out, the energy I couldn't control — it wasn't bad behaviour. It was a brain trying to survive in a house where survival meant silence.
As I hit my teens, things got worse. I rebelled hard. I couldn't concentrate in school, became the class clown, always cracking jokes. On the outside I was loud, funny, confident. Inside? A storm. That humour was a shield I didn't know I was carrying.
I still wasn't allowed to exist on my own terms. Once, on New Year's Eve, my dad let me have a martini at our local pub. Later, he "caught" me drinking and exploded — shouting, dragging me by the throat for lying. It took my mum stepping in to remind him he had bought it for me. Still, it didn't matter.
Then came the unravelling. I was caught stealing a lipstick — arrested. Another time, I took a pound coin from his room after he baited me. That was all he needed. I came home one afternoon and saw all my clothes, records, and belongings being hurled onto the street.
I thought something awful had happened. But it was about a girl in the local park who looked like me. He shouted at her to come home — she didn't (because she wasn't me). He convinced himself it was, and refused to believe otherwise.
He screamed. Raged. Then threw me out. I was 15.
Later that night, scared and alone, I came back. But he wouldn't open the door. He made my mother choose: him or me.
I took the choice from her and said, "Don't worry, Mum. I'll go."
A friend's mum took me in. Gave me a room. Gave me dignity. I wrote letters to my dad begging for forgiveness. He burned every one.
On my 16th birthday, he walked past me in the street. Didn't look. Didn't flinch.
My mum had to meet me in alleyways just to say hello — like we were doing something wrong.
It's easy to say, "I'd never let a man treat me that way." And I've never put anyone above my kids. But back then? It was a different world. Women didn't work. They didn't leave. They survived.
When I was 16, I met a man five years older than me. He was the quietest one in his group — good-looking, the one everyone noticed. And somehow... he picked me.
I was shocked. Flattered. Falling. I thought I'd won the jackpot. But that feeling didn't last long.
It started slowly — the comments, the suspicion.
If I said hello to a boy I grew up with, just being friendly, he'd turn cold and spit out words like:
"I bet you're sleeping with him. You dirty slut. What have you done with him then?"
I was crushed. Gutted. I couldn't believe he thought that of me — but more than anything, I just wanted to prove him wrong. So I changed. I stopped speaking to men. I lowered my eyes. I kept my head down. It just wasn't worth the chaos.
And by that point, I was already in love with him. Deeply. Desperately. I didn't want to lose him. I just wanted to make him happy.
But no matter what I did, it wasn't enough.
Wherever we went, I could feel his eyes on me. Watching. Judging. Waiting to catch me out.
If my bus was late after work, I knew exactly what I was walking into.
If there was a queue in the supermarket, the accusations would come again.
It didn't matter how loyal I was — he had already decided who I was in his head.
He didn't just accuse — he controlled.
He'd check my underwear, demanding proof that I hadn't been with someone else. If I didn't want sex, the verbal abuse would explode.
"You're a dirty slut. You must be giving it to someone else — why not me?"
I'd lie in bed sobbing, hoping he'd understand, just once. But by the next night, he'd try again — like nothing had happened. I was still shattered from the night before. Still broken. Still scared.
But saying no only made things worse.
It became a vicious circle.
He smashed my windows in rage. He blamed me for every outburst.
And even after he cheated on me — not once, but five times with girls I thought were friends — I still forgave him.
Because deep down, I thought this was normal.
He was the only man I'd ever loved.
I didn't know love could look any different.
Then came the moment that still haunts me.
I fell pregnant at 16.
My father still refused to have me in his house. The kind woman who had taken me in fed me, sheltered me — gently explained she couldn't support a baby too. And I understood. She had already done so much.
But the man I loved, the one who claimed to care for me, gave me an ultimatum:
"It's me or the baby."
He told me if I kept it, I'd be a single mum living in the gutter — poor, alone, and unfit. That I'd lose the baby anyway.
I had no support. No family. No income. No safety net.
So I made the decision I believed I had to make. And it broke me.
To this day, it is the deepest regret of my life.
There was one Christmas I'll never forget — for all the wrong reasons.
We had no food in the flat. No gifts. Nothing festive at all. And on Christmas Day, he told me I wasn't welcome at his parents' house. No explanation. Just, "You're not coming."
He left me sobbing alone, locked in a cold silence while he told his family I was "too ill" to join.
That was the kind of control I lived with. Financially, it was a trap. He earned more, but we split everything 50/50 — which meant I barely scraped by. If I ever disagreed, if I ever "stepped out of line," he'd punish me by refusing to help. No bus fare? Walk to work. No period products? Tough luck. Should've "behaved."
But the worst wasn't the mind games.
It was the physical abuse.
He kicked. He punched. He strangled me. He once kicked my private parts so hard I crumpled to the floor, screaming in pain.
That was my breaking point. I finally turned to my mum. I found the courage to leave.
But he got to them.
He convinced my parents to meet him at the local pub. And somehow, he persuaded them to convince me to go back. I stood there, stunned, while my own father said the words that still ring in my head:
"If I was your fella, I'd hit you too."
That moment broke something in me. Not just because he said it — but because it told this man, "Carry on. You have my blessing."
And so, like many women with nowhere left to turn, I went back.
The years that followed fell into a cruel pattern. Chaos. Apologies. Promises. Repeat.
And still... I loved him.
Eventually, I fell pregnant. And during that time, something shifted — or so I thought. He was calm. Kind, even. The man I had been hoping he'd become. The jealousy simmered down, the violence paused (mostly), and for a fleeting moment, I believed we were turning a corner.
But after my child was born, the mask slipped again.
One day, it started with sex — or rather, me saying no. His response? He threw a highchair through a window, glass shattering everywhere, my phone crushed beneath his foot. I stood there, breathless in the chaos, and when I turned around...
My child — just a toddler — stood in the hallway crying.
That was it. That was the moment love turned to something else. I was done.
Three days later, he returned, acting like nothing had happened.
"Why are you here?" I asked. "We're done."
And I meant it.
I walked out of our flat without a knife, fork, or tea towel to my name.
I left it all behind — except for my child.
We started again in a rundown flat, just the two of us. I worked full-time. It was brutal. But we survived. I was free.
Well... almost.
For the next 18 months, the stalking didn't stop. Wherever I went, he'd be there. He'd bang down my door at 2am, drunk. He kidnapped me once, driving 100 miles an hour, screaming that he'd kill us both.
But I got out. I got free. And I never went back.
After everything I'd been through, my mum became my lifeline.
We spoke three times a day, every day. She helped raise my child. She came on every holiday. She was my safety net. My soft place to land. She knew me and loved me anyway.
Five years after leaving him, I met someone new. It took time. He wasn't perfect, but my world was growing, and my mum was at the heart of it.
Then, everything changed.
At 2 a.m., I got a call from my dad. Just six words: "Your mum's not well. Hospital."
That was it. No details. But somehow, I knew. I screamed. I shook. I raced to her flat.
When I got there, she was naked in the back of the ambulance. I shouted at the medics, "Cover her — she'll be mortified!" But their faces were already telling me what I wasn't ready to hear.
She'd just spoken to me at 9:30 p.m.
By 2 a.m., she was fighting for her life.
By 4 a.m., I was texting work, saying I wouldn't be back.
At the hospital, I brought my 17-year-old daughter — thinking she'd help me be strong. I wish I'd protected her from what came next.
We were taken into a room.
And that's where the world ended.
They told us her life support needed to be turned off.
I screamed. I begged. I searched for miracle doctors in the US. I spent 8 hours at her bedside pleading, "If you leave me, I'll die too."
Eventually, I gave in.
They said she'd last 20 minutes. She lasted six hours.
I climbed into bed beside her. I held her. I whispered:
"Mum... it's okay. If you're tired, you can go. I'll look after everyone. I'll be okay."
And just like that... she left.
My heart didn't just break — it changed shape. Life has never felt the same.
But even in that grief, the man who called himself my father still found a way to make it about him.
"I knew her longer than you," he said. "It's worse for me."
Not "I'm here for you."
Not "She loved you so much."
Just more pain. More silence. More minimising.
In the years that followed my mum's death, I completely unravelled.
The pain wasn't just emotional — it was physical. I couldn't sleep. I woke up screaming, pulling my hair out. I cut myself. I drank anything I could find to silence the thoughts in my head.
And while I was drowning, my so-called father made sure he stayed centre stage.
He cried to my friends. Spread lies about me. Told people I threw him out of my house. Played the victim so well he could've won an award — while I was silently dying inside.
He sent drunk, abusive texts. He took every penny my mum left us and bought himself a brand-new car. Then had the audacity to make us pay for her headstone.
And still... I tried to help him.
Because somewhere inside, I still believed that maybe, just maybe, I could earn the love I never received.
But now?
Now I know better.
I have honestly spent my whole life trying to please narcissists. First my father — with his rules, his silence, his punishments for daring to exist too loudly. Then him. The one I thought was love. And all along the way, I kept bending, shrinking, walking on eggshells, hoping that if I was good enough, quiet enough, useful enough... maybe they'd love me back. Maybe I'd finally be safe.
But you can't please people who need you to stay small just so they can feel big.
And I'm done being small.
For most of my life, I was unknowingly chasing the love and approval of someone incapable of giving it — my father. That deep need to be seen, heard, and loved shaped my teenage rebellion, my choices in men, and my desperate longing to be "good enough."
But here's what I've finally come to see — he isn't capable. Not because of me. Not because I wasn't lovable. But because he simply doesn't know how to love anyone but himself.
I'm now 47, and only just beginning to understand how much of my life was lived for someone else's approval. And I'm finally done.
The healing journey isn't neat. It's raw, real, and often lonely. But every truth I face makes me stronger. Every boundary I hold brings me back to me.
From my early twenties, I was on antidepressants and had a string of mental health issues — diagnosed, medicated, supported... but never truly seen.
Because no one ever asked the question that mattered: What happened to you?
I didn't understand why I hated myself. Why I felt dirty just being me. Why I'd cry when I looked in the mirror. Or why I never, ever felt "good enough" — for love, for happiness, for life itself. My brain was a constant battlefield of shame, fear, and self-loathing.
Then came the night I tried to be brave. A few drinks in, courage shaking inside me, I asked my father the question I'd buried for years:
"Why are you like this with me?"
His response?
I didn't know the word back then. But I know it now: gaslighting.
He looked me dead in the eyes and told me the night he threw me out never happened. That I was "imagining it." According to him, I chose to walk out.
Even if that were true — and it's not — what kind of parent lets their 15-year-old child walk out into the night and sleep in a park?
That moment stuck with me for life — not just the trauma of being thrown out, but the denial of it. Like I was crazy for remembering it the way I did.
But I'm not crazy. It happened. And now, I name it for what it was.
Gaslighting.
It wasn't just that he hurt me. It's that he made me question whether he ever did.
That single moment — like so many others — rewired my brain to doubt everything. To silence myself. To collapse into guilt every time I felt anger or sadness. Because if nothing happened, then I must be the problem... right?
Wrong.
The truth is, years of gaslighting and emotional abuse don't just affect your mood. They dismantle your entire sense of self. They make you feel crazy for reacting like a human. They train your brain to mistrust its own memories.
This isn't weakness. This is trauma.
But here's the good news: if trauma can rewire your mind, so can healing.
And that's what this chapter of life is about now. The healing. The rewiring. The remembering of who I was before someone told me I wasn't enough.
Healing didn't mean forgetting. It meant finally telling the truth — to myself, for myself.
For years, I questioned my memories, my worth, my sanity. But I was never crazy. I was gaslit. And now, I'm learning to trust myself again.
Every time I name what happened, I take my power back. Every time I choose kindness over shame, I begin to heal.
I am no longer who he said I was.
I am who I've always been beneath the lies: strong, sensitive, worthy of love.
Gaslighting didn't destroy me.
It woke me up.
And now, I remember everything.
If your chest is tight, your eyes sting, or your stomach turns as you read this...
If parts of my story sound a little too close to your story...
Please hear me:
You are not broken.
You are not too far gone.
And you are not to blame.
What happened to you was real — even if no one else saw it. Even if the world called it "normal." Even if you were gaslit into silence.
But you are here now. Reading this. And that means something.
You are stronger than you think.
This isn't a perfect six-step plan. Healing isn't linear, pretty, or Instagrammable. But it is possible.
Here's what helped me. Take what you need. Leave what doesn't fit. This is your path now.
Stop rationalising their behaviour. If you're constantly anxious, apologising, or questioning yourself — it's not love, it's control.
Write down what's really happening. Get it out of your head and onto paper.
Emotional abuse is abuse. Gaslighting is abuse. Narcissistic control is abuse. It counts even if they never laid a hand on you.
Say it out loud. "This is abuse." That sentence is the beginning of freedom.
Start building your exit — mentally, emotionally, practically. Find safe people. Create backups. Save money if you can. Get quiet and strategic.
You don't have to leave today — but knowing you can changes everything.
You don't owe anyone your silence. You don't owe your abuser a soft landing. And you certainly don't owe anyone your peace.
When guilt creeps in, remind yourself: "My peace is a valid priority."
One brave moment will change your life. One "no more." One decision to choose yourself. It will feel terrifying. And it will set you free.
Repeat this if you need to: "I get to choose me."
Dear You,
If no one's told you lately — I'm proud of you.
I know what it feels like to live in fear, confusion, and heartbreak. To doubt your own memories. To shrink yourself just to stay safe.
I know the pain of screaming inside while smiling on the outside. Of hiding the truth because the world wouldn't believe it anyway.
But I also know this...
You are not the things they said about you.
You are not broken. You are becoming.
Every scar on your heart? It's proof that you survived.
Every time you were silenced, and now you whisper your truth? That's power.
You don't have to be loud. Or brave every day. Or have it all figured out.
You just have to keep going.
You are allowed to outgrow people who won't meet you in your healing.
You are allowed to choose peace — even if it disappoints others.
You are allowed to be free.
And when the pain rises, when it feels too heavy, I want you to remember:
You're not alone anymore.
With all my heart,
Jane
Start journaling — messy, angry, honest words. Don't filter yourself. Write it for you.
Document everything if you're still in contact — texts, calls, behaviours. You're not "being dramatic," you're protecting your reality.
Tell someone — one safe person who will believe you. Speaking it out loud can lift years off your chest.
Get to know your triggers — not to avoid life, but to prepare for it. Triggers are invitations to tend to wounds.
Choose progress over perfection — healing doesn't mean you'll never have a bad day again. It means you bounce back quicker each time.
Block. Mute. Unfollow. You don't need to "prove" you're okay. You don't need to stay accessible to those who hurt you.
Say no without guilt. Yes, even to family. Especially to family, if needed.
Remind yourself every day: "This story doesn't end with pain. It continues with power."
If this book reached you when you needed it,
please consider leaving a review on Amazon.
It helps other women find their way out of the dark.
— Jane