I’ve made the hardest yet most necessary decision of my life: I’ve left my partner for good. This isn’t the first time I’ve faced emotional abuse, but I never imagined I’d find myself in this position again, grappling with the pain of a relationship that promised love but delivered trauma. As someone with schizophrenia and a background in forensic psychology—studies I couldn’t complete due to my illness—I thought I’d be able to spot the signs of abuse early. But it took me months, the support of professionals, and a lot of self-reflection to identify, process, and finally escape the cycle of coercive control that defined my relationship. I’m writing this post to share my story, the traumas I now carry, and the strength I’ve found in leaving—hoping it might help other women recognise the signs and break free, just as I have.
Our relationship began with hope and shared interests, a bright spark that ignited the flame of connection between us. We connected deeply over theology, spending countless hours immersed in fascinating discussions about topics like politics, kabbalah, and history; exploring the rich tapestry of our cultural heritage. I envisioned dreams of a happy future together, one where we’d grow, support each other, and build a life rooted in mutual respect and understanding. I became very illusioned. We were not just partners; we were companions on an intellectual journey, sharing our hearts and minds.
However, as time passed, those idyllic dreams were overshadowed by a pattern of behaviour that I now recognise as coercive control—a term I learned through the invaluable support of Jewish Women’s Aid (JWA) and the dedicated First Response team in Plymouth, where I live. This gradual realisation was heart-wrenching, as I began to understand that what I perceived as normal had morphed into something sinister. The Devon & Cornwall Police have also been increasingly concerned, actively advising me to extricate myself early from this situation, as his behaviour exhibited early signs of this insidious form of abuse that can entrap individuals in a cycle of manipulation and fear. The journey towards awareness has been painful but necessary, shedding light on the true nature of our interactions and empowering me to reclaim my sense of self.
The first red flag was his pattern of withdrawing contact—what I later called the “5/2 cycle.” Every week, he’d started to disappear for two nights, with zero communication, only to return for five nights of warmth and affection. Those two nights of silence, like one instance earlier this month, left me anxious and hurt, wondering what I’d done wrong; my mind racing with self-doubt, but when he’d return with kind words, it was like a wave of relief. I didn’t realise then that this push-pull dynamic was a control tactic, designed to keep me on edge, craving his affection while fearing his withdrawal. JWA later explained that this intermittent reinforcement is a hallmark of coercive control, creating an emotional dependency that’s hard to break.
His behaviour escalated beyond withdrawal, which some call “ghosting”. He began gaslighting me, making me question my reality. In one WhatsApp rant, he called me “overdramatic” and “hostile”, blaming me for his actions and claiming I’d “misled” him, even though I’d only tried to communicate my needs. I’d always been clear and literal, especially because I knew he struggled with emotional processing, but he turned my openness against me. When I blocked him on WhatsApp to protect myself temporarily, he moved to Xbox, starting with love-bombing messages—“I miss you”—before quickly shifting to demands and threats. He insisted I return his belongings, accusing me of “holding them hostage,” and warned me not to “escalate this and cause unnecessary trouble.” The most chilling moment came when I told him I’d block him on Xbox due to his violation of my boundaries—his immediate reply was “Big mistake,” a direct threat that left me terrified.
The threats didn’t stop there. Early in our relationship, he warned me never to start a legal battle with him, claiming I’d lose, and threatened to “air all kinds of private things” if I mentioned our conversations about course-related books to our Rabbi. Those conversations were sacred to me—a space where I found solace in my faith and intellectual curiosity—but he turned them into a weapon, threatening to shame and control me. I felt violated, as if a part of my identity had been invaded. I later learned from JWA that this, too, was coercive control: using my vulnerabilities to intimidate and silence me.
A more public form of his abuse came through a smear campaign. Just 10-15 minutes after his “Big mistake” threat, he posted a video on Facebook inferring I was too clingy. The irony was painful—I’d been the one asking for space, setting boundaries, and blocking him to protect myself, yet he twisted the narrative to humiliate me. That post felt like a deliberate attempt to discredit me to others and make me the problem, when I was the one suffering from his actions. I blocked him on Facebook immediately, but the damage was done—I was left fearing what else he might say, how he might further distort my reality to the world.
It took me a while to identify and process this abuse. I was in denial, clinging to the hope that he could change, especially because I understood his struggles—his neurodivergence, his issues with alcohol, his difficult family dynamics. I don’t give up on people easily, and I genuinely loved him. I thought I could help him stop drinking, stop the abusive behaviors, and build the future I’d dreamed of. We even started couple’s therapy, hoping to heal together, but that hope was shattered when he became abusive in our therapy chat group. He called me “disgusting” for showering only 2-3 times per week during the winter—a negative symptom of my depression linked to schizophrenia—and labelled me a “deluded psychotic nutcase.” Those words cut deep, attacking my mental health in a space meant for healing. It was the final straw, confirming what everyone had warned me about: he was unlikely to change, and his behaviour was only getting worse.
The traumas he’s left me with are heavy. I feel like love has become a demonic possession—a metaphor I’ve used to describe the overwhelming, consuming nature of our relationship. The 5/2 cycle, the gaslighting, the threats—they created a constant state of fear and anxiety, as if I was under a spell I couldn’t break. I’d wake up wondering if he’d disappear again, or if he’d escalate his threats, maybe even show up unannounced. His words in therapy, attacking my schizophrenia, have left me with a deep sense of shame and self-doubt, even though I know my symptoms aren’t my fault. I feel violated, not just emotionally but intellectually—our shared passion for theology, once a source of joy, now feels tainted by his threats to expose private details, and by his indirect harassment through common groups. I’m grieving the loss of the future I’d envisioned, and I’m angry at myself for not seeing the signs sooner, despite my background in forensic psychology.
I met with the Devon & Cornwall Police, and they made the Clare’s Law disclosure. It confirmed that what I already knew was true. Whilst I am not allowed to express the details of his records, I can advise that all women who suspect their partners are abusive, make such a request. Why? Because it helped me to see that what I was perceiving was correct, that I am not crazy, and that I am not the first victim. However, I hope I am the last.
I never imagined I’d be in this position again. Coercive control is insidious—it creeps in slowly, disguised as love, until you’re too entangled to see clearly. It took me months to recognise the patterns, to stop making excuses for him, to stop blaming myself. I was in denial, hoping my love and understanding could change him, but I’ve learned a painful lesson: I can’t fix someone who doesn’t want to change, and I can’t sacrifice my safety for hope.
Leaving him for good was my reclaiming of power. I’ve blocked him everywhere, ensuring he can’t contact me further. I’ve ended couple’s therapy—his abuse in that space made it clear it wasn’t safe—and I’m focusing on individual healing with the support of JWA, my mental health team, and the First Response team. I’m proud of myself for remaining constructive, for never stooping to his level with derogatory terms, for holding onto my empathy even as he hurt me. I loved him, but he used me, admitting he was only with me because I was good for his mental and physical health. That betrayal stings, but it also clarifies what I deserve: a love built on trust, respect, and safety.
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