Updated: Sep. 10, 2021
Originally Published: Sep. 10, 2021
“Your husband is a narcissist.”
Did I even shower that morning? I couldn’t recall. The days blurred together, making even simple choices, like what to wear, feel insurmountable. By the time I reached this point in my marriage, I had gone through couples counseling with three different therapists. Each one suggested that I might be the reason for my husband’s behavior. Perhaps I wasn’t affectionate enough, they proposed. Or maybe I hadn’t grasped his love language. They even hinted that my communication skills were lacking (as if “Stop hurting me!” wasn’t clear enough). Or, as my husband had suggested, maybe I simply didn’t love him anymore, which was why I wasn’t putting in the effort to salvage our relationship. Clearly.
A psychologist recommended by a friend—someone I was hesitant to see after past experiences—turned out to specialize in personality disorders, particularly narcissism. I was unaware of this specialization during our first meeting, nor did I know much about narcissism, other than the Greek myth about a man who drowned, entranced by his own reflection.
The initial session involved both of us. My husband used the charming voice he reserved for therapists (and any woman nearby) while I sat in silence, watching him manipulate the truth and portray himself as the victim, while I was painted as the emotionally unstable, unsupportive one. I feared the psychologist would soon declare, “This is all your fault.”
By the end of the session, I was too exhausted to defend myself, responding to his 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.”
Our time was up. As we left, my husband attempted to hold my hand, saying, “I think that went really well.” The tears I had held back during our session began to flow. I quietly withdrew my hand, got in my car, and went home, where I collapsed on my bed and cried for an hour.
While I tried to compose myself, the phone rang. A woman with a thick Russian accent asked for my husband. “Who is this?” I questioned. She dismissed my inquiry and hung up.
The next day, the psychologist called, offering to continue our sessions… separately. My husband went first. When he returned home, he said nothing about his session, but his smug demeanor suggested it had gone well.
My appointment followed a week later. Anticipating a session filled with accusations about my shortcomings as a wife, I braced myself for the worst. Surely, the psychologist would echo my husband’s sentiments. Instead, the psychologist’s compassionate gaze during the first few minutes of our session made me tear up. His kindness was something I hadn’t experienced in a long time.
“Your husband is a narcissist,” he stated.
In typical fashion, my mind deflected, fixating instead on whether I had showered that morning.
The psychologist continued, “He doesn’t even see you as a human being with feelings, which is why he believes he’s done nothing wrong by pursuing those young girls. He boasts about how they admire him and flirt with him. He is oblivious to the pain he’s inflicted upon you and your children. Narcissists only care about themselves.”
The “young girls” he referenced were a group of four Eastern European women who had come to our town for summer work. My husband was among the first to welcome them.
The psychologist labeled them “girls” because that was how my husband referred to them. He had used the same term defensively when I confronted him about my growing suspicions. When I questioned his newfound interest in learning Russian (he even bought a notebook for his lessons), he insisted it was merely to help them feel at home. “But those girls are just kids! How could you think I would do anything so disgusting?”
They were of legal age—old enough to engage in relationships without legal repercussions, but not old enough to drink. My husband even bought them alcohol and attended their parties. I discovered this alongside countless other alarming details that left me feeling nauseous.
As the psychologist continued to dissect my husband’s character, I mentally checked out, pondering what I would make for dinner. I thought about the glass of wine waiting for me at home, knowing I couldn’t indulge too much without suffering a hangover.
The psychologist elaborated on how, even if my husband changed today (which he believed was impossible), it would take decades to repair the damage he had caused to our family. I thought about taking a bath when I got home, retreating into a safe mental space to escape the harsh reality that was clawing at me.
My husband, who no longer liked to drink with me, likely enjoyed alcohol with those girls. I reminisced about my high school days when acquiring alcohol was simple, with a drinking age of nineteen back then. We had drive-up liquor stores where employees either didn’t care about checking IDs or were easily duped by a car full of teenage girls.
The psychologist painted a troubling picture of my husband, suggesting that if he pursued any change, it would take a lifetime to mend the harm he had inflicted.
The session drew to a close, and the psychologist paused, making eye contact with me. “Do you understand what I’m trying to convey?”
I nodded, realizing in that moment that, at 45 years old, after three kids and over a decade of marriage, the truth was undeniable: I had married a predator.
This article was originally published on Sep. 10, 2021.
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In summary, this narrative explores the harrowing journey of a woman grappling with the realization that her husband is a narcissist, leading to profound emotional turmoil and self-reflection.