The Lost Letters: The Dark World of Narcissistic Abuse

Dance Of Destruction

Narcissists are natural born storytellers, and their stories are impeccable. I am a writer who creates entire worlds, and can spot the most subtle plot holes miles away. And I didn't see the lie. Because the narrative was brilliant. If you take anything from this chapter, this is all you need to know: Narcissists are going to tell you a story you cannot help believe, fall for, become invested in and care about. A narrative you are going to want to have a hand in changing the course of. You will be dragged into their story, their lie, and give them all your time, energy and love in trying to turn their poisoned past into a happy, healthy future. You will fail. The intention is for you to fail. You must fail.

Why? Because their internal narrative is critical to their existence. These carefully tended orchards of poisoned fruit are nurtured with fanatical devotion because the narcissist's identity is not who they are inside, (because there is nothing inside, and they cannot bear it, so they create their narrative to block that void). No, their identity is their story.

And on this flimsy, fragile foundation they initiate relationships, seduce their targets, and begin the long process of siphoning away the energy, empathy, and love, of those they impale with their arrow of destruction.

Eventually, the things you were told they needed, the things you have spent months giving to them: the attention they craved, the support they never had—the love they didn't get returned to them—changes into something else. Your gifts, given freely, and in a spirit of love become something nefarious in their minds. You become the problem. Your gifts become the cause of their unhappiness.

When you try to understand, to recall the things you discussed, what they said, the answer is always the same:

No. I didn't mean it like that. You weren't listening. You never listen. If only you would listen, you would understand what I want. You are just like all the others.

And yet, even as they say these things to you, in a way that makes you feel guilty, that troubles you deeply, you know they were very clear, they wanted exactly what you have given to them. And they did. But not anymore. Because you are now threatening to dismantle their narrative, which is a terrible crime. You are threatening their very existence. It has to stop. And it will stop, by them taking you apart piece by piece for having done precisely what they wanted you to do.

Doubt hits you at the speed of light. You scramble through your memories. No. You can clearly remember in the beginning as you lay in each other's arms, they confided to you if someone were only to do x then they would be able to heal, could at last be happy—they made it sound so simple you wondered why no one else could have done that for them. Perhaps they picked terrible people. You know you are not terrible. You are good. Kind. Driven by love and loyalty. Then you recall how you explored what they had shared, to be sure you had it right and had not misunderstood a thing. You learned precisely what they needed so you wouldn't hurt them like all the others had.

And because you love them, and want them to be happy, and because you want to bring your relationship back to that place where things were amazing, you work hard to please them, endure their moods, their sudden, inexplicable rages, their criticisms, complaints, and negativity because they are wounded after all. They need extra love and attention. And you have that to give. You are wired to give it. And they know it. That is why they chose you.

Deep empaths are unique; they are the only ones who have the strength to continue to sacrifice far beyond what anyone else could give. We tell ourselves if we just do this one more thing, just stretch ourselves that little bit further they will be better. That our endurance run through their gauntlet will all be worth it. You remember how good it was before everything turned dark. You have the benchmark. You were there. It was real. It can come back—if only you get this part right.