My mother often compared him to a game show host: perpetually smiling, always laughing, and cracking jokes. The festivities began only when he arrived. He thrived on the admiration of others and would chastise anyone who failed to validate his inflated self-image. But much like a game show, it was all a charade—and he was exceptionally skilled at it.
Reflecting on how deeply I became enmeshed in his world and the version of himself he projected to others has been a long journey. I never anticipated finding myself in such a situation; it crept up on me, the passage of time so gradual that it’s hard to fully grasp.
He entered my life like a whirlwind, from our first meeting to him essentially moving in within weeks. We were passionate and relentless, embracing the vibrancy of city life together. During that period, I missed the warning signs flashing around me; after all, it’s difficult to see red flags when you’re wearing rose-colored glasses.
Eventually, his disturbing nature began to surface. It started subtly, almost imperceptibly, and even now, I question my own perception of those early moments. Six years have passed, and much remains a blur, so I won’t delve into the details of his alcoholism and verbal abuse.
What I do know is this: he was a deeply unhappy and angry individual, and I bore the brunt of it. His constant distrust made me question my own reality, and he could change moods in an instant. By the end of our relationship, I was tiptoeing around him, fearful of provoking his wrath. He used to tell me, “My anger is like a storm. It’s intense and uncomfortable, but it passes quickly. You just have to endure it.” So, I spent the latter part of our time together navigating through a near-constant tempest.
The situation escalated to the point where I dreaded returning home, unsure of what state he would be in. Although he had never physically harmed me, I knew it was just a matter of time. I had become a mere shadow of my former self, losing friends and any sense of independence. I longed to scream that I was trapped, yet I struggled to articulate that feeling. Is it truly entrapment if I can still leave? As it turns out, yes. I reached a point where I hoped he would finally hit me, as that would provide a tangible reason to escape. I felt I needed physical proof of his madness.
The night I fled marked the first and only time he would become violent. I learned to gauge the kind of evening we would have based on how quickly he consumed alcohol. One night, after he polished off most of a bottle of tequila, I anticipated chaos. Determined to keep drinking, he insisted on a liquor store run despite his inebriation. I fought him for the car keys, insisting I would drive. In the vehicle, he threatened that if I ever left him, he would sleep with my mother instead. In a moment of rage, I slapped him, and he snapped, slamming the car into park and grabbing for the keys. I fought back, but he eventually yanked them from the ignition. In the turmoil, he assaulted me before I managed to escape and run away.
Left stranded in a bewildering suburb, I had only my cellphone. I called the police, who took over an hour to reach me because, apparently, I wasn’t experiencing a medical emergency. They escorted me back to gather some belongings, and then I left. I never saw those officers again; they didn’t even ask for my name, just wanting to ensure we didn’t kill each other.
After my departure, disbelief surrounded me. Since I had been so entwined in his life, most of my friends were his, and they all sided with him. No one reached out to me. I soon realized he had everyone fooled, not just me. Even the person who introduced us was baffled. “Him? No way! I know him! That can’t be true.”
It’s been over six years since I escaped, and I still occasionally find myself in a defensive state. The most significant scar I carry is a persistent mental fog, a remnant of my time with him spent “gray rocking”—acting unresponsive and uninteresting to navigate his chaos with minimal impact. Much of our relationship saw me mentally disengaged, caught in a constant fight-or-flight mode.
I still grapple with this state of being. Even though I sometimes feel awake, I often watch my life unfold as if through a screen, more like an observer than an active participant. It manifests in odd ways, including difficulty making decisions, particularly significant ones. I find myself drifting during conversations, trying to stay focused while preparing for all possible outcomes. This continual state of alertness is draining, leaving me perpetually fatigued—not only from the fog but also from the effort to explain my sometimes detached demeanor to those around me.
Moreover, I carry physical reminders from that time. When I think about it too deeply, my body tenses, and I become anxious and sweaty. For days afterward, I might feel low, which can affect my relationships, leading to irritability or disinterest—difficult to explain to my current partner.
I also carry a sense of grief. I mourn the person I was before him, the individual I thought he was, and the early stages of our love. Every day, I am grateful that I did not have a child with him or enter into a legal marriage. While it feels as though I dodged a bullet, I also sense that I didn’t evade it quickly enough.
I am now happily married to a wonderful man, and we welcomed a baby girl in July 2019. As a mother, I battle the urge to project my fears and insecurities onto her. My previous trauma resulted in significant postpartum anxiety, and all those fight-or-flight instincts I had lived with resurfaced.
I am committed to demonstrating to my daughter what a healthy relationship looks like and what respect entails. My husband knows about my past but not all the painful details. Despite his patience, we occasionally face communication challenges. When disagreements arise, I tend to shut down and become confused about my stance, often feeling an impulse to concede, even though he has never shown any traits resembling my ex.
Over time, my anxiety has lessened, unless I dwell on the past. I have come to accept that this trauma will always be part of me. While the pain may gradually become easier to confront, it remains a presence in my life. I sometimes find myself wanting to remember the good moments from that relationship, the lessons learned, and the boundaries I had to establish, but I question whether that inclination is simply another facet of his abuse.
The reality is, even though I escaped a narcissist, his influence lingers on.
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Summary
This piece reflects on the harrowing experience of a woman who survived an abusive relationship with a narcissist. It details the emotional turmoil, the struggle for autonomy, and the lasting effects of such trauma on her life and relationships. Despite moving on and starting a family, the scars of the past remain, illustrating the complex nature of healing from emotional abuse.
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