Political Projection Wielded by theMan in the Mirror

There was something chillingly familiar about the way it unfolded. Anyone who has ever dealt with an abuser recognized it instantly—the shifting of blame, the forced gratitude, the undermining of autonomy, the redefinition of reality itself. It was less a political negotiation and more a masterclass in the language of coercion, a performance where power dictated truth and any attempt to assert self-worth was met with dismissal or condescension.

Trump, with his characteristic bravado, set the tone immediately: “You have allowed yourself to be in a very bad position.” The weight of that sentence was immense. It placed the blame squarely on Ukraine, as if the invasion was not an act of Russian aggression but a consequence of Zelenskyy’s own choices. It was an old tactic, one that has echoed through history and personal lives alike. A woman in an abusive marriage hears it when she finally works up the courage to ask for help: “Well, you married him.” A child suffering under the weight of neglect is told, “You should’ve known better than to make him angry.” The victim is always responsible. The abuser is never at fault.

Then came the pressure, the coercion, the demand to perform the proper level of submission. J.D. Vance, echoing the time-tested script of manipulative power, demanded that Zelenskyy say thank you. Gratitude was not merely expected—it was required. This wasn’t the simple exchange of thanks that exists in genuine partnerships; it was the kind of forced gratitude that abusers demand after a violent outburst. The kind of gratitude that follows survival, that serves as an insurance policy for the next time. It’s the way a child is forced to hug the uncle who makes them feel unsafe. It’s the way a battered wife is expected to whisper thank you when her husband lets her go to sleep without another round of punishment.

This particular manipulation tactic has been laid bare in pop culture time and again. Consider Sleeping with the Enemy—where Julia Roberts' character, trapped in a marriage ruled by violence and control, must meticulously perform obedience just to avoid another punishment. Or The Handmaid’s Tale, where the enslaved women are forced to parrot “Blessed be the fruit” in exchange for survival, even as their bodies are used against their will. The demand for gratitude is not about politeness. It’s about control. It’s about forcing the victim to acknowledge the abuser’s power, to play the role assigned to them, to ensure they never believe themselves worthy of more.

Trump, of course, continued the performance, leaning into another classic move—redefining what peace even means. “You’re not ready for peace,” he told Zelenskyy, as though Ukraine’s refusal to surrender was the real problem. This is a sinister kind of manipulation, one that abusers have used for centuries. Redefine the terms, shift the meaning, make it so that resistance becomes unreasonable, and submission is the only logical path. In the hands of a manipulator, peace does not mean security. It does not mean justice. It means silence. It means compliance. It means accepting whatever is given, even if it is not enough.

It is the same language used against every woman who has fought back. When an abusive partner tells her she’s difficult, what they really mean is that she refuses to accept mistreatment. When an oppressive system tells workers they are not team players, what they really mean is that they will not accept being exploited. Peace is often nothing more than the word used to shame people into submission.

This tactic is as old as history, and it is everywhere in media. Gaslight, the 1944 film that gave the term its name, is a perfect example. Ingrid Bergman’s character is manipulated into questioning her own reality, into doubting what she knows to be true. Trump’s approach to Zelenskyy was no different. If Ukraine does not surrender, then they must be the unreasonable ones. If they want to keep fighting for their people, then they must be the ones prolonging the suffering. The aggressor is absolved. The victim is condemned.

And then, of course, came the next move: stripping the victim of their agency. “Without us, you have nothing,” Trump told him. Again, the echo of the abuser. You’re nothing without me. No one else will love you. No one else will help you. Without me, you are alone. This is how power is wielded—not through direct violence alone, but through isolation, through making the victim feel like they have no choices. The goal is not just to weaken them; it’s to make them believe that the abuser is their only option.

This is the same trap that plays out in every abusive relationship. The husband who systematically ensures his wife has no access to money, no ability to leave. The boss who fosters dependency so that workers are too afraid to seek opportunities elsewhere. You have no cards to play. You are powerless without me. No one else will save you.

By the time Trump told Zelenskyy, “If you get a ceasefire, you must accept it,” the game was already laid bare. This was not diplomacy. This was coercion. It was the same script used by oppressors throughout history—disguising surrender as reason, forcing the victim to shoulder the burden of preventing further violence while allowing the aggressor to continue without consequences.

The truly insidious part of the exchange was Trump’s ability to make himself seem like the savior in the process. “You are playing with the lives of millions,” he told Zelenskyy, as if he himself were not the one toying with Ukraine’s future. This is another staple of manipulative power—accuse the victim of the very thing you are doing. The cheating husband who gaslights his wife into thinking she is the untrustworthy one. The dictator who paints political dissidents as the real threat to democracy as if shared governance was ever the point of his regime. The boss who tells overworked employees that they are the ones making things difficult. Projection is one of the oldest tricks in the book, and Trump wielded it masterfully.

Perhaps the most chilling moment came when he erased Ukraine’s resilience entirely. “If it weren’t for our weapons, this war would have ended in two weeks.” In that one statement, he dismissed the courage of a nation, the sacrifices of its people, the sheer determination that has allowed Ukraine to survive. This is the final form of the abuser’s playbook: rewriting reality itself. If the victim succeeds, it is because of the abuser’s generosity. If they resist, it is foolishness. Their achievements are never their own.

But here’s the thing about abuse—it only works when the victim and witnesses believe the narrative. Zelenskyy did not. He did not cower. He did not perform the gratitude they demanded. He stood firm in a room designed to make him feel small. And that, in the end, is why the meeting mattered.

Because the moment you recognize the game, the moment you see the manipulation for what it is, the power begins to shift.