The Smear Campaign
When your reputation becomes the target
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Introduction
In relationships marked by covert narcissism, the struggle is often invisible on the surface. What takes place behind closed doors is subtly projected outward in the form of image-building: a slow yet deliberate process in which the partner is not only devalued, but also systematically undermined in the eyes of others. This strategy is known as a smear campaign. I deliberately choose to keep the English term. Just like concepts such as blame-shifting or gaslighting, it has become a recognizable term in international literature and support groups.
A smear campaign can be understood as a campaign of slander aimed at sowing doubt, damaging someone’s reputation, and ultimately isolating the other person. It rarely takes the form of open accusations; far more often it consists of subtle insinuations, half-truths, and suggestive remarks that spread like poison. At its core, it is a tool of power: by seizing control of the narrative, the narcissist creates allies and reinforces their own image of innocence, while the partner is increasingly pushed to the margins.
In this essay, I weave three personal experiences together with psychological and philosophical reflection. They are moments in which I realized that the image of me outside the relationship was no longer my own, but hers. It is not only about gossip or slander, but about the deeper experience of losing recognition:
What does it mean when others no longer see you, but only the story that is told about you?
The subtle seeds of a smear campaign
The seeds of a smear campaign are often small, almost innocent. In my case, an incident early in the relationship would later reveal its deeper meaning. I was in the middle of my divorce and felt vulnerable and emotionally drained. One evening I had arranged to spend time with my partner at her home. When I arrived, she told me that two friends of hers, a couple, were on their way to join us. I calmly explained that I didn’t feel strong enough that evening to engage in new social contact and would have preferred to stay home had I known. I decided to leave, this triggered anger in my partner and that's how I left her place. I briefly encountered her friends outside. They seemed to understand my explanation, and the situation appeared to be resolved.
But in the months that followed, I noticed that this small incident was being used against me. One of the friends—who knew my ex from soccer—began to feature more and more in comments my ex made: that she “didn’t really like me,” that she “had her doubts” about me. Subtle signals that accumulated into a picture, even though I had barely met this woman. The judgment of who I was no longer came from direct encounter or personal contact, but from words whispered through my ex.
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Psychologically, this is a familiar pattern. Narcissists often employ so-called flying monkeys: people in their environment who, consciously or not, spread the negative narrative about the partner. It is a form of triangulation, in which the bond between two people is undermined by drawing in a third. For the narcissist, this serves multiple functions: it confirms their sense of being right, creates allies and puts pressure on the partner, who increasingly feels that her reputation is under scrutiny.
What at the time seemed like nothing more than an awkward misunderstanding turned out, in retrospect, to be the first step in a subtle yet destructive process: the construction of an alternative reality in which I was no longer seen as I was, but as my ex portrayed me. Later in the relationship, the friendship between my ex and this woman eventually collapsed altogether. The reasons always remained murky, but my ex often insinuated that our relationship had played a decisive role in its downfall. Even the end of their friendship was written onto my account.
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Family ties and narrative control
As the relationship progressed, it became increasingly clear how image-building also operates within family systems. My ex’s parents lived about an hour and a half away, and in the more than three years we were together, I only met them a handful of times. Toward the end of our relationship, they celebrated their fiftieth wedding anniversary with a large party. I was not invited. I only learned about it later from my ex, who acted somewhat mockingly indignant about it. But the image her parents had of me could hardly have come from personal encounters. It had to be fed by what my ex had told them.
I pointed this out to her: that the impression her parents had of me must have been colored by her. Her response was brief but telling: “Yes, I have something to set right.” It was an offhand admission of the power she exercised over the way I existed in the eyes of others.
Psychologically, this touches on a core mechanism of the smear campaign: control over the narrative. By steering interpretations of events, by selecting which information is shared and which is withheld, the narcissist determines how others see you. For family members or acquaintances who only know fragments of who you are, this image can become so convincing that it replaces reality.
Here psychology meets philosophy. Baudrillard, in his theory of the simulacrum, described how images and stories can detach themselves from reality and eventually become more important than reality itself. It is no longer the direct encounter that defines who someone is, but the representation—a narrative that presents itself as truth. For me, this meant that in the eyes of my ex’s parents I no longer existed as myself, but as a version of me that she had constructed.
Victimhood as a strategy
After the affair with the childcare worker, and after we got back together, my ex told me that she had spoken a lot about me with him. She presented this as if it had been in a positive light—idealizing or romanticizing me in their conversations. But deep down, I knew this wasn’t true. It seemed far more likely that she sought to gain his sympathy by portraying me as the one who had wronged her. It was a strategy I had seen her use before: positioning herself as the victim — and the other as the perpetrator.
This division of roles served several functions. To the outside world, it earned her understanding and support; for herself, it provided a way to shift pain, shame and responsibility away from her. She liked to present herself as the strong, single mother who, despite all the hardships in her life, managed to handle everything on her own — a picture that inspired admiration. Yet behind that image, she was often the source of chaos, misery and destruction in her own life. Victimhood functioned as a mask: a way to maintain control, harvest sympathy and simultaneously silence the other.
From a psychological perspective, this is a core function of the smear campaign: the externalization of guilt. By casting the partner as the perpetrator, the person with narcissism does not have to face their own shortcomings. The environment often eagerly accepts this narrative, because it is told convincingly and appeals to the human tendency to take sides.
Philosophically, this again connects to Baudrillard: the image displaces reality. The role of the victim was performed so carefully that at times it seemed more convincing than what was actually happening. For me, this meant a painful loss of recognition: the reality of my love, my commitment, my presence was actively overwritten by a narrative in which I existed only as the opponent.
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The psychological function of a smear campaign
A smear campaign is more than gossip or miscommunication. It is a strategy deeply woven into the dynamics of narcissistic relationships. Where the partner seeks closeness, honesty and recognition, the person with narcissism seeks to preserve power, control and self-justification. The smear campaign serves several functions:
Isolation of the partner
Through negative image-building in the environment, the partner is slowly cut off from her social support system. Friends, family, and acquaintances begin to doubt: “Could it really be true?” The isolation makes the partner more vulnerable and more dependent on the person with narcissism.
External validation of the self-image
The person with narcissism cannot bear their own faults and shortcomings. By placing the blame outside themselves, they create a story in which they are the innocent party. The support and sympathy of others confirm that image, allowing them to continue seeing themselves as the victim rather than the perpetrator.
Creating allies
The so-called flying monkeys—often people who genuinely believe they are helping—reinforce the narrative and increase the pressure on the partner. Their judgment functions as an echo of the narcissist’s words, making the distorted image take root more firmly.
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Erosion of identity
For the partner, the deepest wound lies in the loss of recognition. It is not only about damage to one’s reputation, but about the existential experience of no longer being seen as who you are. You lose not only (potential) relationships, but also yourself in the eyes of others.
This psychological mechanism makes the smear campaign so devastating. It is not merely an attack on what you do, but on who you are. And it is precisely at this level that psychology and philosophy intersect: the question of how truth, image and recognition relate to one another.
Philosophical layer – Truth, image and recognition
Baudrillard described how, in modern culture, the image detaches itself from reality. It begins as representation, a reflection of something real. But step by step, a simulacrum emerges: a copy that no longer refers to reality but only to itself. Eventually, the representation becomes more convincing and more powerful than the reality from which it originated.
In the context of a narcissistic relationship, this takes on a tangible form. The stories spread by the person with narcissism become a hyperreality: for others they feel more real than truth itself. People are more inclined to believe the carefully constructed narrative than the quiet, often invisible reality of the partner. The result is that the one who actually exists—with feelings, commitment and love—is replaced by a constructed image that circulates everywhere but corresponds nowhere.
Philosophically, this is an attack on recognition. The face of the Other, to use Levinas’s phrase, is covered by a mask. What remains is emptiness instead of encounter. The smear campaign is thus not only a psychological weapon, but also an existential rupture: the possibility of being seen in truth is taken away.
In this lies the deepest pain. Love, in its essence, is a movement of recognition: to see and to be seen—in vulnerability and truth. When this is replaced by illusion, by an image that leaves no space for reality, the ground in which love can exist disappears. Where love calls for openness, the smear campaign creates a closed universe of appearances.
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Conclusion – Reclaiming the narrative
A smear campaign is more than an attack on reputation. It is an attack on truth and recognition: an attempt to reduce you to a story that is not your own. For me, this meant having to choose again: do I allow myself to be defined by the images circulating about me, or do I reclaim my own narrative?
That choice found its form in my writing. My essays are my space, my voice, my truth. They form an anchor amid confusion and illusion. Along the way, I have drawn three conclusions that continue to guide me:
Narrative ownership
If I were to refrain from writing and sharing my truth, I would once again hand over power. Then it would remain up to the other to decide what story is told.
The bottomless pit of projection
Even if I remained silent, there would always be new hooks to feed an illusion. It is a mechanism that does not stop with my words, but seeks confirmation everywhere.
Truth as foundation
My website is my space, my anchor. Here I can lay down my truth, grounded in reality, without censorship. It is not an attack, but an act of healing and of loyalty to myself.
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In this sense, writing is also an answer to the philosophical question raised by the smear campaign: who defines reality?
The answer is, in this case, that I do, by refusing to let my voice be silenced. Where Baudrillard shows how images displace reality, I choose instead to reclaim the ground of truth through writing.
The smear campaign tried to erase me in a fog of illusion. But by reclaiming my own words, I recover not only myself, but also the possibility of love as a guiding principle: love rooted in truth, in recognition and in genuine encounter.
