After three weeks off work to deal with everything going on, I wasn’t sure I was ready to return. My head was still full — looping over everything that had happened. But that final weekend before I returned, something quietly shifted. There wasn’t a single moment I could pinpoint, no lightbulb epiphany. But I was out with friends, laughing, talking, smiling — and I suddenly thought: this is me. I recognised myself again.

I’ve always struggled in social situations — I’m autistic — but I showed up. I made the effort. I could enjoy things once I found my rhythm. And that night, it clicked. I’d forgotten what it felt like to just be… comfortable. Not anxious, not shut down, not performing. Just me.

My daughter came too. On the way home, she said, “I really enjoyed that. It was nice seeing you comfortable and interacting with people — it made me feel like I could do the same.” That hit me. I hadn’t realised how withdrawn I’d become, how much of myself I’d given up. I changed to survive in a relationship with someone who didn’t value who I really was. I didn’t just lose her — I lost me.

We didn’t drift apart because of arguments or shouting. We drifted because I’d already given up — slowly, silently. I stopped trying because no matter what I did, it wasn’t enough. If I got upset, I was “too sensitive.” If I raised my voice, it was “abuse.” If I said nothing — because I was trying to stay calm — that was abuse too. Nothing I did was ever right.

She would bait me during arguments, talking over me, criticising, pushing and poking — physically and emotionally — until I cracked. I’d be left trying to piece together what we were even arguing about. All that stuck was the exhaustion and confusion.

One moment really captures it. After we broke up, I was staying in the caravan outside. She locked the house and blocked my number, so when I needed the bathroom, I had to knock — for 10 minutes. Nothing. I used a spare back door key to get in. She kicked off, an argument happened, I raised my voice — nothing wild, just frustration — and she recorded it. Sent it to people, thinking it would “prove” something. It didn’t. Even they could see it for what it was. She called the police. They told her she had to let me in… and they left. It was her “smoking gun” — and it blew up in her face.

And still, after all that, I would have gone back. That’s the part I can hardly believe now. But I know why: I just wanted the pain to stop. I wanted it all to make sense.

But it never would. Because she knew what she was doing. She used my autism against me — knowing I struggle to process sarcasm or emotional cues — and then blamed me for reacting “wrong.” She knew confrontation overwhelmed me, that I’d shut down or lash out just trying to stay afloat, and she weaponised that too.

She’d accuse me of giving her the silent treatment, of withholding love — when in reality, I was just trying to stay grounded. I told her how I worked. She didn’t care. She didn’t stop. That’s not ignorance — it’s abuse.

And maybe the clearest example of who she really is came after it all ended. She texted me: “Apart from ‘cheating’ on you, what have I actually done?” That was the moment I really saw her. Not confused. Not sorry. Just desperate to rewrite history — to cast me as the villain.

But I see it all clearly now. She couldn’t stand that I’d stopped reacting. That I’d shut down. That I was no longer under her control. I’d even told her I was close to ending things if the behaviour didn’t stop — so she beat me to it, but only once her next victim was lined up.

Looking back, that was probably the kindest thing she ever did for me. Because now… I’m free.