My toxic trait is thinking I’m too self-aware to be manipulated

She knew better. She did it anyway.

You know what’s deeply unsettling but hilarious in the most unhinged way?

Knowing better doesn’t always mean acting better. And it sure as fuckedydoodahdey doesn’t stop you from craving the wrong people at all of the wrong times.

Once upon a hazy, rum-drenched, weed-infused time, I had a friend. A friend who also appreciated the embers of her hair riding the wind after being fried off by our mates Madam alcohol and Sir weed.

We’ll call this friend Trisha.

I met Trisha through a colleague and we immediately hit it off. We both loved dogs, Freddie Mercury and despised the unchecked arrogance of finance bros. Perfect pair.

She felt like a ‘good friend’.

Warm, compassionate, inside jokes. I felt like I found a friend who really got me. No pleasantries and performance needed. Just unfiltered friendship.

So when she opened up about her trauma and spirals and endless emotional monologues, I thought: This is what close friends do. You trust each other with the messy stuff.

That’s friendship.

The problem is Trisha opened up…and never stopped.

An imbalance formed and it meant that there was rarely ever space for my life, my problems, my pain. Our conversations became limited to her jobs, loss of jobs, breakups, one night stands, spirals, her ‘shit’ friends and ‘toxic’ family.

This girl didn’t just chew off my ear. She gnawed through to the opposite eardrum and then spat the bones back into my lap. But I always listened and gave her all the compassion I could muster. That’s what a good friend does in someone’s time of need. Even if that time was all of the time.

But like I said, an imbalance formed and I couldn’t help but notice the heaviness in my shoulders whenever we spoke.

I noticed how we only ever met at her flat or places near it — North London. I lived in East. A travel odyssey. The idea of a halfway point? Fantasy. I was expected to travel. To accommodate. To understand.

I noticed how everytime I reached out needing support, she suddenly ‘wasn’t in the right place emotionally’ - like caring for me was too much. Like I was too much.

But I kept giving. Because I thought I didn’t need a safe space. I was the stable one. The emotionally literate one. I thought my self-awareness made me untouchable. That my insight was armour.

In reality, it was just a very articulate coping mechanism that helped my ego survive being sidelined.

What I really wanted was a friend.

And instead of admitting that, I shrunk myself down so she could loom larger. I built a dynamic where this wasn't just tolerated — it was expected. Set in stone. Carved into the fucking tablets.

Then my dog died. Abruptly. The absolute love of my life. And she still wasn’t there.

I remember messaging her something along the lines of,

“It's actually mad that you’re not here for me right now. But I should have expected it.”

How did our Trisha reply?
She literally told me to ‘fuck off’.

The wildest part is her reaction didn’t surprise me. Her downright cruel response wasn’t a shock to my system. No pain. No heartbreak or even rage.

I was like yup that tracks. Of course it did, it was Trisha.

And here’s the thing: she wasn’t my first Trisha. And unfortunately, she wasn’t my last either.

So, as I’ve said around 101 times before, I have a tendency to attract people you might label as narcissists. Or maybe it's more accurate to say I am attracted to such people.

You know the type. The kind that Mel Brooks, Paul Brunson, and the entire carousel-wielding, bubble fonted, self-help industrial complex loves to unpack.

The type of fantastic human beings, absolute treats of people, who are made up of the following traits:

• chronic need for admiration

• inability to take accountability

• casual gaslighting

• quiet resentment of the confidence of others

• mirroring that feels like intimacy until you realise they’re just mimicking your humanity back at you because they don’t actually feel empathy :)

Etc. etc. etc.

All of it finely engineered to disarm you until you become a wishy-washy, bendy Wendy with no real shape of your own. Like those tragic inflatables outside car dealerships. Just flailing. For attention. For approval. For fuck-all.

It’s shit.

Especially when you’ve got enough self-awareness to apply critical thinking and not get wrapped up in your feels. Especially when it comes to people.

You’ve had therapy. You listen to the podcasts. You save the self-help carousels (not that you ever go back to look at them). You understand boundaries. You even set boundaries—in the areas you think you need them.

So how the fuck do I still end up in the hands of someone who moulds me like putty?

Like putty being shaped into a mug.
Not the kind Demi Lovato’s into.
The other kind.
The idiot kind.

🙂

Am I just an egotistical maniac for thinking I’m so observant, so healed, so emotionally literate that I could never be sucked into the manipulation vortex?

Like—am I really that confident in my ability to read someone within five minutes of meeting them, to the point where I genuinely believe I can emotionally sidestep anyone trying to pull me into their chaos?

To be fair... I am pretty good at spotting bullshit (LOL am i just providing proof for my question re being egotistical hahahahahahaa).

A lot of people give me the ick. A lot of people are fucking shite in paper bags set on fire. Or just deeply incompatible with what I value in another human.

But I’m not immune.

There’s always one little manipulative bitch who slips under the radar.

The one who doesn’t trigger alarms because they don’t feel like danger. They resemble something akin to home. Like something my body already knows. And so I mistake familiar for safe.

And just like that, the gates open. The saviour complex kicks in.

Suddenly, I’m giving them everything. Time. Grace. Emotional labour. I’m peeling off layers of myself like fruit skin, handing them blood-warm chunks of me, still twitching with nerve endings.

You know I once had a friend in my early twenties who I paid for every time we went out? And if I didn’t, they’d go cold. Withdraw their attention like I’d committed treason.

I was a desperate, people-pleasing pussy back then.

Urgh.

But back to familiarity = safe. That’s the formula for manipulation. You’re familiar. We vibe. My body relaxes. It’s like slipping on a pair of slippers that have already moulded to your feet.

But imagine if those slippers had spikes inside. And every day you walked on them, your feet adapted. You adjusted to the pain. Because the pain was predictable. And the unknown? That was the real threat.

So off I go. On my merry little way. Walking on spikes, smiling, thinking this connection is healthy — when it belongs in a fucking cesspool.

So yeah. My toxic trait?

Thinking I’m too self-aware to be manipulated.

But I guess you can know you’re walking into the fire and still tell yourself it’s just a really warm hug.

If this piece resonated, provided entertainment or added some value to your life, a paid subscription would be the best way to show your support. If this type of commitment is too full on, you can always send me a one-time donation via my buy-me-a-coffee page