GASLIGHTED BY LOVE is a raw, intimate memoir of psychological abuse and trauma bonding. An unflinching look at how emotional manipulation takes hold, and how even intelligent, self-aware women can become trapped in cycles they donât understand.
How charm is used as an entry point to control
The subtle mechanics of gaslighting and memory distortion
How sex is used to manipulate through psychological means
Why trauma bonds feel like love when they are not
How self trust erodes, almost invisibly
What it takes to wake up to a reality you no longer recognize
This is a story of understanding, awakening, freedom and transformation.
A story intended to inform
GASLIGHTED BY LOVE is a raw, intimate memoir of psychological abuse and trauma bonding. An unflinching look at how emotional manipulation takes hold, and how even intelligent, self-aware women can become trapped in cycles they donât understand.
How charm is used as an entry point to control
The subtle mechanics of gaslighting and memory distortion
How sex is used to manipulate through psychological means
Why trauma bonds feel like love when they are not
How self trust erodes, almost invisibly
What it takes to wake up to a reality you no longer recognize
This is a story of understanding, awakening, freedom and transformation.
A story intended to inform
I pressed my lips against Tom's one last time as I said good-bye. The kiss that was an ending. My inner voice whispered âIf you don't leave, you'll die and for the first time in thirty-five years, I knew I had to listen.
I didn't look back when I climbed into the car. The road to the ferry blurred through the tears I refused to let fall. Iâd told everyone I was going to a pottery workshop on a nearby island. What I didn't sayâwhat I couldn't admit even to myselfâwas that I wasn't coming back.
The ferry groaned and shuddered as it pulled away from the dock, slicing through the gray-green water. I stood on deck, looking at the wake trailing behind, the mainland shrinking into mist. What the hell happened to my life? How did it unravel? The world tilted, unreal, as if I were watching someone else's story unfold. My survival instinct had taken over. Night after night as I tried to sleep, it screamed Just get on the plane. Get out. Everything will be fine. Just go, get out
I was the youngest of three. Grant, my brother, the steady, responsible one, came first. I think he felt the world too deeply and said too little. Then came Deanne, sharp witted, strong, the family scapegoat. Finally, me, the cheerful one, the peacemaker who smiled even when it hurt. Our father, bless him, was a man of laughter and bad puns, a soft light in a house that too often felt dark.
My mother was the storm. A narcissist, though I wouldn't know that word until decades later, when I learned that we all have narcissistic traits to some degree but our empathy for others keeps those traits in check. The three Eâs are the main factors that differentiate between narcissistic traits and ânarcissismââlack of empathy, exploitative behaviour and envious impulses.
But she was just Mom, unpredictable in ways I could never see coming and cruel in ways that didn't leave bruises. She took good care of me, bathed me, fed me, comforted me, organized birthday parties and disastrous family camping trips that became a source of great hilarity over the years. I appreciated her for taking care of me, for being a
âgood mom.â
I can still see her profile from the back. She was seething, silent in a way that made everyone else small. We were driving back from yet another disastrous family reunion, and I was staring at her, for the first time thinking that she was the problem. It wasn't Dad's family, or bad luck, or misunderstandings. It was her. Every reunion ended in chaos because she couldn't stand my father having fun unless she was at the center of it. Especially when it came to my dad's brothers and sisters-in-law. They were a fun bunch spread across Canada, and they liked to get together. Over the years, theyâd gathered in smaller groups at various times and places and those usually went better. That day, it was clear to me that if my mom wasnât the focus of my dad's attention, it triggered her, and she created an issue to get the focus back. One of the three traits, envy.
When I was twelve, I decided I wouldnât become my mother and began an invisible ledger of her cruelties, a list of things I would never do. Later, my brother and I debated which of us was the Golden Child. I said he was. He said I was. Either way, neither of us was the target. My sister, the Scapegoat, was. The roles shifted like sand beneath our feet, but the hierarchy never changed.
One Christmas, Deanne begged for months for a "Beauty Barbie," a big plastic head you could use to practice hairdressing. It was the only gift she wanted. On Christmas morning, she sat beside me as I tore open my present. There it was: the Beauty Barbieâfor me, I felt the air leave the room. My sister's eyes filled with tears, and I wanted to vanish. Later, when she asked to borrow it, I handed it over and never asked for it back. Even as children, we both knew what happened wasnât right. It hadnât been an accident. The gift tags had NOT gotten mixed up. It was purposeful and extremely cruel. Another of the three traits, lack of empathy.
I made a note in my invisible ledger: never play favourites. Never make one child feel unloved. When I had my own children, I counted every gift, every stocking stuffer to be sure Iâd been fair. I refused to pass the wound forward.
When Deanne finished high school, she wanted to go to college, but Mom told her to move out, instead. And she did. She worked her way up from a secretary to a government job, every promotion a small rebellion. I think she needed to proveâto herself and to the worldâthat she was worthy of love, even if Mom never gave it to her.
My mother once said, "She reminds me of Elly," referring to a sister she'd long ago disowned. There were three children in her family, the eldest brother, Bob, the middle sister, Elly, and my mother, the youngest child. Bob told us that, as a kid, heâd gotten his Sunday clothes dirty and his mother went to such a rage that if his father hadnât intervened, she would have seriously injured or even killed him. My mother generally referred to Bob in a positive way, but she only had negative stories about Elly. We children couldnât understand, but over time, we could see the repetition. My mother often associated my older brother Grant with her brother Bob, my sister Deanne with her sister Elly, and she saw herself in me. Even as a child, I knew I wasnât like her and I ignored those comments, but the insinuation weighed heavily.
Clearly, there were mental health issues in the family. We always knew something was âoffâ but couldnât put a name to it. When she was a child, the Nazis occupied the Netherlands, and we heard stories about her family hiding their father in the basement with a breathing hose and eating tulip bulbs to survive. It must have been so horrific for us to understand, but we attributed her outbursts and rage to the damage she suffered in the war and gave these behaviours a pass.
I could never understand why my mother turned on Deanne, bullying her own daughter. When Deanne left the house, my mother went through all her belongings in search of some sort of âevidence.â She had no idea of boundaries, counted the number of sheets of toilet paper Deanne used and read her diary. There was always a problem, always a fight, always rage, always created by her.
After Deanne moved out, my mother did the same to me, although she was older or tamer by then and didn't confront me as much. Maybe she was afraid of losing the last child still at home. I put my diary in a sealed envelope, knowing she wouldnât open it. I heard her complain to my dad about what sheâd found in my room when I was out. He sputtered something like âahhhhâ and âohhh, for heaven's sake,'â but he never stood up to her. Sometimes, when I was over the top with frustration, Iâd take my dad aside and beg him to make it stop. Please, lay down the line, I can't stand this. Heâd reply that anything he did would just make her behaviour worse.
When Deanne and her husband came to stay with us, my mother waited until they left the house, then went through the receipts in the garbage bin and had the audacity to confront their âspending' when they returned. My sisterâs husband was a quiet fellow, but he told her to âmind her own business,â and that sent her reeling, but only temporarily. Boundaries were never respected for long.
Then came Keith, a handsome bluey-green eyed fellow
I met roller skating. He was gliding around the rink in his Boston Bruins jersey, skating backwards and forwards and in circles while somehow maintaining a smile and eye contact. I lost myself in those eyes and that was the beginning of my first love. We started dating and he was kind, respectful, and gentle. I was almost seventeen, and he was twenty-one. My parents were off their rockers with concern. For the first time, my dad was on board, too.
Two months after I met Keith, my family moved to another province where I would live for the foreseeable future. Iâm sure my parents thought theyâd put an end to my romance, but they hadnât. Keith and I wrote love letters and racked up telephone bills. I was always in trouble, but I couldn't help it. I was in love. My mom listened in on my phone calls and read the love letters I received from Keith. Iâd hear the âclickâ of the other phone hanging up, and sheâd storm into my room. âHow could a twenty-four-year old be interested in a now eighteen-year-old?â I canât remember how I reacted, but it wouldnât have mattered. She never respected my privacy.
Keith had dialed back his age a couple years, fearing Iâd reject him if I knew how old he really was. One night on the phone, he confessed. Eighteen and twenty-four sounds so much worse than fifty and fifty-six. It didn't stop us. We carried on with our calls and letters. Anyone in their right mind would know love is love and no one can stop it. I promised myself I wouldnât treat my kids that way.
After I graduated from high school, I got a job back in our hometown where Keith was still living, rented a room in the home of a friendâs parents, booked a one-way ticket, and told my parents about my plan. That night, while I was asleep, my mom came raging into my room. âYou are NOT going!â I woke abruptly, blurred eyed and without a thought replied, âI'm going. The ticket is booked.â I pulled the sheets over my head and tried to go back to sleep.
A few weeks later, my parents drove me to the airport. I was shocked but happy.
At the end of the summer, I returned to my parentsâ house, as Iâd said I would. Keith had broken up with me. I canât remember the words, but I knew we were too young, and he was scared. Really, we both were. We both had to get back to cultivating our careers. I thought we could have continued with our long-distance relationship, but that wasnât in the cards. I scraped up the pieces of my broken heart and carried on with a horrible, hollow feeling in my stomach. I went to college and started working on developing a career.
Then out of the blue, Keith called. He missed me, wanted to be with me. We rekindled our romance and he came out to visit me. After that, we were off and on for about three years. One year, I vacationed in Mexico with friends, and we had an absolute riot. While we were out partying, I chatted with a nice fellow and told him about my issues with Keith. He said I was allowing Keith to string me along. I swallowed my heart, and the next time Keith called I told him to stop calling me. Over the years, he attempted to contact me several times, but I wouldn't have it. It broke my heart to be so stern, but I couldn't deal with the coming and going.
Even when all her children were grown and married, Mom's cruelty didn't fade, but it evolved. At a family barbecue, I caught her walking past my dad and sister, muttering under her breath, "My daddy, my daddy, my daddy," like a jealous child. I spun on my heel and said, "This is my house. Everyone is welcome here. If you can't behave, you'll have to leave." To my shock, she sat quietly in a corner for the rest of the evening, and I realized that boundaries could tame her, if only temporarily. But it hurt that I had to parent my own mother.
Even as adults, she tried to wedge herself between us. She'd call to ask about Deanne, fishing for gossip. "I don't know," I'd say. "Ask her yourself."
One night when I was in my forties, I was scrolling the internet and came across an article I hadnât been looking for on a website called about daughters and narcissistic mothers. My pulse quickened as I read the list: boundary violations, favoritism, emotional manipulation, envy, lies, the need for attention, feeding on your pain. For the first time, there was a name for the chaos.
I sent the link to my brother and sister immediately. "We're not crazy," I wrote. "There's a diagnosis for this." I thought it would feel freeing, but it shattered us all over again. Deanne went back into therapy. Grant, usually so reserved, printed the list, highlighted it, and sent it back with handwritten examples. For once, he didn't need to say much. The list said everything.
Every book I read after that said the same thing: go no contact. My sister did, and I couldn't blame her. But I stayed. I told myself Mom was "good to me." I told myself I could handle her. She was still my mother and I had to do the right thing. I didnât understand that in the first half of life, much of what passes for love, devotion, and empathy is unconsciously driven by projection. Until we become aware of what these projections are we relive or repeat this pattern throughout our lives.[1]
Doing âthe right thingâ would nearly destroy me, not just in my relationship with my mother, but in every corner of my life.
[1] (C. Jung, 1957)
Let me preface this review by saying that Gaslighted by Love is a five stars book pretty much everywhere. GoodReads, Reedsy, Storygraphâanywhere.
With that out of the way, oof. Great book, yes, no questions asked; simple or easy to read? No. A bookâa memoirâabout emotional abuse is not going to be a happy one: it requires a certain headspace, an open mind, and a tissue or two at hand.
Headspace? Absolutely. Gaslighted by Love ends on a positive note, and Iâm not spoiling anything by saying so; itâs right in the opening paragraph, after all. But knowing it and having to wait for it to become a reality are two different things. Hartwellâs pain is raw. It fills every page, every paragraph. Itâs a lot to bearâand a reader has the privilege to walk away. She couldnât.
An open mind? Yes. Thatâs a requirement. If you donât know what emotional abuse is or how hard it is to break free from it, then youâll going to get angry at the protagonist two chapters in. Girl, run, is the standard advice for situations like this, and while itâs correct, one hundred percent and more, it ignores how big and intricate the web an abused person finds themselves in. Upping and leaving right away is not always possible, and that has nothing to do with inner strength or self-respect. An abused person might have been groomed into it; might have history and lack the tools to recognize the patterns. A judgment-free approach is the key to understanding what Hartwell is saying.
Tissues? Yes, again. Dealing with a narcissist is heartbreaking, and Hartwellâs writing style conveys that with ease.
From a technical standpoint, I have no complaints either. The grammar and punctuation are on point. Short chapters, but the construction is solid, and the first pov is perfect for this kind of book.
5 stars on GR.