When Care Feels Conditional: Gaslighting Outside Narcissistic Abuse
- Elle Dee
- Oct 3
- 6 min read
Gaslighting isn’t always dramatic. It doesn’t only come from narcissists or abusers. Sometimes it shows up in the quiet ways a friend or partner convinces you your needs are unreasonable, your feelings are exaggerated, or your reality is less valid than theirs.
I recently ended a friendship with someone who, in many ways, felt like one of my people - queer, neurodivergent, deeply familiar. Someone who cared for me beautifully in some ways, yet consistently silenced me in others. It wasn’t cruelty. It wasn’t malice. But it left me clear on what I could and could not hold space for in my life.
The interruptions
At first, I blamed myself for how much it triggered me. In the past, interrupting was a weapon used against me by someone who thrived on making me feel small and inconsequential. I told myself this wasn’t the same. I tried to breathe through it, tried to be less reactive, tried to believe I was the problem.
But the interruptions never stopped, and neither did the sting of being cut off before my thoughts even formed.
Control disguised as anxiety
Eventually, it clicked: the interruptions weren’t about carelessness or urgency. They seemed to come from his inability to sit with the discomfort of not knowing what I might say next. Instead of allowing me to finish and responding thoughtfully, he cut me off to quiet his own anxiety.
In other words, he managed his unease by controlling me - my words, my timing, even my existence in the conversation. He appointed himself the decision-maker in when I could speak, with full authority to stop me mid-sentence if he didn’t like where it was going. And I let it happen. Until I couldn’t anymore.
When my voice wasn't welcome
This wasn’t about heavy conversations. I’m a strong believer in asking for consent before unloading hard things. I don’t want anyone listening out of obligation. I’m talking about ordinary, everyday conversation.
He could talk for thirty minutes straight, and I would listen intently. But when it was my turn - still on the same topic, still connected to what he said—that’s when his nervous system shut down. If I simply admired his words, I could go on. But the moment I asked a question or nudged the thought forward - even without disagreeing - he “needed a break.”
So it wasn’t about whether he could handle conversation. It was about whether he could handle mine. And far too often, he either did not or could not.
When my pain was a resource
There were other moments that should have held my attention longer. One of the most disorienting came when he suggested that, because I had known I’m autistic longer than he’d known about his own diagnosis, I should be able to endure more distress.
I was given a scenario: both of us overwhelmed, both of us close to tipping. And yet, I was expected to be the one who stayed logical, reasonable, and controlled. I was supposed to accommodate his meltdown - apparently while gracefully pirouetting through my own.
He even described me as a kind of “neurodivergent elder.” The message was unmistakable: I wasn’t just able to carry more pain - I was somehow supposed to. Because if it spared him, what did it matter if it crushed me a little more?
He’d likely argue that’s not what he meant. I think I'd agree. That only matters a bit, though. Because I’ve exhausted my brain for another way it plays out. In any scenario I can conjure, he’s spared. I’m sacrificed.
Of course, he'd be okay. He had us both. And I likely would not. Is it wrong to want friends who need more from me than that?
The breaking point
The final straw came during what should have been a harmless conversation. We weren’t fighting. It wasn’t about us. I asked a simple, theoretical question that began, “If this happens…”
He interrupted me four times in a row - answering a question I hadn’t even asked, refusing to let me finish. I even gave an example: “If I drop an egg, will it make a mess?” can’t be answered the same way as “If I drop an egg, will the cat die?” Still, he wouldn’t let me speak.
That night, I left. We never dated again.
The weight of realization
This one hurt more than most because I had believed in him. His proclaimed embrace of mutuality was what drew me in. It sounded so good and safe and sane to me. I wanted to spend time with someone where both people mattered. Where my needs weren’t always second, always optional.
Realizing I had stepped into the same dynamic in softer clothing - still uneven, still unsafe, still asking me to pretend it's all okay - was devastating. What leveled me the most wasn’t the loss of just this one relationship. It was realizing that avoiding people who embraced cruelty wasn’t enough. Kind people could erase me just as easily if I let them.
The step back
Even after stepping back, we stayed in light contact. About a month later, we randomly connected at just the right moment, and I poured my heart out. I told him I’d been overwhelmed for a while and was taking a trip to regroup. For the first time, I admitted I was genuinely concerned about my own mental fatigue. He responded with his beautiful kindness. And I felt grateful - calmer than I had in days.
The next morning, as I loaded my car to leave town, still raw and emotional, I texted him photos from our last trip together. It felt like a gesture of softness. Nostalgia. Shared goodness.
His response? A matter-of-fact request to set out an old project tool of his that had been at my house for months. I don’t even think he did anything wrong by asking. Maybe I’m jealous that he could ask. Is that it? That he’s healthy enough to voice his needs - needs that didn’t disappear just because mine materialized? Am I jealous because I know I couldn’t do the same?
Maybe. But in that moment - when I needed presence, not a task - it was a jolt. A snap back to the pattern. No matter what is going on with me, there will always be a way to turn the conversation back to what he needs.
I don't know if how I feel about his text that morning is quite correct. I probably even know that it isn't. But I also know I would not have asked him for anything on a day like that day was for me. And he would have been grateful for that kind of care. He would have known that I saw him running on fumes, and it would have mattered to him that I didn't ask for any part of what he had left.
My boundary
I don’t think he meant to hurt me. I don’t think he’s malicious. But I’ve learned that gaslighting in friendships doesn’t always require cruelty. Sometimes it looks like constant invalidation. Gentle reminders that your needs are too much. Interruptions that keep your voice from landing.
And so I drew my boundary. I want friendships where care runs both ways. Where my voice isn’t something to be managed. Instead, my friends see it as something to be celebrated and valued.
I don’t need much. But I do need to matter. And I will no longer stay where I don’t.
-Elle
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