“Your husband is a narcissist.”
Had I even washed my hair that morning? It felt impossible to remember. Days blurred together, making even simple choices like what to wear feel overwhelming.
By that point in my marriage, I had tried couples therapy with three different therapists, all of whom hinted that perhaps I was the cause of my husband’s behavior. Maybe I wasn’t affectionate enough, they suggested. Maybe I hadn’t deciphered his love language. Maybe I simply didn’t know how to express my emotions (as if saying “Stop hurting me” wasn’t clear). Or maybe — just as my husband claimed — I no longer loved him, which supposedly justified my lack of effort in our relationship. Clearly.
The psychologist I reluctantly agreed to see, recommended by a friend, specialized in personality disorders like narcissism. I had no idea about this when I first walked into his office, nor did I understand what a narcissist truly was beyond the myth of Narcissus, who drowned in love for his own reflection.
Our first session involved both of us. My husband used the same charming tone he reserved for therapists and women nearby, while I sat in silence, watching him twist the narrative to paint himself as the victim, and me as the emotionally unstable one. I half-expected the psychologist to turn to me and say, “This is all your fault.”
By the end of that hour, I had no energy left to defend myself, responding to the psychologist’s questions with one-word answers.
“Would you like to add anything, Emily?”
“No.”
“Do you hear what your husband is saying?”
“Yes.”
“How are you feeling right now?”
“I don’t know.”
After our session, my husband attempted to hold my hand as we walked to our cars. “I think that went really well,” he said.
The tears I had been holding back began to flow. I withdrew my hand, got into my car, and went home, collapsing onto my bed and sobbing for an hour.
While I was trying to catch my breath, the phone rang. A woman with a thick Russian accent asked for my husband. When I inquired who she was, she simply said “never mind” and hung up.
The next day, the psychologist called to say he would continue seeing us — separately. My husband went first, and when he returned home, he said nothing about the session, though his smug attitude suggested it had gone well.
My appointment followed the next week. I braced myself for the worst, expecting to be told what a terrible wife I was. After all, my husband had already voiced those criticisms countless times.
However, the psychologist’s initial silence and the compassion in his gaze made me tear up. His first words were unlike anything I had heard in years: “Your husband is a narcissist.”
In that moment of stress, my mind momentarily drifted back to whether I had showered that morning. The psychologist continued, describing my husband — a man I still loved and shared children with.
“He doesn’t view you as a person with feelings, which is why he doesn’t see anything wrong in chasing after those young women. He boasts about how they admire him, even flirt with him. He has no conscience regarding the pain he’s caused you and the children. Narcissists only care about themselves. He doesn’t even care about those girls; they simply meet his endless need for validation.”
Those “girls” were a group of four young Russians or possibly Ukrainians — I wasn’t sure. In any other situation, I would have cared about the distinction, but I chalked up my confusion to the trauma of my situation.
They had come to our small town for summer work, and my husband was among the first to welcome them. He had used the term “girls” to defend himself when I confronted him about my suspicions, insisting he just wanted to help them by learning their language.
But these girls were of legal age — technically adults, though they were still young enough that it made my stomach churn. It wasn’t long before I discovered he was buying them alcohol and attending their parties, a revelation that led me to constant stress and sleepless nights.
While the psychologist continued to dissect my husband’s behavior, I mentally checked out, thinking about what I would make for dinner and the glass of wine waiting for me at home. I recalled my high school days, when drinking was easy, with drive-up liquor stores and older guys willing to buy us alcohol.
The psychologist explained that even if my husband changed tomorrow (which he believed was impossible), it would take years to mend the damage he had done to our family. I retreated to a mental space where I could evade the harsh reality staring me in the face.
My husband had lost interest in drinking with me, so I wondered if he indulged with those girls.
As a teenager, I had been used to men much older than me making inappropriate advances. I had always felt a sense of repulsion during such encounters but had buried that feeling deep down. When I learned of my husband’s interest in these young women, I had convinced myself he adhered to an unspoken moral code against pursuing young girls, believing I was safe from predators.
But the truth was now painfully clear.
At the end of our session, the psychologist paused, making sure I was looking at him before asking, “Do you understand what I am trying to convey?”
I nodded, realizing then that, at 45, after three children and over a decade of marriage, the harsh truth was undeniable.
I had married a creep.
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