Letter to My Replacement
When a Narcopath Brings Out His Weapons of Mass Seduction, Sisters Will Murder Each Other with Their Bare Hands!
One crisp autumn day around the time my divorce was final, I received a text message with one word.
I immediately knew it was from one of my replacements. I was amused by the idea that it required several of them to equal one of me. I was wounded by that word and that I had held down the fort for over 15 years for nothing. Who knows how long he will last with his fresh supplies. It could be months or it could be many years, but it doesn’t really matter because I know it will end the same. I have seen the interior regions of his soul, learned how it is shriveled and withered and dark like a blood clot nestled in his chest where his heart should be. It’s easy to have pity and feel sorry for him. It’s easy to make excuses and believe that someday he’ll be better. But he won’t.
Narcissists don’t change, sociopaths don’t change, psychopaths don’t change, and whatever combination of these things that he is plagued with, one thing is for certain — change will never come.
So what about her? The one who sleeps beside him now.
I imagine her. And I can feel his hands on me as I think how they move across her. I know he will look away when she tries to hold on and hope for intimacy. I see him on his knees, towering above her as he tears open her soul like a soft peach. He tells her she tastes like papaya or a blood-red pomegranate. Her heart swells. He flows into her like holy water and anoints her with his baptismal fire. She is converted and consumed. He loves the way she makes him feel, but he doesn’t know what love is.
She thinks that if she’s clever enough, creative enough, willing to bend and sway enough, that she can keep him. She will give long speeches about how she is not jealous like I was. How people can’t possess another human the way I tried to do. How no one is a stranger. How she doesn’t mind if he beds a new friend from time to time. She will take on additional lovers, too in order to show him what it feels like to share. To see if there’s a spark in his eye when he knows she won’t come home sometimes. But if he is threatened, it’s not because he loves her and doesn’t want her to have that special intimacy with anyone else. He’s only threatened that he’s losing some of her precious fuel, attention, adoration, and all the good energy that flows his way. He worries about a dearth economy, and he wonders if there will there be enough to go around. And that only compels him to find his own diversions and thrills and excitement between the legs of other random girls. He thinks she is perfect to give him his freedom while giving herself so completely.
I imagine her, paying the rent, acting as his meal ticket, and telling herself she’s part of a team and that they are partners. Maybe she’s capable of that blissful blindness and self-delusion that allows people to look at something absolutely horrific and tell themselves it’s the best thing they’ve ever had. It’s funny how we trick ourselves that way. Maybe she really loves him. Maybe she’s just doing everything she can to keep him. And then there’s a final possibility. Maybe she’s a narcissist or a psychopath, too. It’s common knowledge that as cluster B people age, instead of finding fresh young victims to fill their emptiness, they turn to others like themselves. What do they say about birds of a feather flocking together? That’s exactly what they do when they get older. They flock and they flirt and they f*ck and they fizzle. If both of them are empty and dead inside, it’s interesting to me to try to conceive how they can feed each other’s ravenous hunger.
So here’s my message to you, my dear replacement.
“Enjoy him while you can. Soak up all of his sweetness and tenderness and kindness. It’s not what you think. That same courteous and kind, adorable hunk of burning passion is capable of the most calculated crimes and callous cruelty imaginable. The time will come after he has devalued you, after he has sucked you dry, after you have given him the best of you and have little left for yourself — he will gut you like a pig.
He will slaughter you without remorse. And after the bloodbath, as he stands there smirking like the devil himself, gazing at you with contempt and hatred that burns you like fire, then he will delete you. Erase you. Forget you. You will no longer exist at all. And every single moment of ecstasy and bliss, of sweet and tender moments, of kindness and generosity, will all fall away in an instant and be replaced by fear and pain and grief and despair.
He is a beast. A monster. A serpent. A dark angel.
It’s coming, I promise. He will take that beautiful, charming, adorable mask off for you too, and when you see what is behind it for the first time, black glittery eyes like the devil and a smirk that wishes you dead. . . you will finally understand.
I know what he tells you. It’s such a pity he had to endure so much because of terrible, horrible me.
He says I’m old and ugly. Hmmm. He never complained for the 6,293 days and nights he lay down beside me.
He says I was jealous and possessive. Hmmm. Could it be because he sent d*ck pics, had cybersex girlfriends, watched porn constantly, flirted incessantly, tried to seduce anything with a heartbeat, and hired prostitutes? Can you say STD?
He says I was depressed and emotionally unavailable. Hmmm. Maybe if he didn’t get asked to leave every single job he ever had because of creepy inappropriate actions, cause me to sacrifice my career to compensate, make trouble for my family, betray and humiliate me repeatedly, and make me feel like I have no reasons to be upset, then sure. I think I may have been pretty demoralized and battered by the time we got to the last few years of our marriage.
I have proof. I have his letters where he confesses, journals he wrote while in therapy and 12-step programs, job records that told what he did, and his victims and witnesses who could testify what he is. He wrote it in his own words time in again. He knew what he was behind that fabulous fake facade.
He said, “I think I am a sociopath with sadomasochistic tendencies. I am attracted to young girls because they have such flawless skin like a doll. I don’t think I have feelings of guilt or fear like normal people. I’m not like everybody else.” His words. All of it. In writing. But you know what? He would always find a way to deny it even with the proof in your hands right in front of his face. He never worries because he knows he’s got you hooked. You’re already knee-deep in the hoopla. You have no power to resist.
There are two sides to every story.
Narcopaths “blame-shift” and play the victim. Don’t be stupid. Don’t be so hung up and how he’s so well hung that you can’t do a little digging and find some bits of truth buried somewhere in there. For every bit of bliss, you will pay in pain 100 times over.
If I live long enough to witness it, I hope you will find me and we can swap stories and mend our wounds together. When you discover what he is and what he is not, and when he takes everything and leaves you with nothing, come sit with me and I’ll make you a cup of tea.
Do you know where to find me? I will be writing about what he did, what’s wrong with people like him, and what I’ve had to do to live through it all without dying. I’m going to write about that to educate the whole world about what this is and how these dangerous people are and how you can survive what they do to you. It is my new mission. I will write about it, make podcasts about it, videos about it, work tirelessly till my last breath to expose what this is. . . this sickness of the soul.
This narcissistic psychopathic madness destroys people and ruins lives. I want to scream from the rooftops so the world will hear and know and understand the danger. I want to help those who are ruined and confused and hopeless. It is life-threatening, and some don’t make it to the other side. Lives are ruined, futures, decimated, victims invalidated and erased.
So you know where to find me. The end could come in months or it could be years. There could be marriage and babies. His family might embrace you. They never really accepted me because I wasn’t age-appropriate, and there was something a little offputting about an academic bi-racial Thai vegetarian inserted into a group of feral carnitas and mole-making Mexicans that still makes me wince, then smile sometimes.
Time will pass. And through all of this, he will wear the mask. He will be the good partner. The good man. The dream come true.
But please make no mistake. You will pay. You will pay with your life and with everything you hold dear. It will destroy you and everyone you love. All will pay for your bad judgment. And when he goes, he will leave you with nothing. I promise that it will come. It’s just a matter of time.
He imprints memories on you daily. He creates patterns to condition you like a dog with treats and words and touches, glances, and routines that are comfortable and safe. He will call you funny nicknames and cross every boundary that makes you flinch and feel shamed by saying, “It’s okay. I am your husband.” You will hold him in the night and breathe deep to absorb the smell of his skin in the organic way that parents love their children. You will feel complete, sheltered, fulfilled, at peace. Then you will feel uneasy, violated, shamed, and the over-arching theme will be that you are simply “not enough.” Intuitively, you will know something is not right, but you will ignore it and fall deeper and deeper into the rabbit hole.
But it is not real. It is an illusion. And you will live in that shared fantasy until the day he walks out the door. I know you won’t believe me. He has painted me as some crazy old fool who is obsessed with him. Who can’t move on or let him go. Someone emotionally unstable and mentally disturbed. But make no mistake, he will blame you too and vilify you and demonize you when it’s your turn to be discarded. He can never accept any accountability or responsibility for what he does because that would mean he’s not the good guy that he thinks he is. So he makes up a new narrative, a fantasy illusion in his head, and he lives in that rabbit hole. He knows he lives in that dark maze because he has told me that in his more candid and lucid moments.
I know it’s impossible to believe and that he has portrayed me as the unstable crazy woman who is obsessed and dispossessed. That’s called trauma bonding, and it will happen to you, too. You will not be able to let go, either, and then you will know exactly what I’m experiencing when it happens to you.
Your biochemical reactions to what he does to you will jack you up for years after he has kicked you to the curb for something fresher, newer, and juicier. You will store it in your body and your cell structure and DNA will be altered by the experience. He will be your drug of choice, more powerful than heroin. You will shake and tremble for weeks when he leaves you and be terrified that you can’t make it stop as you gasp for breath with panic attacks so severe you will be able to actually see your heart pounding against your chest. You won’t understand or believe what is happening, and you will beg him for mercy. There will be none.
We live in a new world where fidelity, loyalty, and morals do not thrive. People run about doing whatever they feel like doing with whomever they feel like doing it wherever they feel like it. There are no more rules or boundaries in many new partnerships and couplings.
I always thought that women would stick together and protect each other, but I was wrong. They will steal your man and laugh about it. They will not hesitate to lay down with a man who clearly has a ring on his finger. It means nothing to them. And there’s more and more of these women out there all the time.
It makes them feel powerful and sexy and strong. But when you meet a narcopath and fall in love with him, the clock is ticking and you will lose all of your strength and power in the end. We will both know what it feels like to realize that there is some other woman that he has been with when he comes home and crawls in the bed beside you. She will linger on him in the crowded bed and growing space between you.
Women should hold themselves together and hold their legs together and stand together as women. There is a code — never take something that is not yours to take. People have their own agency and power and freedom, but if you are decent and with honor and morals, you give yourself to one person, just one, for the rest of your life until death do you part. And for those who see no rules or boundaries, for those who believe the false narratives because they want to believe and need to believe so they can pursue their own selfish agendas, shame on you.
Karma is a bitch. And that narcissistic psychopath who has you eating out of his hand, he’s got you. He’s exploiting you and mining your resources and using you for his own dark desires in ways you cannot imagine until it’s over. You already drank the Kool-Aid. He’s in your blood and has attached himself like cancer that spreads and wraps around your spine and sinks into your bones. You will bleed in the end. And he will drop a nuclear bomb on your head that will blow you to smithereens. He will do to you what he did to me. Get ready.
I wish I had known what was coming and heeded the cautionary advice. People warned me but I didn’t listen. I didn’t believe them. I believed in him. In the power of us. No matter what he did, I stayed and looked the other way. He took his sleek silver gun and fired bullets past me just for the sport of it since all of it is nothing more than a game, always missing but making it clear that he held all the power. My life belonged to him.
I played along and danced the dance and dodged the torpedoes until that one day in June 2019 when he took all of those pretty bullets and put one of them point-blank between my eyes.
Now you have taken my place. I must step aside and give you the opportunity to learn what I did. Maybe you’re smarter or stronger. Maybe you’ll get away before he is done with you. Maybe you are one of his kind and just as dead and delusional as him. So when you’re sitting across from him and listening to his long protracted dialogues, study him. Try to imagine what is behind all of that word salad, circular reasoning, imaginary world smoke and mirrors. Try to picture his face contorted with disgust, his eyes black and shiny as obsidian. Staring, sulking, smirking — checkmate.
If you can imagine a glimpse of that future, then perhaps you can prepare for it. And just remember, for every moment of sublime joy, you will pay many times over. It will change you forever if it doesn’t kill you.
Someday, you will join my tribe and you will discover the truth. Until then — ”
‘Pra.jin’ Pesqueda was a teacher and writer long before her dysregulated husband discarded her in the final stage of narcissistic abuse on June 18, 2019. Since that time, she has embarked on the most difficult journey of her life and has leveraged her experience as the wife of a narcopath and her master’s degree focusing on guidance & counseling to write about this phenomenon, her personal sojourn, and ways to heal.
Visit her website: http://www.narctroopers.com
Read her articles: https://www.pesqueda.medium.com and other writing platforms such as Elephant, Quora, and coming soon to YourTango
Listen to her podcasts on numerous global platforms including https://open.spotify.com/show/1R89wBm2XGfWo56p52dNBv
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