In the Dream House: Carmen Maria Machado on Intimate Partner Abuse

POP CULTURE & TRAUMA • May 20, 2026

The air in the Dream House is thick, humid, and heavy with unspoken tension. Dust motes dance in the slivers of light cutting through heavy drapes, illuminating the oppressive quiet. A door slams upstairs, not violently, but with a finality that vibrates through the floorboards and settles deep in the chest. It’s a sound that signals not just an exit, but a shift in the atmosphere, a tightening of the invisible threads that bind and choke. This is the sensory landscape Carmen Maria Machado conjures in In the Dream House, a memoir that doesn’t just recount abuse; it embodies its disorienting, suffocating reality through its very structure.

Before we delve deeper, a note on the sensitive nature of this topic: this article discusses intimate partner violence (IPV), queer IPV, and trauma. While I strive to approach these subjects with the utmost care and clinical grounding, some content may be distressing. My intention is to shed light on these complex issues, drawing on Machado’s powerful work to foster understanding and compassion. This piece contains spoilers for In the Dream House.

The House the Memoir Cannot Leave

Machado’s memoir is a masterclass in using form to convey content. She structures her narrative not chronologically, but through a series of short chapters, each titled with a genre trope: “Dream House as ‘The Haunted House’,” “Dream House as ‘Choose Your Own Adventure’,” “Dream House as ‘Lesbian Pulp Novel’.” This fragmented, genre-bending approach isn’t just a literary flourish; it’s a visceral representation of the disorienting, unreal nature of intimate partner violence. It mirrors the way trauma shatters memory, making a coherent narrative impossible, and how survivors often try to make sense of their experiences through familiar, albeit inadequate, cultural scripts.

Consider the chapter titled “Dream House as ‘The Teleplay.’” In this section, Machado presents dialogue as a script, devoid of internal monologue or descriptive prose. The effect is chilling. We see the words exchanged, the accusations, the gaslighting, the subtle shifts in power, but we are denied the context, the emotional landscape that would make sense of it. This forces the reader into a position of passive observation, much like the victim of abuse who is often left to interpret bewildering and contradictory behaviors without a clear frame of reference. The pain here isn’t just in the words themselves, but in the sterile, detached way they are presented, highlighting the emotional void created by the abuse.

Another particularly potent chapter is “Dream House as ‘The Folklorist’s Project.’” Here, Machado collects fragments of stories, myths, and cultural references about queer women and violence, or rather, the *absence* of them. This chapter is a stark reminder of the “archive gap” — the profound lack of documented history and narratives surrounding intimate partner violence within queer relationships. When a survivor searches for their story in the cultural record, and finds nothing, it reinforces the isolation, the sense that what they are experiencing is not real, or not worthy of being named. This absence is a form of violence in itself, denying validation and pathways to understanding. It’s a wound that lingers, not just for Machado, but for countless others who have lived through similar experiences in silence.

The pain of In the Dream House isn’t just in the recounting of specific abusive acts, though those are present and harrowing. It’s in the structural choices that force the reader to inhabit the disorienting, isolating, and often unbelievable reality of IPV. It’s in the way Machado meticulously dismantles the myth of abuse as something that only happens in certain kinds of relationships or to certain kinds of people. It’s in the stark realization that even in a relationship born of love and desire, the dream can curdle into a nightmare, and the house can become a prison. This structural brilliance is why the book resonates so deeply and why its impact is so enduring.

What Machado Names About Intimate Partner Violence

Machado’s memoir is a vital contribution to our understanding of intimate partner violence, particularly because it addresses several critical, often overlooked, aspects. Beyond the explicit acts of abuse, the book illuminates the insidious psychological tactics, the trauma bonds that form, and the unique challenges faced by queer individuals experiencing IPV.

One of the most profound insights Machado offers is the way abuse often begins subtly, almost imperceptibly. It’s not always a sudden explosion of violence, but a gradual erosion of boundaries, a chipping away at self-esteem, and a tightening of control. The memoir meticulously details the progression from intense, passionate love to a relationship defined by manipulation, gaslighting, and emotional cruelty. The abuser’s charm and vulnerability are often presented alongside their controlling behaviors, making it incredibly difficult for the victim to reconcile these conflicting realities. This mirrors what I see consistently in my work with clients: the initial stages of abuse are often cloaked in declarations of love and intense connection, making the subsequent shifts all the more disorienting.

Crucially, In the Dream House shines a spotlight on intimate partner violence within queer relationships. For too long, the dominant narrative of IPV has been heteronormative, often overlooking or actively denying that abuse can occur between same-sex partners. Machado confronts this “archive gap” head-on, illustrating how the lack of societal recognition and resources for queer IPV survivors further isolates them. The shame and confusion are compounded by the feeling that their experience doesn’t fit the recognized mold, leading to delayed help-seeking and increased vulnerability. The memoir highlights how the abuser weaponized this lack of visibility, often telling Machado that no one would believe her because “lesbians don’t hit each other.” This gaslighting tactic exploits a systemic blind spot, making the abuse even more potent and difficult to escape.

Finally, Machado’s narrative structure itself reflects the fragmented, disorienting nature of trauma and memory. The non-linear, genre-bending chapters mimic the way traumatic memories are stored and recalled — not as a coherent story, but as sensory fragments, intense emotions, and disjointed images. This artistic choice allows the reader to experience, rather than just intellectually understand, the psychological impact of IPV. It underscores that healing from trauma isn’t about simply recalling events, but about integrating disparate pieces of experience into a new, more coherent narrative, a process that often requires significant therapeutic support. This is a journey I often guide clients through in therapy, helping them to piece together their fractured narratives and reclaim their sense of self.

The Clinical Pattern Beneath the Story

Beneath the compelling narrative of In the Dream House lies a clear clinical pattern of intimate partner violence, characterized by a series of predictable, yet devastating, dynamics. As a trauma-informed therapist, I recognize these patterns as hallmarks of abusive relationships, regardless of the specific identities of those involved.

The first pattern is the gradual escalation of control and isolation. Abusers rarely begin with overt violence. Instead, they often start by subtly eroding their partner’s autonomy and social connections. This might involve discouraging friendships, expressing jealousy over time spent with family, or making veiled criticisms about clothing, hobbies, or career choices. In Machado’s story, we see this unfold as her partner becomes increasingly possessive, demanding constant attention, and creating a narrative where Machado’s external relationships are a threat to their bond. This isolation is a critical step in establishing control, as it removes external sources of validation and support, making the victim more reliant on the abuser.

Another prominent pattern is gaslighting. This manipulative tactic involves making the victim question their own reality, memory, and sanity. The abuser denies events that clearly happened, twists facts, or attributes their own negative behaviors to the victim. Machado recounts instances where her partner would deny saying or doing something abusive, leaving Machado confused and doubting her perceptions. This is a profoundly disorienting experience that undermines a person’s sense of self and trust in their own judgment. In my practice, clients often describe feeling “crazy” or “like I’m losing my mind” as a direct result of sustained gaslighting. It’s a form of psychological betrayal trauma that erodes the very foundation of trust in oneself and others.

The cycle of abuse is also vividly portrayed. This cycle, often described as tension building, incident, reconciliation, and calm, is a classic clinical model. In In the Dream House, Machado describes periods of intense conflict and abuse followed by apologies, promises of change, and declarations of love. These “honeymoon” phases are incredibly powerful, offering a glimpse of the loving partner the victim desperately wants to believe in. This intermittent reinforcement strengthens the trauma bond, making it incredibly difficult to leave. The hope for the “good” partner to return becomes a powerful motivator to stay, despite the pain. It’s a pattern that creates a profound sense of cognitive dissonance, where the victim holds conflicting beliefs about their partner and the relationship.

How This Shows Up in Driven Women: Jordan’s Story

In my clinical practice, I often work with driven, capable women who, from the outside, appear to have it all together. They are successful in their careers, articulate, and often highly intelligent. Yet, beneath the surface, many carry the silent burden of past or present intimate partner violence. Jordan is one such woman.

Jordan, a marketing executive in her late 30s, exudes confidence in the boardroom. She commands attention, negotiates with precision, and is known for her strategic thinking. Her career trajectory has been nothing short of meteoric. Yet, in the quiet of our therapy sessions, a different Jordan emerges. She speaks in hushed tones about her relationship with her partner, Alex, a charismatic artist. At first, Jordan was captivated by Alex’s intensity, their passion, and the way Alex seemed to “see” her in a way no one else had.

The red flags, Jordan admits now, were subtle at first. Alex would call or text incessantly when Jordan was at work, demanding to know her whereabouts and who she was with. When Jordan tried to set boundaries, Alex would become deeply hurt, accusing Jordan of not loving them enough, of prioritizing her career over their relationship. “You’re always so focused on work,” Alex would sigh, making Jordan feel guilty for her ambition. “I just want to be your everything.”

Soon, Alex began to subtly undermine Jordan’s professional achievements. If Jordan received a promotion, Alex would dismiss it as “just another corporate ladder climb” or imply that Jordan was sacrificing her “true self” for external validation. When Jordan planned a weekend trip with her close friends, Alex would suddenly develop a crisis — a creative block, a health scare — forcing Jordan to cancel her plans to care for them. Jordan, ever the problem-solver and caregiver, would feel compelled to put Alex’s needs first, slowly isolating herself from her support network.

The gaslighting was particularly insidious. Alex would frequently deny conversations, saying, “I never said that, Jordan, you’re imagining things,” or “You’re too sensitive, you always twist my words.” Jordan, who prided herself on her sharp memory and analytical mind, began to doubt herself. She would re-read old texts, trying to find proof, only to be met with Alex’s dismissive laughter. “See? Nothing there. You’re just stressed.” This constant questioning of her reality left Jordan feeling unmoored, her self-trust eroding.

Jordan’s drive, which served her so well professionally, became a vulnerability in her relationship. She approached the relationship like a problem to be solved, believing that if she just tried harder, loved more deeply, or communicated more effectively, she could “fix” Alex and the relationship. This belief, common among driven individuals, kept her trapped in the cycle of abuse longer than she might have otherwise. She rationalized Alex’s behavior, convinced that beneath the anger and control was a wounded person who just needed her love. This is a classic manifestation of a trauma bond, where the victim’s empathy and desire to nurture are weaponized against them.

Jordan’s story, like Machado’s, underscores that IPV is not limited by socioeconomic status, education, or professional success. In fact, for driven women, the very qualities that lead to their success — resilience, problem-solving, a desire for excellence — can sometimes be twisted into mechanisms for enduring abuse, making it harder to recognize and escape. The shame of experiencing such a profound disconnect between their public persona and private reality often keeps them silent, further perpetuating the cycle.

What the Trauma Researchers Help Us Name

The insights offered by Carmen Maria Machado in In the Dream House are deeply resonant with decades of trauma research. The experiences she describes are not isolated incidents but fit into well-established clinical frameworks that help us understand the profound impact of intimate partner violence. Several key researchers have illuminated the mechanisms of trauma that Machado so powerfully illustrates.

Janina Fisher, PhD, clinical psychologist and trauma specialist, builds on these ideas by focusing on the fragmentation of the self that occurs in trauma. Her work, particularly on “parts work” or “structural dissociation,” suggests that in response to overwhelming traumatic experiences, different “parts” of the personality may develop to cope. One part might be the “normal-appearing part” that continues to function in daily life, while another part holds the traumatic memories and emotions, often remaining hidden. This can explain the cognitive dissonance experienced by survivors — the ability to function outwardly while inwardly grappling with profound distress. Machado’s ability to write such a brilliant, incisive memoir while simultaneously grappling with the raw pain of her past speaks to this capacity for fragmentation and eventual integration.

The concept of the “archive gap” that Machado highlights is also clinically significant. When a person’s experience is not recognized or validated by society, it adds another layer of trauma. This is particularly true for queer individuals experiencing IPV. The lack of cultural narratives, legal protections, and accessible resources can lead to intensified feelings of shame, isolation, and self-blame. This societal invalidation can make it harder for survivors to name their experience as abuse, seek help, or believe that help is even available. This is why advocating for greater visibility and understanding of queer IPV is not just a social justice issue, but a critical component of trauma-informed care.

These researchers, alongside Machado’s narrative, provide a powerful lens through which to understand the multifaceted nature of IPV. They underscore that abuse is not merely a series of bad incidents, but a pervasive assault on the self, impacting mind, body, and spirit, and requiring comprehensive, compassionate, and trauma-informed approaches to healing. This is the foundation of my work with clients, helping them navigate these complex internal landscapes.

Both/And: Holding Truth and Compassion Together

One of the most challenging aspects of discussing intimate partner violence, particularly when the victim returns to the abuser or struggles to leave, is the pervasive societal question: “Why did you stay?” Carmen Maria Machado’s In the Dream House, through its unflinching honesty, offers a profound answer to this question, reframing it from a judgment to an inquiry rooted in compassion and understanding. The memoir forces us to hold two seemingly contradictory truths simultaneously: the abuser’s culpability and the victim’s complex entanglement, often without absolving the abuser of their actions.

Machado doesn’t shy away from naming her own complicity, not in the abuse itself, but in the dynamics that kept her tethered to the relationship. She admits to loving her abuser, to desperately wanting the relationship to work, to making excuses, and to feeling a deep, almost gravitational pull back into the “Dream House” even after escaping. This self-awareness is crucial. It acknowledges the nuanced reality of trauma bonds and the psychological warfare waged by abusers, which often leaves victims feeling responsible, confused, and deeply ashamed. To understand “why she stayed” is to understand the power of intermittent reinforcement, the insidious nature of gaslighting, and the deep human desire for love and connection, even when it’s toxic.

This is where the “both/and” perspective becomes essential. We can hold the truth that the abuser is solely responsible for their abusive actions, and simultaneously hold compassion for the victim’s struggle to navigate a coercive and manipulative environment. Naming a victim’s entanglement — their love, their hope, their fear, their self-blame — is not about blaming them for the abuse. Instead, it’s about acknowledging the full spectrum of the human experience within an abusive dynamic. It’s about recognizing that trauma doesn’t simplify a person; it complicates them, often forcing them into impossible choices and contradictory feelings.

In my work, I often explain that the question “Why did you stay?” is fundamentally flawed because it places the burden of responsibility on the victim, implying a choice where often there is none, or at least, no *good* choice. Instead, the more appropriate question is, “Why did the abuser abuse?” and “What made it so difficult for the victim to leave?” This shift in perspective is critical for fostering empathy and reducing the shame that often prevents survivors from seeking help. Machado’s memoir provides a powerful demonstration of this, inviting readers to step into the disorienting reality of the victim rather than judging from a distance.

Moreover, the “both/and” approach allows us to see the systemic factors at play. For queer individuals, the “archive gap” and the lack of societal recognition for queer IPV mean that survivors often lack the language, the role models, and the institutional support to understand their experiences and find safe pathways out. This absence of external validation further entrenches the victim’s internal confusion and self-blame. Machado’s narrative implicitly argues that if society had more readily acknowledged and addressed queer IPV, her path to understanding and escape might have been clearer.

“Do not lose heart. We were made for these times.” — Clarissa Pinkola Estés, PhD, poet, psychoanalyst, and author.

Ultimately, In the Dream House teaches us that true understanding requires compassion for all the messy, contradictory, and painful aspects of human experience within abuse. It asks us to move beyond simplistic narratives of good and evil, and instead, to embrace the complex, often heartbreaking, reality of how trauma binds and bewilders. This compassionate lens is what allows for genuine healing and societal change, moving us away from victim-blaming and towards systemic support and prevention. It’s a lesson I carry into every coaching session and every therapeutic encounter.

The Systemic Lens: Why This Wound Is Not Just Personal

While Carmen Maria Machado’s memoir is a deeply personal account, its power lies in revealing how intimate partner violence, particularly queer IPV, is not just an individual wound but a systemic one. The “Dream House” becomes a microcosm of larger societal failures and biases that perpetuate abuse and hinder recovery. Understanding this systemic lens is crucial for truly grasping the impact of the book and for advocating for meaningful change.

Beyond the archive gap, Machado’s experience highlights how societal norms and expectations around relationships can inadvertently enable abuse. The romantic idealization of intense, all-consuming love, often portrayed in popular culture, can be weaponized by abusers. The idea that true love means sacrificing everything for your partner, or that jealousy is a sign of deep affection, can be twisted to justify controlling and possessive behaviors. For queer relationships, the added pressure to prove the “normality” or “health” of their relationships can make it even harder to admit to internal dysfunction, for fear of feeding into homophobic stereotypes. This is why a critical lens on popular culture, like the one I apply in articles such as “I May Destroy You: Michaela Coel on Sexual Trauma,” is so vital.

Furthermore, the legal and social systems are often ill-equipped to handle queer IPV. Laws may not explicitly include same-sex partners, or law enforcement and judicial systems may harbor biases that prevent them from taking queer survivors seriously. The fear of being outed, or of facing additional discrimination within these systems, can deter survivors from reporting abuse. This systemic failure to protect and validate queer individuals creates a fertile ground for abuse to flourish unchecked.

The wound of IPV, therefore, is not merely the result of an individual’s poor choices or an abuser’s pathology. It is deeply intertwined with societal structures, cultural narratives, and institutional biases that either actively enable abuse or passively fail to protect victims. Recognizing this systemic dimension is crucial for moving beyond individual blame and towards collective responsibility. It calls for broader societal education, inclusive policy changes, and the creation of safe, affirming resources for all survivors, regardless of their identity. This is the larger context within which individual healing — whether through therapy, coaching, or self-guided work — must take place.

What Healing Can Look Like: Leila’s Story

Leila, a successful architect in her early 40s, came to me feeling utterly depleted. She had recently ended a five-year relationship with a woman named Chloe, a relationship that had, by its end, stripped Leila of her vibrant energy and self-assurance. Chloe’s charm had initially been irresistible, but it slowly morphed into a suffocating web of control, criticism, and emotional manipulation. Leila had found herself constantly walking on eggshells, second-guessing every decision, and apologizing for things she didn’t understand. She recognized many of her experiences in *In the Dream House*, which she had read during her recovery, finding both validation and a roadmap for understanding.

When Leila first arrived, her posture was slumped, her gaze often averted, and her voice quiet. She spoke of feeling “broken,” “stupid,” and “unlovable.” Her professional success, once a source of pride, now felt like a fragile facade. She struggled with chronic anxiety, difficulty sleeping, and a pervasive sense of dread. These were all common symptoms of complex trauma, the kind that arises from prolonged intimate partner violence.

Our work together began with establishing a sense of safety and grounding. For someone who has experienced prolonged gaslighting, rebuilding trust — first in the therapeutic relationship, then in herself — is paramount. We focused on psychoeducation, helping Leila understand the dynamics of IPV and trauma bonds, and how Chloe’s behaviors were manipulative, not a reflection of Leila’s worth. “It wasn’t me,” Leila whispered one session, a profound realization dawning on her. “It was the abuse.” This was a critical step in externalizing the problem and reclaiming her internal locus of control.

Leila also grappled with the “why did I stay?” question. We explored the nuances of the trauma bond, the intermittent reinforcement, and the deep desire for the initial “good” Chloe to return. We discussed the societal silence around queer IPV, which had made her feel particularly isolated and confused. She realized that her own empathy and desire to nurture had been exploited, rather than being weaknesses. This reframing allowed her to move from self-blame to self-compassion, a cornerstone of trauma recovery.

As Leila gained strength, we began to gently process the specific traumatic memories. This wasn’t about reliving the pain, but about integrating the fragmented pieces of her experience into a more coherent narrative. We used techniques to help her regulate her nervous system, so she could recall events without becoming overwhelmed. She started to identify her triggers and develop coping strategies, gradually regaining a sense of agency over her emotional responses.

A significant part of Leila’s healing involved rebuilding her sense of self and reconnecting with her values. Chloe had systematically undermined Leila’s passions, her friendships, and her professional ambitions. We explored what truly mattered to Leila outside of the relationship. She re-engaged with her love for hiking, reconnected with old friends, and started a new creative project that had been dormant for years. She began to see her ambition not as a flaw, but as a core part of who she was, and something to be celebrated.

Over time, Leila’s posture straightened, her voice grew stronger, and her eyes sparkled with a renewed sense of purpose. She learned to set firm boundaries, to trust her intuition again, and to recognize the subtle cues of unhealthy dynamics. She started dating again, cautiously, but with a newfound clarity about what she deserved in a relationship. She understood that healing wasn’t about erasing the past, but about integrating it, learning from it, and building a future defined by her own strength and resilience.

Leila’s journey, much like the path Carmen Maria Machado illuminates, is a testament to the fact that healing from intimate partner violence is possible. It requires courage, compassion, and often, the skilled guidance of a trauma-informed professional. It’s a process of reclaiming one’s narrative, rebuilding one’s self, and ultimately, stepping out of the “Dream House” and into a life of authentic freedom. If you’re on a similar journey, remember that resources are available, and you don’t have to navigate it alone. Consider exploring my trauma response style quiz to better understand your own patterns, or sign up for my newsletter for ongoing support and insights.

Related Reading

• Machado, Carmen Maria. 2019. In the Dream House: A Memoir. Minneapolis, MN: Graywolf Press.
• Herman, Judith Lewis. 1992. Trauma and Recovery: The Aftermath of Violence—From Domestic Abuse to Political Terror. New York: BasicBooks.
• van der Kolk, Bessel A. 2014. The Body Keeps the Score: Brain, Mind, and Body in the Healing of Trauma. New York: Viking.
• Walker, Lenore E. 1979. The Battered Woman. New York: Harper & Row.
• Pharr, Suzanne. 1988. Homophobia: A Weapon of Sexism. Little Rock, AR: Chardon Press.

References

Books & Cultural Sources (Chicago Author-Date)

• Estés, Clarissa Pinkola. Women Who Run with the Wolves. Vintage, 1982.
• Fisher, Janina. Healing the fragmented selves of trauma survivors. Taylor & Francis Group, 2017.