When storytelling becomes control

Abuse does not always arrive screaming. Sometimes it shows up in essays—neatly paragraphed, introspective, dripping with “self-awareness.” It wears therapy words like perfume and calls itself growth.

But when remorse keeps the abuser at the centre, it is still control. When every paragraph begins with I, it is not confession—it is curation. The harm does not end; it just gets better punctuation.

They will tell you s/he was difficult, older, fragile, confused. They will tell you it was complicated. But the complication only began when s/he stopped existing as a resource and started existing as a person. That is when the story had to change. Because if s/he is fully human, their cruelty cannot be justified.

They edit her/him into symbolism—turns her/him into a metaphor for their shame. They puff their chest and calls that honesty.

I call it abuse by narration. Every time they post (or rant on and on), they are not rebuilding trust; they are re-establishing authorship. They are saying, “You do not get to define what happened. I do.”

But here is the truth, dearhearts:

S/he doesn’t need their explanations. S/he does not need their analysis, labels, or permission to heal. S/he needed respect, and they gave her/him a monologue instead.

Please remember:

You are not required to understand the person who hurt you. Understanding them will not undo what they did. You are not their case study, not their mirror, not their catalyst. You were the whole story, and they tried to steal the pen. If they start writing again, let them.

You write the ending, not them.