The Slow Erosion

The Slow Erosion - A personal account of some of my experiences of coercive control

He was everything I thought I wanted, and I was everything he needed— a woman already hollowed out enough to make room for his possession.

I didn't have enough self-esteem to see the red flags. I didn't have enough love for myself to recognize I deserved better.

So when he wrapped himself around me like concern, like devotion, like love— I soaked it all up.

Every drop.

It started small. So small I mistook it for caring.

"You're wearing that top so men can look at your breasts."

I changed.

"Your driving's scary. I'll drive from now on."

I handed over the keys.

"Who are you messaging?"

I showed him my phone.

The obsession felt flattering at first— until it wasn't.

Proof that I mattered, that I was wanted, that someone finally saw me.

I didn't realize he wasn't seeing me. He was seeing property.

The commands came dressed as questions: "Why didn't you tell me you were going there?"

The accusations wore the mask of concern: "Did you give that man serving you flirty eyes?" "You just want to watch that movie to perve at that actor."

The control disguised itself as protection: "You can't visit your mum—your ex lives close by."

And when I flinched, when I questioned, when I dared to push back—

"You're trying to make me feel bad."

"Now you're crying."

"Always making yourself out to be the victim."

The apologies arrived like clockwork:

"I'm sorry, I just love you so much." "It won't happen again." "If you had just answered my call..." "If you had just told me..."

The word "if" became a weapon that made everything my fault.

"Move your fat arse."

"You don't need to eat that." (But in the same breath: "I love your body bigger.")

"You're imagining it."

"I didn't touch your phone." (When I knew he had.)

"If you loved me, you would just do it."

"You've got issues. You're the one that needs help."

"No wonder your friends don't talk to you anymore."

Each phrase a chisel, carving away at my sense of reality, at my trust in my own perception, at the edges of who I used to be.

But the cruelest manipulation of all— the one that kept me imprisoned long after I knew I should leave—

"The next woman will get the best version of me."

He said it over and over. A threat disguised as regret. A promise that my suffering was shaping him into something better— for someone else.

The message was clear: If you leave, you'll have endured all this pain for nothing. If you leave, another woman will reap the rewards of your sacrifice. If you leave, you'll prove you didn't love me enough to see it through.

So I stayed.

My sense of self being erased, bit by bit,

I stayed, believing that if I could just love him hard enough, change myself completely enough, endure long enough—

I would finally get to meet the "best version" he promised.

I didn't understand yet that the best version of him is still an abuser.

Over time, I learned.

I learned not to look up—it was safer that way. I learned to report my every move in advance. I learned to leave my phone unlocked so I wasn't accused of hiding things I wasn't hiding.

I withdrew from family. I withdrew from friends. Not because he forbade it— that would have been too obvious— but because I believed what he told me about them.

They don't really care about you. They're just using you. I'm the only one who truly loves you.

And I believed him. Because by then, I'd forgotten how to believe myself.

When my friendships faded, he reminded me it was my fault: "No wonder your friends don't talk to you anymore."

The isolation he created became proof of everything he'd said about me.

After a while, there was nothing left.

He'd etched away at my sense of self until I was hollow again— but this time, not empty.

Inhabited.

His puppet. His creation. His thing.

I moved when he pulled the strings. I spoke his words. I saw through his eyes.

And the woman I used to be?

She was buried so deep I couldn't remember her face.

This is how coercive control works.

Not with chains— but with whispers that sound like love.

Not with fists— but with words that reshape your reality.

Not overnight— but so slowly you don't notice until you've forgotten you were ever free.

It keeps you trapped not just with fear— but with the promise that your pain has purpose, that your endurance will be rewarded, that leaving would waste everything you've already survived.

It's a lie.

All of it.

If you see yourself in these words, know this: You are not imagining it. You are not overreacting. You are not crazy. And you are not alone.

There is no "best version" of him. The only best version that matters is yours.

The woman you once were is still in there. She never left. She's been waiting. It's time to come home to yourself—not as his creation, but as your own. You are the author of your own becoming, and your story doesn't belong to him.

Your story matters.

If these words resonated with you, if you see yourself in this experience, I want you to know: your story matters too. You can reach out to me privately via the contact button on this site. Your story will remain confidential, and you don't have to face this alone.

Resources and Support:

If you or someone you know is experiencing family violence or coercive control:

Women's Refuge - 0800 733 843 (available 24/7) Crisis support, safety planning, and advocacy for women and children www.womensrefuge.org.nz

Shine - 0508 744 633 (9am-11pm, 7 days) Domestic abuse helpline offering support, information, and safety planning www.2shine.org.nz

For organisations seeking training:

Eclipse Family Violence Services Specialist training and education on family violence response www.eclipsefamilyviolenceservices.co.nz

Louise Nicholas Trust Education, advocacy, and support for survivors of sexual abuse and family violence www.louisanicholastrust.org.nz

You are not alone. Your story matters. And there is a way forward.

~ Emma Richardson ~

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