Chapter 2: The Invisible Cage
How Narcissists Isolate Their Victims
Command Palette
Search for a command to run...
Comments
Join the discussionNo comments yet. Be the first to comment.
Search for a command to run...
How Narcissists Isolate Their Victims
No comments yet. Be the first to comment.
People often ask why someone doesn't just leave an abusive relationship. I understand that confusion—I used to wonder the same thing before I lived it. But here's what most people don't understand: isolation doesn't happen overnight. There's no dramatic moment where someone locks you in a room and throws away the key.
It's far more insidious than that.
After the first Silent Treatment Incident, the warning signs began to escalate. But understanding what was happening and being able to do anything about it were two entirely different things. Because by then, I was already trapped in a cage I'd helped build myself, constructed from my own relationships, my own insecurities, my own choices made under his careful manipulation.
Looking back now, I can see how methodically he isolated me. How the erosion of my support system was so gradual that I didn't notice the walls closing in until it was too late. How the people who could have helped me escape—the friends who cared about me- felt impossibly far away. Or worse: I'd burned those bridges myself, manipulated into destroying my own lifelines.
Because that's what isolation in a narcissistic relationship really is. It's not about love or protection, though that's how they frame it. It's about control. The fewer connections you have to the outside world, the more dependent you become on them. The more dependent you are, the harder it becomes to leave. The harder it is to leave, the more power they have over you.
This is the story of how that happened to me.
My best friend—I'll call her by her initials, M T—had been in my life since high school back home. We'd gone to high school together, shared the adventure of moving to the UK as au pairs, and she'd even helped me find a position in London so we could be near each other. She was the friend after whose birthday party I'd met the man who would become my tormentor. If anyone should have been safe from his manipulation, it should have been her.
But she was also his first target.
I was never particularly sociable. Small talk felt excruciating to me, like trying to speak a language everyone else understood fluently, whilst I stumbled over every word. I felt pressure to be interesting, to be funny, to have something worthwhile to contribute. This anxiety meant my circle of friends was tiny. M T was one of only three people I considered a friend.
And he knew exactly how to exploit that scarcity.
He made his feelings about M T clear not long after I moved in with him. Before that, during the love bombing phase when he was still carefully crafting his perfect-partner persona, he'd been cautiously neutral. But once I'd relocated my entire life to be with him, once I was living in his space with nowhere else to go, the mask began to slip.
The first time he openly criticised her was about two months after I'd moved in. But that attempt backfired spectacularly.
"I don't think M T is a good influence on you," he said casually one evening, testing the waters.
I looked at him, genuinely confused. "What are you talking about? She's been my best friend for years."
"She's always going to parties, meeting men. That's not appropriate for someone your age."
Something in his tone—the presumption that he could judge my oldest friend, the attempt to control who I spent time with—triggered a rare moment of clarity and defiance.
"M T has been my best friend since we were teenagers," I said firmly. "If I ever had to choose between her and any boyfriend, I would choose her. Every single time."
He didn't bring her up again. Not directly. Not then.
What I didn't understand was that he'd simply learned to be more strategic.
When I met him, he'd presented himself as modern, westernised, open-minded. It was part of his appeal—a man who'd travelled, who understood different cultures, who wouldn't expect me to conform to rigid traditional roles. But that had been a performance, carefully calibrated to what he knew I wanted.
The reality, which emerged slowly after I'd committed to him, was starkly different. His actual belief system was deeply traditional: women belonged at home, cooking and cleaning. Women shouldn't socialise freely. Women certainly shouldn't have friends who enjoyed their independence.
M T, who was young, single, and unabashedly enjoying life in London, represented everything he disapproved of. Not because she was doing anything wrong, but because she was living freely—and her freedom was a threat to his control over me.
He waited until after we married to resume his campaign against M T. But this time, he was far more sophisticated. He'd learnt from that first failed attempt. He wouldn't criticise her directly—that had made me defensive. Instead, he would make me doubt the friendship itself.
By this point, I'd also become friends with another girl—I'll call her by her initials too, M V. She was the one who'd inadvertently introduced us after M T's party that fateful evening. The three of us would occasionally meet up, though never all together and never regularly. Our schedules and life circumstances meant we usually saw each other one-on-one, in quiet evenings that felt increasingly precious as they became rarer.
This was when he saw his opportunity.
It started so subtly I barely noticed at first. Just casual observations, almost throwaway comments. But they came with relentless consistency.
"M T meets up with M V much more often than she meets up with you, doesn't she?"
"They met together at M V's place. Her husband told me. They didn't mention that to you, did they?"
"M V is so much more talkative than you. Maybe M T finds her more interesting."
"I bet they talk about you when you're not there. People do that, you know."
"Don't you think it's strange she never makes time for you anymore? She doesn't seem to value your friendship much."
Slowly, these comments formed a steady drip of poison directly onto my deepest insecurity: that I wasn't interesting enough, wasn't good enough, wasn't worthy of genuine friendship.
I already struggled with social interactions. I already felt inadequate in conversations. I already worried that people found me boring. He knew all of this because I'd told him—because I'd been open and vulnerable with my partner, believing that's what you did in a healthy relationship.
He took that vulnerability and weaponised it.
One evening, after months of this commentary, something inside me snapped. The anxiety, the doubt, the carefully cultivated insecurity all came to a head. I felt a desperate need to confront the situation, to take back some control, to end the uncertainty that had been building.
I picked up the phone and called M T.
"You know what?" My voice was tight with emotion I didn't fully understand. "If you can't be bothered to ever meet up with me, I don't want to be your friend anymore."
I hung up before she could respond.
The silence that followed was deafening. And in that silence, reality crashed over me like ice water. What had I just done? M T had been my friend for years. She'd helped me find a position in London. She'd been there through so much. And our schedules genuinely made it hard to meet up regularly—that was true for all of us.
There was no evidence she preferred M V. No evidence she talked badly about me. No evidence she didn't value our friendship. There was just his voice in my head, repeated so many times I'd started to believe it was my own thought.
But it was too late. The cat was out of the bag. And I was too embarrassed, too ashamed of my own irrationality, too confused by what had just happened to face the consequences.
I didn't call her back to apologise. Not then.
Years later, when I'd gained distance and perspective, I did try to apologise. But by then, our lives had taken completely different paths. M T had returned home, built a life with a boyfriend she'd met in London, moved on to a future I wasn't part of.
She never responded to my message.
I don't blame her. I burned that bridge. I was the one who picked up the phone. I was the one who said those words. The manipulation doesn't absolve me of responsibility for my actions—it just explains how I got to that point of irrationality.
Narcissists are extraordinarily skilled at exploiting weaknesses and insecurities, but in the end, it was still my hand that struck the match. That knowledge—that I'd participated in my own isolation, that I'd destroyed something valuable with my own actions—was almost harder to bear than anything he'd done directly.
When he saw that his strategy had worked, any remaining restraint evaporated. If I could be manipulated into ending my oldest friendship, what else could he make me do? What other connections could he sever?
I was doomed, though I didn't fully realise it yet.
Another friend—I'll use her initials, M B—once invited me on a girls' trip. Just a few days abroad with some of her friends—nothing elaborate or expensive, just a chance to have fun and spend time together.
When I told him about the invitation, his entire face contorted. The change was so dramatic, so visceral, that I actually took a step backwards. His expression wasn't just anger—it was outrage mixed with something that looked almost like betrayal.
"Are you serious?" His voice was dangerously quiet. "She's trying to convince you to go away for days? Without me?"
"It's just a girls' trip. She invited—"
"Doesn't she know you're married?" He was practically shouting now. "What kind of woman tries to take someone's wife away on a trip? What kind of friend disrespects your marriage like that? This is completely inappropriate."
The way he said "inappropriate" made it sound like M B had suggested something scandalous, something shameful. As though a few days away with female friends was somehow a betrayal of our marriage vows.
"I just thought it might be nice—"
"Nice?" He looked at me as if I'd lost my mind. "You're married. Married women don't go away on trips without their husbands. How would that look?"
The bitter irony wasn't lost on me, even then. He had no problem going on trips and short breaks with his friends, going deep-sea fishing for a couple of days, or travelling to watch a football match in another country. Those were fine. Those were normal. Those were what men did.
But when I wanted to spend a few days with female friends? That was inappropriate. Disrespectful. Wrong.
I didn't go on the trip. Of course I didn't. The fight wasn't worth it. His anger was too frightening.
I continued seeing M B occasionally, but the frequency dwindled. Which was, of course, exactly what he wanted.
If his campaign to isolate me from friends was methodical and strategic, his attempt to separate me from my family was even more calculated. Because he understood that family was my deepest connection, my strongest lifeline—and if he could sever that, I would have no one left but him.
I'm a middle child, and like many middle children, I'd grown up feeling somewhat overlooked. My older brother was the brilliant one—top of his class, academically gifted, the son who made our parents proud. My younger brother, born ten years after me and after the Revolution that transformed our country, was the baby—precious, protected, adored.
And I was... in between. Not exceptional enough to command attention like my older brother, not young enough to be cherished like the baby. Just there. Or at least, that's how it felt.
I was naive enough to tell him about these feelings. Why wouldn't I? We were partners. We were supposed to be open with each other, to share our vulnerabilities, to support each other through our insecurities.
Or at least, that's what I thought partnerships were supposed to be.
In reality, I was giving him ammunition. I was handing over the blueprint to my emotional weak spots, highlighting exactly where to apply pressure.
He'd seen his strategy work beautifully with M T—turning my insecurities against me, making me doubt relationships I'd once valued. So he tried the same approach with my family.
"Your parents never really cared about you like they care about your brothers," he'd say, his voice full of manufactured sympathy.
"They don't call you as often as they call them, have you noticed?"
"I care about you more than they ever have. I see you. I value you."
"My parents care about you more than your own family ever did."
This was where his manipulation finally hit a wall.
Perhaps the bond with my family was simply too strong. Perhaps the distance—we were in different countries—actually worked in my favour by giving me space to think clearly between visits.
Yes, I had occasional arguments with my mum. What adult child doesn't? But we always sorted out our differences. We always came back to each other. And I continued staying in touch, continued visiting every year or so, continued maintaining that connection despite his best efforts.
I'd met his family for the first time when we got married in his country. They'd seemed lovely—especially his mother, who, despite the language barrier, had done her best to make me feel welcome and comfortable. But I saw them once every two to three years, and the language barrier meant I never really got to know them well.
They couldn't replace my family. They couldn't become my family. And somewhere deep down, some part of me that hadn't been completely broken yet knew that.
I shudder to think what would have happened if he'd succeeded in separating me from my family the way he'd succeeded with my friends. If that final lifeline had been severed, if I'd been truly alone with no support system whatsoever, would I have ever found the strength to leave?
Or would I still be there, trapped in that relationship, isolated and dependent, with nowhere to turn and no one to help me escape?
By the end of this phase, my social world had shrunk to almost nothing. M T, my oldest and closest friend—gone, destroyed by my own hand under his manipulation. M B—still technically in my life but distant, the friendship dying from lack of oxygen. M V was the only friend who remained, but only because by then she'd married his friend, the man she'd gone to see that fateful night when I met my tormentor. Her husband was just as controlling as mine, which meant my husband didn't see her as any danger. She was safely trapped in her own cage, which somehow made our friendship acceptable to him.
I stopped working when we got married. He didn't want me to work. His jealousy and need for control meant that having a job, being around other people, and having independence were simply not acceptable.
I'd worked at a small café inside a shopping centre shortly before we married. His jealousy during that time had been suffocating. He would appear near my workplace without warning, watching. On one occasion, as I left work, I spotted him crouched behind a recently planted tree outside the shopping centre. He was completely visible on both sides, like a child playing hide-and-seek who believes covering their eyes makes them invisible. When he saw that his camouflage didn't work, he emerged from behind the tree, grinning sheepishly, claiming that he wanted to surprise me. I didn't see it then—or rather, I didn't let myself see it. He was just being protective, I told myself. He just cared so much. So I'd stopped working. Stopped putting myself in situations that triggered his jealousy. Stopped having any independence. And now, with no job and no money of my own, I was completely dependent on him—exactly as he'd planned.
My days had become a monotonous cycle. I spent my time cooking, cleaning, and doing paperwork for him—bookkeeping, writing invoices, and other administrative tasks for his self-employed work doing tiling and similar jobs. My evenings were spent with him watching TV. My weekends were spent doing more cooking and cleaning, running errands. Occasionally, he would take me out if he was in a good mood and I didn’t offend him by doing or saying something he didn’t like.
I had no independent social life. No friends dropping by. No spontaneous plans. No support system I could turn to when things got bad.
Which meant when things got worse—and they were about to get so much worse—I would have nowhere to run and no one to run to.
The cage was complete. I just didn't realise I was locked inside it yet.
National Domestic Abuse Helpline (UK): 0808 2000 247
https://www.nationaldahelpline.org.uk/
Refuge (UK): Support for women and children
National Domestic Violence Hotline (US): 1-800-799-7233
Women's Aid (UK): Resources and support
Chapter 3: The Abuse Escalates
Subscribe to be notified when the next chapter is published.
