When Care Feels Conditional: Gaslighting in Friendships

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We talk about gaslighting in relationships and family dynamics a lot. But gaslighting in friendships can be just a real. Sometimes it shows up in the quiet ways a friend or neighbor convinces you your needs are unreasonable, your feelings are exaggerated, or your reality is less valid than theirs.

When Friendship Gaslighting Shows Up

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 their inability to sit with the discomfort of not knowing what I might say next. Instead of allowing me to finish and responding thoughtfully, they cut me off to quiet their own anxiety.

In other words, they managed their unease by controlling me - my words, my timing, even my existence in the conversation. The self-appointed decision-maker of when I could speak, with full authority to stop me mid-sentence if they 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. What I’m talking about is ordinary, everyday conversation.

They 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 they'd said—that’s when their nervous system shut down. If I simply admired their words, I could go on. But the moment I asked a question or nudged the thought forward - even without disagreeing - they “needed a break.”

So it wasn’t about whether they could handle conversation. It was about whether they could handle mine. And far too often, they either could not or did 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 they suggested that, because I had known I’m autistic longer than they'd known about their 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 their meltdown - apparently while gracefully pirouetting through my own.

That night, I left. We never dated again.

The Weight of Realization

This one hurt more than most because I had believed in them. Their 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 reveled in cruelty wasn’t enough. Kind people could erase me just as easily if I let them.

Stepping 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 them 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. They responded with their 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 them a few photos from our last trip together. It felt like a gesture of softness. Nostalgia. Shared goodness.

The Breaking Point

Their response was matter-of-fact request to leave out an old project tool that had been at my house for months. That one message served as the proverbial feather that toppled me right over.

I don’t actually think they did anything wrong by asking for their tool back. Maybe I’m jealous that they could ask. Is that it? That they're healthy enough to voice their own needs - needs that didn’t disappear just because mine materialized? Am I jealous because I know I wouldn’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 their needs.

I don't know that how I feel about their text that morning is quite correct. I probably even know that it isn't. But I also know I would not have asked them for anything on a day like that day was for me. And they would have been grateful for that kind of care.

My Boundary

That friendship taught me so much. It changed my path. It changed what I ask of myself. It changed what I ask of others. 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 I do theirs - 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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Want to keep exploring beyond gaslighting in friendships?

A Related Project

Some of the themes explored here - emotional safety, gaslighting, and the slow erosion of trust - are examined more fully in The Narcissism Files, an ongoing written project about narcissistic abuse and neurodivergent vulnerability.

It’s not a guide or a recovery plan.

It’s an attempt to name what happened clearly, without fixing or reframing it.

You can explore the project here:

The Narcissism Files →