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7 Innocent-sounding Questions Narcissists Use To Make You Doubt Yourself

The car was parked in the hospital car park. Thursday afternoon. I was holding my phone and staring at a text I had already read four times. Marcus wanted to know why I hadn’t told him I was going to the appointment.

I typed out a reason. Then I deleted it. Then I typed a better one. Then I deleted that too. I sat there for eleven minutes constructing a defense for a trip to a doctor’s office.

I didn’t know then what I know now. I thought he was asking because he cared.

That was the first lie I told myself. It was the lie that made all the others possible.

He wasn’t asking because he cared. He was asking because he needed to know where the exits were. Every question he asked was a door he was checking. Every answer I gave was a key I was handing him.

Here are the seven questions. I have heard them in my own memory so many times that I can still hear the specific tone of his voice when he asked them. That tone is the thing I want you to recognize.

“Can I Ask You a Question?”

This is the only honest question he ever asked.

He was asking permission. He was asking if he could put me on trial. He was asking if I would consent to the cross-examination.

I said yes every time. I thought saying yes was what a good partner did. I thought saying yes was what an open and trusting woman did. I thought he was trying to connect.

He was trying to connect. To the version of me that would agree to be questioned. To the version of me that would sit still and explain myself. That version of me was the one he wanted.

The moment I said yes, I gave him the right to treat me like a witness. I gave him the right to ask the next question. I gave him the right to ask the next one after that.

The permission was the trap. The question that followed was just the mechanism.

The “Innocent” Question Is a Liability Agreement

When he asked “who were you with?” he was asking me to agree to be the defendant. When he asked “where were you?” he was asking me to agree that my location was his business. When he asked “why didn’t you tell me?” he was asking me to agree that I owed him a report.

I signed that agreement every single time. I didn’t know I was signing it. I thought I was just talking to my boyfriend.

But the signature was the answer. The agreement was the answer. The content of my answer was irrelevant.

He wasn’t gathering information. He was gathering compliance. Every question was a small contract. Every answer was a small surrender.

And the worst part? I didn’t even recognize it as surrender. I recognized it as intimacy.

“Do You Remember When You…”

This one always arrived with a soft voice.

“Do you remember when you said you would call and you didn’t?”

“Do you remember when you promised you would be home by seven?”

“Do you remember when we talked about this and you said you understood?”

The question was a prompt. The question was an invitation to remember. The question was a knife wrapped in a memory.

He wasn’t asking me to remember. He was asking me to confess. The “do you remember” was the setup. The “when you” was the indictment.

I spent hours of my life defending myself against crimes I didn’t know I had committed. I apologized for things I couldn’t remember doing. I apologized for things I had done. I apologized for things I had done in a way that he had decided was wrong.

The memory he was asking me to recall was a memory he had edited. The version of events he was asking me to confirm was a version he had constructed. I was remembering his story. I was confirming his story.

The knife was the memory. The handle was the question. I took the handle every time.

“Why Do You Always…”

This one arrived with a sigh.

“Why do you always make things difficult?”

“Why do you always get defensive?”

“Why do you always assume the worst?”

The “always” was the pattern. The “always” was the proof. The “always” was the thing he had invented in real time.

He didn’t need evidence for the pattern. The question was the evidence. By asking “why do you always,” he had already established that I did always. By asking the question, he had already won the argument.

I spent years arguing against patterns he made up. I spent years trying to prove I didn’t always do the thing he said I always did. I spent years trying to explain myself to a man who had already decided who I was.

The “always” was the cage. The question was the lock. I kept trying to explain my way out of a room he had built around me.

“What Are You Thinking?”

This one sounded like intimacy. This one sounded like the question a good partner asks.

He asked it at the exact moment I was thinking something he wouldn’t like. He asked it at the exact moment I was noticing something. He asked it at the exact moment I was deciding whether to tell him the truth.

“What are you thinking?”

If I said nothing, I was lying. If I said something he didn’t like, I was punished. If I said something he did like, I was performing. There was no answer that worked. There was only the performance of an answer.

The question was surveillance. The question was asking me to hand over my inner life for inspection. The question was asking me to make my private thoughts public property.

I learned to think in a way that was safe to report. I learned to have feelings that were safe to describe. I learned to perform my inner life for an audience of one.

The performance was exhausting. The performance was the relationship.

The “Are You Sure?” Trap

This one always arrived after I had given my answer.

I said I was at the coffee shop. He asked “are you sure?” I said I was at my sister’s. He asked “are you sure?” I said I had told him already. He asked “are you sure?”

The question was a test. The question was a trap. The question was asking me to doubt the answer I had just given.

I was sure. I was absolutely sure. But the question made me hesitate. The question made me wonder if I had missed something. The question made me wonder if I was remembering it wrong.

He wasn’t asking for clarity. He was asking for doubt. He was asking me to say the words “I’m not sure.” He was asking me to hand over the right to define reality.

The moment I said “I’m not sure,” he had won the interaction. The moment I said “I’m not sure,” he had become the authority. The moment I said “I’m not sure,” my memory was his to edit.

I said those words more times than I can count. I said them because I was tired. I said them because I wanted the conversation to end. I said them because I had learned that my certainty was the thing he wanted to take.

The Question Isn’t for You. It’s for the Record.

He was building a case. Every question was a deposition. Every answer was a statement. Every hesitation was a confession.

He asked “who were you with?” and recorded my answer. He asked “where were you?” and recorded my answer. He asked “why didn’t you tell me?” and recorded my answer.

The record was the weapon. The record was the thing he would use later. The record was the thing he would bring up in the next argument, the next month, the next year.

“You said you were at the coffee shop. But you said you were at your sister’s. Which is it?”

“You said you told me. But you didn’t tell me. You never tell me.”

The record was the thing he had built while I was busy answering questions. The record was the thing he had built while I was busy being honest. The record was the thing he had built while I was busy trying to be a good partner.

He was never asking questions to understand me. He was asking questions to build a file.

The “It’s Just a Question” Defense

This one arrived when I pushed back.

“Can I ask you a question?” I said yes. I answered. I answered honestly. I answered fully. Then I said “that felt like an interrogation.” Then I said “that felt like a trap.”

“It’s just a question,” he said. “I’m just asking.”

The defense was the reversal. The defense was the thing that made me the aggressor. The defense was the thing that made me the one who was overreacting.

The question was the trap. The question was the setup. The question was the thing he had designed to make me defend myself.

My reaction to the trap was the crime. My reaction to the trap was the thing he could point to. My reaction to the trap was the thing he could use.

I was the one who was defensive. I was the one who was difficult. I was the one who was making things complicated.

The “it’s just a question” was the final move. The “it’s just a question” was the thing that made the trap invisible. The “it’s just a question” was the thing that made me the problem.

The Only Move He Never Prepared For

I spent years answering questions. I spent years explaining myself. I spent years handing over my memory, my location, my inner life, my certainty.

I did all of that because I thought the questions were about me. I thought the questions were about my behavior. I thought the questions were about my honesty.

The questions were about him. The questions were about his need to be the authority. The questions were about his need to make me doubt the thing I knew.

The only move he never prepared for was silence.

I sat in my sister’s apartment one Tuesday and he asked “what are you thinking?” and I said nothing. I didn’t say “nothing.” I didn’t say “I’m fine.” I didn’t say a word.

He asked again. “What are you thinking?” I said nothing. He asked a third time. “What are you thinking?” I said nothing.

The silence was the thing that made the question visible. The silence was the thing that made the trap visible. The silence was the thing that made him visible.

He didn’t know what to do with silence. He had prepared for every answer. He had prepared for defensiveness. He had prepared for an argument. He had prepared for me handing over the keys to my reality.

He had not prepared for me leaving the keys in my pocket.

The silence was the only answer that didn’t sign the agreement. The silence was the only answer that didn’t confirm the record. The silence was the only answer that didn’t hand him the right to define the next question.

I didn’t answer. I just sat there. I just held my ground. I just kept my keys.