Waking Up to Gaslighting
I’m not sure how to write this, even though when I think about it, I have such clarity. As I sit down to write these words, I’m struck by the weight of a truth I’ve only recently come to fully understand: gaslighting is a subtle yet devastating form of manipulation. It creeps into your psyche like a silent intruder, distorting your reality until you question your own thoughts, feelings, and perceptions.
My journey with gaslighting began in the confines of my work environment. At first, I couldn’t quite put my finger on what was happening. There were moments of confusion, instances where I felt like I was losing my grip on reality. Little by little, though, the pattern revealed itself, like cracks in a once-solid façade.
It’s a peculiar feeling, realizing that people are intentionally undermining your sense of self. The doubts they plant take root in your mind, growing like weeds that choke out your confidence and clarity. What’s worse is that gaslighting often operates in shadows, making it difficult to pinpoint and confront directly.
But here I am, pen to paper, determined to shine a light on these experiences. Writing feels like a form of liberation—a way to reclaim my narrative from the distortions and deceptions that once clouded it. This isn’t just about recounting events; it’s about acknowledging the impact, processing the emotions, and ultimately finding healing and closure.
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So, let me begin by unraveling the threads of gaslighting that wove themselves through my days…
I work for a crane rental company. After a while, I started noticing things were out of place or not as I had left them. That might not sound unusual since other operators use the same crane. Small changes happen.
But some things didn’t make sense. I often found the fuel cap unscrewed and hanging. The first time, I took responsibility, thinking I forgot to put it back after fueling. When it kept happening, I knew someone was playing tricks on me.
Other parts of the crane were also disturbed. Keeper pins were pulled out, and straps were loosened.
One day, after finishing up a job, my counterweight driver (let’s call him Steward) and I took a break. During our break, Steward started telling me an elaborate story about how he used to gaslight someone at a previous job. At the time, I found the story strange and unnecessary—it seemed like an odd thing to share.
Steward also started calling me “Raisinet.” At first, it might not sound harsh, but the nickname came from his brother back in 2013. It didn’t bother me then because I used to eat a lot of raisins. Hearing Steward use it now felt different. He used every chance he got to call me “Raisinet.”
There was one instance when Billyboy came up to me and asked if I could make a pick with the yard crane. I told him I’d meet him up there.
I went to the yard crane and waited. After a while, when no one showed, I decided to help a few other co-workers so I wouldn’t look like I was sitting around. About ten minutes later, I noticed the boom on the crane moving. I walked back over and saw Billyboy running the crane while Noose was landing equipment on a trailer—it should have been the other way around.
I didn’t say anything and joined in to help land the equipment. For clarity, it wasn’t unusual for Billyboy to operate equipment since he was the yardman. But he wasn’t licensed to run a crane.
While we were working, Noose was directing Billyboy over the phone. During that call, he started speaking negatively about me, blaming me for how the equipment was landing on the trailer. It also felt like he was trying to bait me into talking about Billyboy running the crane. This went on for a bit, but I stayed quiet because I didn’t understand what was happening or why.
The next incident occurred when the mechanic (let’s call him Buckley) came out to make a repair. After finishing up, we were all sitting in the pickup truck, enjoying some biscotti he had brought from his grandmother’s. During our conversation, Buckley mentioned that his girlfriend often accused him of gaslighting her. When I asked what gaslighting was, he gave me a brief explanation. Not long after, out of nowhere, Buckley said, “You’re weird, Al!” His tone and body language made the comment feel off, but I shrugged it off at the time.
As the months went by, Buckley kept saying “You’re weird,” each time with a meaner and more derogatory tone, as if he had a purpose behind it. I never responded because I didn’t know how to, and I couldn’t understand where this was coming from.
Another incident with Buckley happened at a work party for Memorial Day. We were standing in a circle having a discussion. When I turned my head from left to right, Buckley was suddenly nose-to-nose with me, right in my face. It startled me, and I instinctively shouted, “WHAT?” Another person watching—Billyboy—had a look of relief or excitement on his face.
Now, Buckley is 6’3″ and I’m 5’6″. The excuse given was that he couldn’t hear me, even though everyone else in the circle of seven or eight people had no problem hearing me. None of them were standing that close.
At the same party, another incident occurred involving a different co-worker, who I’ll call Noose. He no longer works for the company.
Noose, a new hire, and I were sitting and talking about iron workers. To give some background, I was once involved in an accident where a beam became disconnected and struck an iron worker.
During our conversation, Noose kept repeating that iron workers wear signs on their backs that say, “Hit me, hit me.” I had no idea what he meant or why he was saying it. The whole thing left me confused and uneasy, so I decided to leave.
In the following months, my performance at work started to drop, and I began making mistakes. One Saturday, after finishing a job with the owner and a co-worker, we loaded all the equipment and headed back to the shop. A few people were already there and helped unload the crane.
After that, something shifted. Their energy changed. We all gathered in the garage, and the group started telling stories about accidents. At first, it sounded like normal shop talk, but after a while, it felt like the stories were directed at me. One guy kept saying “good job” to me in different tones—sometimes sincere, sometimes sarcastic. As everyone started to leave, another co-worker turned to me and said, “I hope you burn in hell.” That’s when I knew something was off.
Later that day, while at my daughter’s soccer game, I called another co-worker to thank him. During our call, I realized I had made a serious mistake earlier. I had forgotten to re-engage the house lock pin on the crane after we finished loading it on the trailer. That meant the truck driver had driven the crane back without the house lock engaged—something that should never happen.
For those unfamiliar with cranes, the house lock keeps the upper structure from rotating while driving. I forgot to engage it, but the crane’s electric brake made it appear as though it was locked when I drove it onto the trailer. Once I realized this, my stomach dropped.
It was the third major mistake I had made in a short period. By my own standard of self-discipline, I had told myself that if I made another serious mistake, I would step down. So, the next day, Sunday, I called the owner—the same one who was with me during the job—and told him I was resigning. He asked why. I explained the mistake, and he asked why no one mentioned it when they unloaded the crane. I had no answer. It didn’t make sense that no one said anything.
Looking back, it explains the strange mood in the garage—the accident stories, the sarcastic “good job,” and the “burn in hell” comment. I told the owner about those things, and he asked how they made me feel. That should have been a red flag, but I didn’t see it. I talked openly, thinking it was a private conversation meant to give context about why I was underperforming. I mentioned names and situations, trying to be honest.
In the end, he accepted my resignation.
The next day, I got a call from Steward. He wanted to know what happened. I explained everything that took place between the owner and me. He said he understood but didn’t want me to make a knee-jerk decision and resign. So I agreed to come back. That was Monday.
The following day, the owner called me. He said he had looked into the situation. I asked why, and he told me that as the owner, he needed to look into problems between employees. At no point in our earlier conversation did he mention he would do that. If I had known, I wouldn’t have been so open. Still, I didn’t see the red flag.
When he told me who he had spoken to, I asked why that person. Then I shared more details—things I shouldn’t have. I didn’t realize it then, but that’s exactly what they wanted. The conversation was recorded.
The next day, Steward called again and asked why I hadn’t come to him first. He said he was on my side, though it never felt that way. That’s when the shaming began.
I finished out the rest of the week before returning full time. When I came back, it seemed like a warm welcome at first. But soon, the same things started happening again—tools out of place on the crane, my vehicle tampered with, a flat tire, snide comments, and quiet putdowns.
Over time, it only got worse. I endured it for another two years before deciding to leave. My decision to change careers wasn’t sudden. I had thought about it for a long time. The situation didn’t cause it, but it showed me I was right to move on and start my own path.
Change of Life—or So I Thought
During the past couple of years, I started looking into buying a small business—laundromats, convenience stores, anything that offered stability. Then I found a small fine-art print shop, and I was thrilled. I’ve always loved photography, and seeing a digital file come to life on paper brings a deep sense of satisfaction.
When the closing for the print lab was about two weeks away, I left my job. I walked away without notice. At that point, it felt like the only way to protect myself and what I was trying to build.
A week before closing, my lawyer called. The deal was on hold due to financial issues that hadn’t been disclosed during due diligence. I decided to back out. I got my down payment back and chose to start my own print shop from my basement instead.
As I began setting everything up, life seemed to shift for the better. I started connecting with other parents from my daughter’s and son’s soccer teams—something that felt new and positive. But slowly, that began to change.
Whoever I upset at my previous job still wasn’t done with me. Somehow, their influence reached into the community. They befriended me through others and used those connections to gaslight me again, making me believe the friendships were real when they weren’t.
Eventually, even my daughter and son started to act differently toward me. Strangely, it didn’t upset me as much as I thought it would. People tend to go with the flow, and once the “snitch” label began circulating, others followed that narrative without question.
Now, I get cold shoulders from some and false kindness from others who pretend to be friends just to break me down. What stands out most is that no one has ever asked for my side of the story—they only believe the version that’s been handed to them.
There’s more to the story—pieces I’ve left out to keep it brief. But one thing still remains true: I’m still happy and sharing my story to help educate people who might be in a similar situation.