The Amends I Didn't Want to Hear: Betrayal, Gaslighting, and Recovery

When Your Husband's Amends Breaks You Open—Again

He cleared his throat to begin. I knew what was coming. Step 9. Amends. The part of recovery where you're supposed to make things right with the people you hurt.

I didn't want to hear it. But I also knew I had to.

The Amends I Already Knew Was Coming

"I cheated on you in 2022."

Five words. Five words that confirmed what my body already knew. What my autistic, hypervigilant, trauma-trained nervous system screamed at me back then.

I knew. I knew when it happened. I bet I could tell you the exact date if I thought hard enough. I probably started a fight about it—because my intuition is never wrong. My ND brain picks up patterns, shifts, energy changes that neurotypical people miss.

But he gaslit me. Told me I was paranoid. Told me I was "making things up." Guilted me for doubting his "truth."

And because I'm neurodivergent, because I've been told my whole life that I misread things, that I'm "too sensitive," that my perceptions are wrong—I doubted myself.

I knew. And he made me think I was crazy for knowing.

The Betrayal Wasn't Just the Cheating

Yes, the infidelity hurt. But what shattered me was the gaslighting.

He looked me in the eye—someone who already struggles to trust her own perceptions because of a lifetime of invalidation—and told me my reality wasn't real.

That's the betrayal that breaks neurodivergent, traumatized people.

I don't trust easily. My trauma history taught me that. My neurodivergence makes reading people harder, so when I do trust my gut, it's because my nervous system is screaming danger.

And he used that against me.

This Is Only Amends Number One

Here's the part that makes me want to scream, cry, dissociate, run:

This is one amends. One. Out of what feels like a kagillion.

There are more betrayals. More lies. More moments where he chose addiction, secrecy, a woman, or himself over us. And in recovery, he's supposed to make amends for all of them.

How do I sit through more of this?
How do I hear more confessions of things I already knew but was told didn't happen?
How do I survive the emotional avalanche of each new revelation?

I'm autistic. I'm ADHD. I have CPTSD, DID, and more plus a nervous system that's already running on fumes. My capacity for "one more thing" is nonexistent.

And yet—here we are.

Why I'm Still Here

People ask me: "Why do you stay?"

And honestly? Some days I don't know.

But here's what I do know:

• He's sober now. That doesn't erase the past, but it changes the present.
• He's doing the work. Not just saying sorry—actually showing up, making amends, respecting my boundaries, honoring my timeouts.
• He's not the same person who hurt me. Active addiction made him a liar, a manipulator, a stranger. Sobriety is bringing back the person I fell in love with—but that doesn't erase the damage done by the stranger.
• I'm choosing to stay—for now. Not because I owe him forgiveness. Not because I've "moved on." But because I'm choosing, day by day, to see if healing together is possible.

What Receiving Amends Feels Like for a Traumatized ND Person

Sensory Overload of Emotions

I don't just "feel sad" or "angry." I feel everything, all at once, in my entire body. My chest hurts. My throat is constricted. My feet and thighs are tingling, and my arms are burning. My skin crawls. I feel a strong urge to vomit. I want to cry, scream, shut down, and disappear simultaneously.

Hypervigilance Goes Into Overdrive

Every word he says, I'm scanning for lies. Every pause, every shift in tone—my brain is analyzing. "Is this the whole truth? Or is there more he's not saying?"

Dissociation as Self-Protection

Sometimes, mid-amends, I just...leave my body. I'm sitting there, nodding, but I'm not there. My brain checks out because the pain is too much to hold.

The Shame Spiral

"Why didn't I leave sooner?"
"Why did I let him gaslight me?"
"Am I stupid for staying now?"

The shame is suffocating.

How I'm Surviving This

I Set Boundaries Around Amends

I told him: "I can't hear everything at once. One amends at a time. And I get to say when I'm ready for the next one."

He respects that. If he didn't, I'd be gone.

I Use "Timeout" Liberally

When I'm overwhelmed, I say "timeout." And he stops. No argument. No pushing. Just stops.

That respect is why I'm still here.

I Process with Safe People

Not him. Not yet. I talk to my therapist, my ND friends, people who understand trauma and won't tell me to "just forgive and move on."

I Give Myself Permission to Feel All of It

Rage. Grief. Despair. Confusion. Hope (yes, even hope, and I hate that). I let myself feel it all without judgment.

I Remind Myself: I Don't Owe Him Forgiveness

His amends are his work. My healing is mine. I don't have to forgive him to heal. I don't have to "get over it" on anyone's timeline but my own.

To Anyone Receiving Amends from Someone Who Hurt You

You don't have to accept the amends.
You don't have to forgive.
You don't have to stay.
You don't have to "be strong."

You're allowed to feel shattered. You're allowed to grieve. You're allowed to be angry.

And if you're neurodivergent and traumatized? Your nervous system is working overtime just to survive this. Give yourself grace.

How Many More Can I Take?

I don't know. Honestly, I don't.

Some days I think: "I can do this. We're healing. It's getting better."

Other days I think: "I can't survive his amends. I can't keep reliving betrayal."

Right now, I'm taking it one day—sometimes one hour—at a time.

And that's all I can do.

Final Thoughts

Recovery is messy. Amends are brutal. Staying with someone who hurt you while you're both healing? It's the hardest thing I've ever done.

But I'm still here. Still breathing. Still choosing, day by day, whether this relationship is worth rebuilding.

And that choice is mine. Not his. Not anyone else's. Mine.

If you're navigating relationship recovery, trauma, or neurodivergence, visit Trauma-Informed Care. For crisis support, see Crisis Resources.