My mother often compared him to a game show host—always grinning, always laughing, always ready with a quip. The excitement only began when he entered the room. He thrived on the validation of others and criticized those who didn’t share his inflated self-image. But like a game show host, it was all a ruse—one he executed flawlessly.
I’ve spent countless hours reflecting on how I became so enmeshed in his life and the facade he presented. I never imagined I would find myself in such a situation, but it crept in slowly, time passing in a way that still feels surreal.
He burst into my life like a whirlwind, going from our first meeting to practically living together in just a few weeks. We loved fiercely and worked hard, our pace relentless, as we reveled in the vibrancy of city life. Throughout this whirlwind, red flags flew by unnoticed; it’s hard to recognize them when you’re donned in rose-colored glasses.
Eventually, his darker side surfaced. It was a gradual unveiling, so subtle that it often slipped past my radar. Even now, looking back, I question my own perceptions of those early days. Six years have passed, and while much of it remains a blur, I’ll spare you the grim specifics of his alcoholism and verbal abuse.
What I do know is that he was a deeply troubled and angry man, and I bore the brunt of it. He made me doubt my own reality and was fiercely suspicious of my actions. His moods shifted rapidly, and I lived in a constant state of caution, always afraid of provoking him. For the last year of our relationship, I walked on eggshells, dreading when the next outburst would strike. He would often say, “My anger is like a storm—intense and uncomfortable but over quickly. You just have to ride it out.” So, I spent my days navigating a near-perpetual tempest.
The situation escalated to where I dreaded returning home, unsure of what mood would greet me. Though he hadn’t physically harmed me until that point, I sensed it was only a matter of time. I had become a shadow of my former self, losing friends and my sense of independence. I felt trapped, yearning to scream that I was ensnared, but I struggled to articulate my entrapment. Was it really entrapment if I could still leave? Yes, it was. I even hoped for a reason to escape, wishing for physical evidence of his volatility as if the psychological abuse wasn’t enough.
The night I finally left marked the first and only time he would lay hands on me. I learned to read the signs of his impending rage, especially based on how quickly he consumed alcohol. One night, after a few too many drinks, he insisted on driving to the liquor store despite being inebriated. I wrestled him for the car keys, offering to drive instead. In the car, he threatened that if I ever left him, he would sleep with my mother. I slapped him, and in a flash, he snapped, grabbing for the keys. As he clawed at me, I ultimately gave in, managing to escape as he sped off.
Stranded in a confusing suburb with only my cellphone, I called the police, who took over an hour to arrive since I wasn’t in a medical emergency. They escorted me back to gather a few belongings, and then I left, never to see those officers again. They didn’t even ask my name; they simply wanted to make sure we didn’t kill each other.
After I left, disbelief followed me. Because I had become so intertwined with his life, most of my friends were his, and when he left, they did too. No one reached out to me. I realized he had deceived everyone around him, not just me. Even the person who introduced us was astonished—“Him? No way! I know him! That can’t be true!”
Six years have passed since I escaped, yet I still find myself in a defensive posture. The most significant mark he left on me is a persistent mental fog, a residue of “gray rocking”—acting unresponsive and dull to minimize his mania’s impact. I drifted through our time together in a constant state of fight-or-flight.
This lingering state often manifests in strange ways—like difficulty making decisions, particularly significant ones. I catch myself zoning out during conversations, struggling to focus while also preparing for all potential outcomes. It’s draining, leading to constant fatigue, both from the fog and from trying to explain why I seem disengaged.
I also bear physical reminders of my past. When I dwell on it too long, my muscles tense, and I feel a rush of panic. I may sink into a low mood for days, affecting my relationship with my current partner, who finds it hard to understand my sudden shifts.
Additionally, there’s a sense of grief that lingers. I mourn the person I was before him, the illusion of who I thought he was, and the early moments of our love. I’m grateful every day that I didn’t have a child with him or marry him; in some ways, it feels like I dodged a bullet, but in others, it still feels like I didn’t evade it quickly enough.
Now, I’m happily married to a wonderful man, and we welcomed a baby girl in July 2019. As a mother, I find myself battling the urge to project my fears and insecurities onto her. My past trauma triggered significant postpartum anxiety, and the fight-or-flight responses I had long suppressed resurfaced.
I am determined to show my daughter what a healthy relationship looks like and what respect truly means. My husband knows about my previous relationship, though not every painful detail. Despite his understanding and kindness, we still face communication challenges. In arguments, I often shut down and even lose track of my stance, occasionally feeling the urge to concede, even though he bears no resemblance to my ex.
Over the years, the intensity of my anxiety has diminished unless I dwell on it. I understand that this trauma will always be a part of me, a lingering pain that grows less sharp over time. Occasionally, I feel tempted to remember the positive aspects of my past relationship—the lessons he inadvertently taught me about boundaries—but I wonder if that desire is simply an echo of his abuse.
Ultimately, though I escaped a narcissist, his shadow will forever linger in my life.
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Summary
: The author shares their experience escaping an abusive narcissist, detailing the gradual unveiling of the partner’s darker traits, the emotional and psychological toll it took, and the ongoing struggles with anxiety and trust in new relationships. Despite the challenges, they emphasize the importance of understanding trauma and the desire to create a positive environment for their child.