The central feature shared by all forms of narcissism is a strong sense of entitlement, the belief that one deserves special treatment, recognition, or privileges across many areas of life.
But narcissism doesn’t just show up in one flavor. It wears different masks, the most common being grandiose and vulnerable narcissism. Grandiose narcissists are the ones who walk into a room convinced they’re the main character, expecting applause just for existing. Vulnerable narcissists, on the other hand, are more likely to see themselves as the world’s most misunderstood victim, quietly convinced that no one else has it as hard as they do. Underneath it all, both types are fueled by that same old entitlement and self-absorption.
Still, I’m not sure narcissism fits in a neat box. A person can be both grandiose and vulnerable, depending on the situation.
Most of my thirties feel like a blur, as if I spent much of that decade dissociated. I was able to function, take care of responsibilities, but I wasn’t fully present. I don’t know why I feel such a strong need to remember my thirties, but I do. A large part of my girls’ childhoods unfolded during that time, and I wish I could recall more of those moments clearly. That decade holds so much of their growing up. I mention the narcissism because for teh most of my thirties, I was also navigating life alongside a narcissist, and I think surviving that required a kind of emotional distance that made forgetting feel inevitable.
A key indicator that you’re in a narcissistic relationship is when things only remain peaceful as long as you suppress your feelings, thoughts, and opinions. The moment you begin to assert yourself, express discomfort, or challenge their behavior, even gently, the dynamic shifts. My ex planted himself into my life like a tree, not a seed to be nurtured to grow. He completely blocked my vision, deprived me of my freedom to enjoy time with my family and friends, and then, when he had isolated me, he became abusive and sadistic.
Most of what I remember from my thirties is the abuse. I try to reach for the good memories, but they feel few and far between. I was under so much constant stress that my body began to fall apart. My eczema was out of control. I broke out in hives. I was always sick, with bronchitis, colds, one after another. I spent much of my thirties ill, which is striking for someone who normally doesn’t get sick easily. Still, kids are walking petri dishes, and every time something went around, I caught it. My anxiety was at its worst.
I wasn’t in control of my life. I walked on eggshells, constantly monitoring my behavior to avoid making my ex angry. I remember one day in particular: I was sick, exhausted, and still had to go to work. I told him I felt gross. Instead of empathy, he launched into a speech about how I should feel honored that he chose to be with me, how I should be grateful that he was around at all. The response made no sense. Looking back, I like to think that if I had been in a healthier place, I wouldn’t have let the word honored slide so easily.
Even the good memories with my girls are often overshadowed by bad ones involving my ex. Once, I took the girls to get burgers and snapped a picture of the three of us in the parking lot. I just wanted a photo of me with my girls. When I showed it to my ex later, he immediately focused on how he’d been left out, accusing me of not thinking about him. Moments like that made it incredibly hard to fully enjoy time with my girls; joy was always conditional, always waiting to be corrected or punished. You know, I don’t even know how I was able to go get food without him coming along. He must have been playing a video game and decided to stay home.
Anywhere I went, he was always there. The only time I truly had to myself was when I was at work. Even at home, there was no privacy. If I got up to go to the bathroom, he followed me. I learned quickly that being alone, even briefly, wasn’t allowed. I rarely used my phone at home, not because I didn’t want to, but because it always led to accusations. If I were on it, I must be talking to someone else. Anyone but him. It was easier to stay disconnected than to defend myself constantly.
I don’t know how I managed to go to school during that time. I went back to college, and I passed, but it feels like I have nothing to show for it. I can’t remember what I was taught. I actually liked school; it was interesting, even fun, but the stress erased it. It feels like wasted time, not because I failed, but because none of it stayed with me.
School was hard, not because of the homework, but because I was never allowed to fully focus. My attention was expected to belong to him at all times. Homework wasn’t something I could just sit down and do. If I took a break or stopped to eat, he treated it as an opportunity to demand sex. He said I owed him because I hadn’t been paying enough attention to him while I was studying. He decided how long I was “allowed” to work, usually no more than twenty minutes at a time, and even then, he talked to me the entire time. There was no quiet. No space. No uninterrupted thought.
Hobbies? Forget it. I couldn’t read a book because that meant I wasn’t paying attention to him. Journaling was off the table, too. The only reason I managed to journal at all was that I used LiveJournal, somewhere he couldn’t access or read. Scrapbooking wasn’t allowed either. He didn’t like it. It took too much time away from him, and anything that didn’t revolve around him was treated as a problem.
I couldn’t see my friends unless he was invited to come along. The same was true with family. My relationships were never just mine; they were filtered through him. And the worst part was that most people thought he was a good guy. A few noticed something was off, thought he was creepy, but many more believed the version of him he showed to the world.
By the end, I felt like I was fighting just to show people who he really was. Some people I tried to warn; others I didn’t even bother with anymore because I knew they wouldn’t see it, or wouldn’t want to. Over time, it became clear that he didn’t actually have friends, only drug buddies. As everything unraveled, things grew genuinely scary. His behavior spiraled, and the situation felt increasingly out of control. He knew he was losing his grip on me.
The fights became more frequent and more intense, largely because I stopped giving in to his demands. I started pushing back, setting limits, and refusing to comply, and he couldn’t tolerate that. He began lashing out at my family, picking fights with them, and the carefully crafted façade he had maintained for so long started to crack. In public, he would throw tantrums if I wouldn’t buy him something, acting like a child, unconcerned with who was watching.
Even when he went to jail, the control didn’t stop. He demanded to see receipts because I refused to buy him speakers while he was incarcerated. I remember one Mother’s Day in particular: my girls made me pancakes, sweet and proud. But instead of fully soaking in that moment, I had to take them to their grandparents so I could go visit my ex at the prison. I lived in constant fear, fear that if I didn’t do exactly what he wanted, something terrible would happen to my girls or to me. That fear followed me everywhere, even when he was behind bars.
The day I finally decided I wasn’t going to visit him anymore stands out clearly. Afterward, he called me furious, because when I saw him at the prison that day, I didn’t cry. My lack of visible emotion enraged him.
I try to hold onto the good memories. I really do. I remember taking the girls to their first concert, Big Time Rush, and how excited they were. That should be a purely happy memory. But even that has been clouded by the abuse, overshadowed by his presence and his demands. I feel like I was constantly forced to give him so much attention, so much emotional energy, that I sometimes worry my girls didn’t get all of me during those years.
They always had my attention, I know that. But I still wonder what moments I may have missed, what emotional space I couldn’t fully give them, because so much of me was consumed by surviving him. And it wasn’t just him being controlling. It was him being on drugs, using me to get his drugs, the alcohol, the threats, the violence, the narcissism.
Toward the end of my thirties, with Tommy and Kel’s help, I sold my house and packed up the girls and all our animals, driving halfway across the country. I’m much happier now, and healthier, too. The transition wasn’t easy at first. A new place, a new school for the girls, an entirely different rhythm to life. It took time to settle in, but it was worth it.
As for today, not much is happening. I studied and did some laundry, just a small load. Tommy needed something washed, so I went ahead and did the whole load of clothes. It shouldn’t take long to put away.
Merlin wanted to stay outside, while Everest wanted to come in. Everest is sleeping now; she really seems more like an inside dog. Merlin, on the other hand, loves being outside more than anything, well, maybe not more than food.
We did have tacos last night. We only cooked half the meat, so we’re making the other half tonight for more tacos. I’m also making some salsa to go with dinner.
Alexis has been having some trouble with her computer lately. While she was watching Netflix, the screen suddenly went white and staticky, and the graphics for her games and movies had been sluggish for a while. Even after a restart, the performance hasn’t improved, and that white screen keeps flickering back. I’ve already made sure the drivers are up to date, but since it’s a prebuilt machine, I went ahead and registered it with the manufacturer. We should receive a customer number within 72 hours, and then we can finally submit a tech support ticket.
I’m going to go make some salsa for tonight’s tacos.
