The Invisible Triangle

I processed what happened to me by becoming an expert researcher on topics I never wanted to know so much about.

I studied the psychology of harm until I could name it in my sleep.

While I’m not a psychologist—and don’t have the credentials to diagnose anyone—I’ve learned a great deal about covert narcissism and manipulation, and I recognize the striking similarities between my experience and what the research describes.

I’ve already written about the manipulation tactic called DARVO—how abusers flip the narrative to make themselves the victim.

Today, I need to write about triangulation.

The Invisible Triangle

I used to think triangulation was something that happened in geometry, not in relationships.

But I came to learn it in the most personal way possible—by living it.

At first, what I experienced felt like connection: deep, raw, and real.

He told me his previous relationship had ended amicably, that there was mutual respect and no resentment.

But over time, the story changed.

He began describing her as distant, cold, unkind. Said he felt unseen and unloved—just there to paint the house and fix the cars.

Like he was hard to love and didn’t know why.

I listened with empathy. I believed him.

I thought I was helping him heal.

But I was stepping into a story that had already been written—

a story designed to keep me close, but never secure.

As the relationship deepened, I started noticing small inconsistencies.

Stories that shifted. Timelines that didn’t quite add up.

Mentions of other women, sprinkled into conversations in ways that made me question myself more than him. And made me think "Boy, she must be crazy."

There were tokens of them too—gifts, photos, even old love letters.

They appeared innocent at first, like relics from a life before me. But over time, I began to see them for what they were: subtle reminders that I was not the only one.

Finding those items was confusing for me.

Back then, I told myself he was just careless in that “guy” sort of way—

forgetful, unintentional, unaware.

But that’s not who he is.

It wasn’t thoughtlessness.

It was calculated. It was control.

This was triangulation in action: a manipulation tactic that keeps control by creating tension or competition between others.

Instead of addressing issues directly, they bring in a third point of reference—another person’s story, opinion, or presence—to keep you off balance and fighting for connection.

It often looks and feels like vulnerability.

They tell you how misunderstood they’ve been, how others never truly saw them, how they finally feel safe with you. Or, they are finally happy.

It’s intoxicating—especially if you’re empathetic. You want to believe you’re the difference.

And it feels good to be chosen.

And I tried to be.

I worked hard to prove I wasn’t like “her” or “her” or "her."

But underneath that connection is a quiet comparison—one you never consented to.

You start to feel like you’re in an unspoken competition for emotional space.

Their affection becomes inconsistent, measured.

You’re either the “easy one” or the “needy one,” depending on what narrative they need that day.

It took me a long time to understand how powerfully this dynamic works.

People who use manipulation patterns like these aren’t always overtly cruel. They can be charming, self-deprecating, even gentle.

They use empathy as a tool—both yours and theirs.

They position themselves as the victim, the one who’s been wronged, the one who just wants peace.

And in that setup, you become the rescuer.

You start absorbing their pain, defending their reputation, and trying to prove through love what someone else supposedly failed to give.

It’s an exhausting loop of validation-seeking, self-doubt, and emotional confusion—one that always circles back to them as the center.

For a long time, I didn’t see it as manipulation.

I saw it as complexity, depth, humanity.

I saw someone who was hurt and trying.

But triangulation isn’t about connection—it’s about control.

It keeps you chasing understanding from the person who’s distorting the truth.

Over time, I felt myself shrinking.

I started to compare, to question, to compete in ways I didn’t even recognize at first.

That’s the slow erosion of triangulation—it rewires how you relate to yourself.

It turns empathy into self-abandonment.

Clarity into confusion.

When the Pattern Comes Into Focus

The first step toward breaking free wasn’t confrontation—it was recognition.

Once I had language for what was happening, the fog began to lift.

I could see how often I’d been pulled into competition I never agreed to.

I could trace the moments I was trained to doubt myself, to chase clarity, to earn love that was never meant to be given freely.

That awareness didn’t make the pain disappear, but it gave me a map.

And once you see the triangle for what it is, you can’t unsee it.

You stop fighting for a version of the story that was never yours to fix.

You start standing in the truth of what really happened—and that’s where freedom begins.

What I Know Now

Looking back, I can see how the narrative was never just about me and him—it was about the web he created between us all.

The “cold and distant” woman he described wasn’t my rival. She was another person caught in the same distortion.

And sometimes, even after you step out of the triangle, the pattern keeps spinning.

Stories continue to shift. Perceptions get managed.

You might be recast as the unstable one, the obsessed one, the one who couldn’t let go—because the manipulator’s greatest fear is losing control of the story.

It’s unsettling not to know what’s happening now.

I’m not watching it from the outside—I have no idea what the story is or how it’s being told.

That’s part of what triangulation does—it feeds on perception, and it doesn’t always stop when you leave.

When I stopped seeing anyone as the enemy, the triangle collapsed.

And with it, so did his power over me.

People who use manipulation patterns like this don’t just distort relationships—they distort reality.

But once you reclaim your own perception, everything changes.

You stop being a character in their story. You start becoming the author of your own clarity.

And you get to choose the standards and boundaries you have around the people you let in.