What Betrayal Trauma Really Feels Like After Narcissistic Abuse
Betrayal trauma isn’t a past-tense story for me. It’s not something I healed from and wrapped in a neat little bow. It’s something I live through every single day in my body, in my breath, in the way I brace for impact when there’s no threat in sight.
I don’t just remember what happened. I relive it. I carry it. I feel it in my spine when someone gets too close. I feel it in my chest when a song comes on. I feel it in the way I flinch when someone is kind to me, because my brain now registers affection as danger.
This wasn’t a bad breakup. This was someone who, from the moment they met me, was grooming me for destruction. He studied me. Mirrored me. Made me feel chosen, seen, safe. And then, once I was fully attached once I trusted him completely he began the process of dismantling me piece by piece.
Most people don’t understand this, but I’m going to say it clearly:
For many narcissists, the end goal is your death.
Not directly, not with a weapon. That would be too obvious. Too messy. The real goal is psychological suicide. The abuser wants to drive you to the point where you destroy yourself. So they don’t have to. It’s the ultimate power trip. To them, your breakdown, your silence, your erasure it’s the perfect ending.
And I almost gave it to him.
Trying to reconcile the fact that someone you loved and trusted was actively trying to kill you... There are no words for that. But I’ll try.
Imagine surviving a serial killer. Imagine realizing, months later, that the person you slept next to, laughed with, shared your deepest fears with was silently, methodically murdering you from the inside out. That’s what this is. That’s betrayal trauma.
And the worst part? You don’t realize it right away. You protect them. You defend them. You rationalize the abuse. Your nervous system can’t accept the truth all at once it would shatter you. So you survive it in fragments. And every time a new piece of the truth surfaces, your brain breaks a little more.
I don’t feel safe. Ever. My nervous system is not under my control. I live in a permanent state of startle. My body is constantly bracing. I’m always scanning. There is no rest. There is no peace. There is just survival.
I can’t regulate my emotions. I go from dissociation to panic. If someone asks me a question the wrong way, my body interprets it as an interrogation. If someone touches me when I’m not ready, I recoil. I’m not being rude. I’m in a trauma response.
And still people think I should be over it.
But you don’t get over betrayal trauma. You learn how to breathe through it. You learn how to stay alive with it. You learn how to hold the truth that someone once loved you just enough to get close and then tried to erase you.
I live in a body that doesn’t trust safety. I live in a mind that was reprogrammed by psychological warfare. My abuser didn’t just hurt me. He weaponized love, identity, and hope and turned them into a form of slow death.
And when I finally started to break free, the betrayal hit like a bomb. Because the person I would’ve died for, almost did kill me. And when I reached out for help, most people didn’t believe me.
That’s the second betrayal. That’s what keeps survivors silent. That’s why so many people don’t tell their story. Because betrayal trauma is so twisted, so surreal, that even you start to wonder if it really happened the way you remember it.
But I’m telling you it did.
If you’re reading this and nodding, you’re not crazy. You’re not weak. Your nervous system is reacting the way it was wired to react under captivity, threat, and psychological harm. This isn’t a mindset issue. It’s trauma. This isn’t heartbreak. It’s attempted murder.
And you survived it.
That survival alone makes you powerful. But surviving in silence isn’t enough anymore. We need the world to understand that narcissistic abuse is not a personal issue. It’s a public health crisis. It’s a legal blind spot. It’s psychological homicide. And it’s time we start treating it that way.
I will not shut up. I will not dilute it. And I will not pretend this is behind me when it still lives inside every muscle, every flashback, every moment I wake up wondering if I’m safe yet.
Because I’m not. Not yet.
But I’m still here. And so are you.
And that means we speak. Loudly. Clearly. And without apology.