There’s a certain kind of betrayal that doesn’t come from anyone else. It comes from within.
It slips in quietly… a whispered doubt, a rationalization, a voice in your own head convincing you that your needs are too much. That your pain is dramatic. That your joy is temporary. That maybe… you imagined it all.
This is how I gaslit myself.
And the worst part? I was good at it. Too good.
The First Time I Did It, I Didn’t Even Realize
It started small. Maybe it always does.
I told myself I wasn’t really hurt by what he said. That I was just “sensitive.” I told myself that missing someone who abandoned me was pathetic. I told myself my body must be the problem if I felt tired, heavy, unmotivated. I told myself the fog in my brain was laziness, not a real symptom.
I swallowed my instincts like they were pills I wasn’t supposed to question. And the dangerous thing is… the more I did it, the more I believed it.
When You Become the Voice That Silences You
Gaslighting isn’t always a monster under the bed or a manipulative partner. Sometimes, it’s you. Your voice, wearing the tone of someone else. An echo of the criticism you once internalized so deeply it became your own.
You start believing:
• Maybe I am making it up.
• Maybe I am the common denominator.
• Maybe I am ungrateful for wanting more.
• Maybe I don’t deserve rest, space, softness, joy.
You learn to downplay your intuition. You shrink yourself for comfort. You silence that trembling thing in your chest that just wants to feel seen.
That’s the cruelest part of gaslighting yourself- it disguises itself as logic. As maturity. As resilience. As “being realistic.”
But what it really is… is abandonment.
The Moment I Caught Myself
There wasn’t a dramatic movie moment. No big revelation. Just a quiet day -I was brushing my teeth, of all things- and I heard myself say, “You’re fine. Stop being so emotional.”
And it hit me like a wave to the face: That wasn’t me. That was someone else’s voice. Someone who once punished me for having feelings.
I spit it out. Literally. I spit out the lie, the toothpaste, the pressure. And I stood there, staring at myself in the mirror, asking, “When did I stop believing me?”
How I Gaslit Myself Without Knowing It
Looking back, I can name some of the ways I twisted my own reality:
• Over-intellectualizing everything. Turning pain into “lessons” too fast. Turning trauma into a checklist of healing goals instead of sitting in the grief of it.
• Invalidating my emotional needs. Telling myself I was “too much” every time I cried, reached out, or wanted more closeness.
• Excusing bad behavior from others. “They didn’t mean it.” “They were going through a hard time.” “Maybe I just took it the wrong way.”
• Performing strength when I was actually falling apart. And then feeling shame that no one noticed I needed help- when I made damn sure they wouldn’t.
• Obsessing over being “better.” Constant self-improvement so I wouldn’t have to face how deeply I was hurting. A fear that if I stopped working on myself, I’d be unloveable.
I gaslit myself with mantras like: “Everything happens for a reason.” “You’re not allowed to break down.” “If it’s meant to be, it’ll be.” “You’re too emotional to think clearly.” “You always make things harder than they need to be.”
The last one? Oof. That one lived in my chest like a parasite.
How I Snapped Out of It
It wasn’t just one moment. It was a series of small awakenings.
I started asking myself: What if I believe me this time? What if my first instinct was right? What if my body’s signals weren’t laziness, but wisdom? What if my sadness was not a weakness, but a compass?
I started journaling without editing. I let myself feel anger- like real anger. Not the passive kind I bury beneath poetic words, but rage. Pure feminine rage. I cried in the bath and didn’t try to turn it into a metaphor.
I started noticing which voices in my head weren’t mine. And then I started speaking louder than them.
What It’s Like Now
I still slip. Some days, I still question my reality. But I catch it faster now.
I ask: Is this thought kind? Is it true? Is it mine? I listen to my body’s reaction- not my brains judgement.
I trust the soft, quivering parts of me. The ones that used to hide behind performance and perfection.
And I’ve stopped shaming myself for needing reassurance. For asking for space. For wanting to be heard without having to justify why.
Signs You Might Be Gaslighting Yourself (Softly)
In case you’re wondering – here are some gentle signs I wish I had noticed earlier:
• You constantly second-guess your feelings or rewrite your memory to favor someone else.
• You tell yourself things like “I shouldn’t feel this way” more than you admit how you actually feel.
• You feel like you need permission to rest, cry, or say no, even when no one is around.
How To Come Home to Yourself Again
If this resonates- if you’ve been dimming your own light just to stay palatable- here’s what helped me:
- Call it what it is. Saying “I gaslight myself” isn’t self-hate. It’s clarity. It’s naming a pattern so it loses power.
- Practice radical self-validation. Say it out loud: “I believe me.” Even when you don’t fully yet- keep saying it.
- Reparent your inner voice. Would you talk to your child that way? No? Then you don’t deserve it either.
- Let others reflect you back to you. Sometimes we need safe people to remind us of what we’ve forgotten about ourselves.
- Write letters you don’t send. Especially to the versions of you that doubted herself. She didn’t know. Forgive her.
- Create rituals of self-trust. Light a candle when you feel unsure. Speak to the flame. Affirm yourself in small, physical ways.
Trust the Whisper
You don’t have to wait for a breakdown to stop betraying yourself. You can pause right now. Breathe. Ask yourself: What if everything I feel makes sense?
Gaslighting may have helped you survive. But trusting yourself? That’s how you live.
So here’s to coming home. To softness. To clarity. To remembering that your story is not too much, too messy, or too loud. It’s yours. And that makes it sacred.
You are not imagining it. You are not too sensitive. You are not hard to love. You are not lost – You are learning to listen.
Lanalefay 