It Ends with a Bang — Not a Whimper

This is how your world ends when you love a partner with NPD — Letting them go is not a choice if you want to survive.

In T.S. Eliot’s poem, The Hollow Men, he describes a world filled with empty people. These straw men roam the earth in something that could best be described as a Twilight Kingdom — a foreboding place that resembles the underworld.

These empty souls pass among us and move around us seeking to be reanimated (from the Latin animus meaning breath) but too soulless to become real in any sense of the word. The living can only temporarily breathe life into these hollow men. So they must constantly seek this fuel, this gift of living breath, in order to feel alive.

I loved my narcopath who consumed me completely. In the end, there was nothing left. I felt it coming. In his indifference, his cold apathy, and the way he stared at me as if capturing a mental snapshot to carry with him when it was time to go. The cold black glittery eyes that burned holes in my soul the night he took off his mask as he sat across the room from me in our a little Airbnb in Portugal. I don’t know what the devil really looks like, but I’m pretty sure that he captured it quite accurately at that moment. It was pure evil and murderous intention. It’s as if he were overcome with some derisive kind of pleasure in imagining the torture that he would soon inflict upon me. I couldn’t understand what was happening. But it was the face of abject evil. And whatever Luciferian entities entered him took over at that moment. This was the same man who was so awesome and kind and wonderful and sweet and soft-spoken year after year after year of our marriage. After episodic periods of distrust and insecurity, and after 16 long years sprinkled with joy and bliss, ignorance and denial, I think I actually believed that he would always be by my side. I told myself it was just a rough patch. A bumpy spot. It was just a momentary lapse of reason. It would certainly pass. The signs were there, and the writing was on the wall. But I refused to look or listen. The possibility that he might leave was too much to consider.

For the past 16 months since his unexpected departure, I have suffered the anguish that only the victim of abuse and mind-fuckery could possibly understand. I know that the people around me do not understand why I cannot seem to recover and move on. But this isn’t a regular break up or divorce. This is the aftermath of trauma bonding and years of conditioning so that my addiction and attachment to the torture is bigger than me. It owns me. I belong to it.

Ever since I was a child, I have been locked in a room with a monster in the corner. My mother put me there and left me to die. I desperately tried to claw my way out, screaming and wailing and begging for rescue from the beast that grew fatter from my fear until one day it gobbled me up and I had no choice but to surrender.

Since that early carnage, I have repeated the same scenario three times with the men in my life. I suppose it was my best effort to reconstruct the scene of the crime with similar actors and the same monster in the room. And each time, the ending was the same. I never found my way out. I was hopelessly bound to the beast, tethered to the torture, knowing I would cease to exist if I managed to escape.

So I stayed.

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And each time, I was brutally devoured by the beastie. The one I loved and knew so organically and intrinsically, the one without mercy or compassion.

The morning he left without warning, he said,” I don’t believe in your God. I don’t believe in your morals. I don’t want what you want. I’m not like you. Everything you’ve ever told me was a lie.”

He was completely without emotion, aside from laughing at the texts that one of his whores was sending in the midst of my complete annihilation. In the days leading up to it, he continued to say he loved me and held my hand and showed affection and kindness. The speed with which he changed was mind-numbing. None of this was normal or typical. This was some crazy demon fueled pathology and evil that consumed him so that I could not find anything recognizable in him that even resembled my husband. He was irreverent, defiant, cruel… smirking with an arrogance that kills.

It felt like I had been stung by a venomous snake and that instead of seeking help, I just held onto it as it continued to sink its poisonous fangs into me over and over again. I couldn’t let go. I was paralyzed. I should have pushed him away and run to safety… escaping with my life. Free from the madness.

But I couldn’t. I just held him as he wrapped around me and repeatedly injected the lethal poison into my veins. I couldn’t even try to save myself. The toxin was so powerful I couldn’t even move. I couldn’t believe that he was trying to kill me. Injure me. Pierce me to the bone.

Later, when I went to energy healers and alchemists and people who were tuned into some otherworldly vibration, they said that he had Luciferian entities that had possessed him. They described how these things had entered me through him, using him as a conduit for evil. His demons had infected me as well. But it didn’t matter. I loved him anyway. Even if it killed me. At least he would be beside me when I died.

Most normal relationships begin to fizzle and slide into the pit of no return after many arguments, long painful talks, and half-hearted efforts to save the relationship. It takes a while, and over the months and years that you both know you might be headed in the wrong direction or different directions or maybe just no direction at all as you drift in a sea of apathy, it slowly sinks in and becomes clear. You have the time to process and prepare. Negotiate and settle. Build resilience and courage.

But in a relationship with a disordered narcissist or psychopath, the end comes out of nowhere and punches you in the face with a force that breaks your neck and your heart at the same time.

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Sure, none of this is rational or reasoned. It is something much more insidious and lethal. A heroin addict that got tangled up with a covert narcissist recently reported that withdrawal from a relationship with a narcopath or sociopath is worse than withdrawal from heroin. On a cellular level, they alter your very DNA. On a mental level, they carve out deep ruts in your brain and destroy the healthy chemical balance. On a physical level, they plant trauma throughout your body that detonates after they leave, transforming your flesh and bone into a quivering, trembling mess, unable to even stand or sleep or survive. Whimper or wail, you will want to die, and you will want to kill. Nothing will ever be the same.

It doesn’t end with a fizzle or slow wilting away. A relationship with a narcopath feels like diamonds but turns you to dust. You can’t imagine life without them. You can’t imagine breathing without them. So when they discard you, it is the end of you. It is a kind of death. The gunshot blast blows you to pieces, and it ends with a bang.

So what power do you have if you are tangled up with a disordered partner?

You have to break down the door and get out of the room where you are bound to the beast. It will not suddenly transform into a handsome prince. There are demons in him that you cannot defeat. You already know how it ends. He kills you. Every single time. You die. That’s how it’s scripted. That’s always how it ends.

So what do you do when you see the glittery black murder in their eyes?

You run.

When you know, you go. Get out and stay out. No contact forever. It is your only chance of survival if you want to live. Even if you believe you will die without them, you might not. But you definitely will if you stay.

He is a beast. He only knows how to destroy. Maybe someone put him in the room with the monster and instead of being consumed, he became the abomination. I spent years feeling sorry for his curse and believing I could fix him. I loved him enough to take his pain, to carry it for him, to try to wash it away in the holy waters of my faith and devotion, but it was never enough to save him or transform him or restore his soul.

Maybe disappearing and ceasing to exist is not the worst ending. You might find a way to discover a new life and a new identity outside of that room. One thing is for certain. If you love the beast and cannot leave him, you will lose everything that ever mattered and you will most certainly die.

Educator, aspiring humanist, composer of words. Survivor, warrior, healer, believer. Visit my website: & contact @

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