Murder Is the Best Option
A Wicked Little Tale for Disordered Lovers Everywhere
It’s common knowledge that Paris is for lovers. When my husband and I first married in a whirlwind blur of tumultuous madness, we landed in Paris and rented an apartment for a month near Saint-Germain-de-Pres in the core of the 6th arrondissement. In addition to sipping espresso at Café de Flore and wandering down the banks of the Seine with crepes in hand, we stumbled upon a choir practice in the oldest church in Paris, the Église de Saint Germain des Prés where we lit candles and whispered prayers for the dead. And it was there, with the dead, that we found our most enchanting moments. Of all the magical destinations we discovered, our favorite was Pere Lachaise Cemetery. Our hearts were full of happiness, and a calm settled deep into our bones as we wandered down the winding cobblestone paths hand in hand. We were at peace as we lingered among the dead, and a sense of timelessness confirmed that we would transcend this life and remain together for many lifetimes to come.
Time passed. Years passed. And my convictions never weakened, never faltered. In some indistinguishable way, I just knew that this person beside me was knitted to the very fabric of my life in a way that bound our souls forever.
But all was not what it seemed.
Sixteen years later, we found ourselves in the same place. It was just days before the final discard when he suddenly abandoned our marriage out of the blue, out of nowhere. I remember that last visit, observing nearby school children as they studied various forms of life in a pond. We rested on the same bench beneath the same willow that now assumed a premonitory feel. The canopies stretched high above into the blue sky and surrounded us with our own private alcove. I always had such a feeling of wholeness and comfort when he was beside me. I studied him as we moved through the dead, his original awe and wonder replaced with complacency that only comes from the passage of time. Little did I know what was just around the corner as we explored the City of Love for the last time.
He warned me in the very beginning. Before we were anything more than a speck on each other’s radar, he said some of the truest things that he ever said in our entire sixteen years together. He said, “There is something wrong with me. People say that I don’t have feelings like most people. I am cruel and coldhearted when it comes to walking away from relationships. They tell me that I have no emotion and show no remorse. It always ends up badly.”
Somehow, it was easy to dismiss the warning. If I had known then what I have come to understand now, that a narcissist will often warn you in the very beginning before the cycle of abuse begins, I would have run for cover. I would have run home to my children and bolted the door until the danger had passed.
But I didn’t do that.
My injured and broken little girl who lived in a dark corner inside of me suddenly awakened and reached for this dark stranger with a desperate longing. My damaged inner child spoke to his little boy that showed no signs of life, and immediately fell to her knees and begin trying to revive him. I should’ve stopped her. I should’ve been self-aware enough to know that you cannot bring back the dead. That this was a predator, a poison, a serpent. He was a chameleon, a threat, an end to everything good and pure.
But I didn’t know that.
There were so many red flags and so many family and friends who grabbed my arm and said, “Stop! What are you doing? This is insane. There is a cliff ahead and you’re headed straight toward it, full speed ahead. You have to step on the brakes. Please, stop!”
But I didn’t listen.
I was the only one who didn’t get it. Who just couldn’t see it. Who refused to acknowledge that which was so clear to everyone else. They all knew it, and he even knew. But sometimes you can’t accept something when your heart tells you, “Keep going. This is undeniable. It is familiar. It is everything you always wanted and never managed to find. He is your destiny.”
I thought it was familiar because we had traveled together through centuries, and he was my long-awaited soulmate. Nothing else mattered. But the familiarity I felt was actually his mental illness. Like every significant person in my life going back to the origin of it all, my pitiful mother, it was his sickness that felt like home.
In the end, he destroyed me in the most savage and brutal way imaginable. All those years of bliss and betrayal, ecstasy and excuses, loyalty and lies, healing and hurting — it was all for nothing. I was left with nothing.
So there I was — foolish girl, sitting in the wreckage, unable to stand. Each time I tried to get my footing, the mountain of annihilation beneath my feet shifted and pulled me down again. The love was still there. Real, organic, unconditional. But there was also so much more that was pathological and delusional and insidious. I had become addicted to the intermittent reinforcement in the cycles of abuse and reward. I was face down in the Kool-Aid, brainwashed, a loyal cult follower as I worshiped the charming and seductive Prince of the Dead.
When a narcissist or sociopath or psychopath has had their fill of you and decides to cast you aside for a new or shiny replacement, they slit your throat so exquisitely that you don’t even feel it or notice that you are bathed in blood. You crawl on the slippery floor on bloody hands and knees, begging them to stay. At that moment, you know you would rather bleed to death right there on the spot than to survive and live a life without them. The agony and despair of separating from a union with such an individual is indescribable. You are trauma bonded. The addiction is like heroin, and when your drug of choice walks out the door, you die a thousand deaths. Every morning you open your eyes in disbelief that your heart is still beating and that you’re still breathing. You mumble gratitude, “Thank you God for helping me survive another night,” while silently wishing you had never awakened at all. This is not your regular break up. This is not your regular divorce. This is something that resembles torture and brain damage and soul rape and an extinction-level event.
In just a few more months it will be two years since the sudden, shape-shifting, Big Reveal. . . that moment when he removed his mask and the loving smile changed to murderous contempt in mere seconds. No warning. No clue. No discussion. Nothing.
They have to murder you.
That is the only ending to the story. It is the only way that a narcissistic psychopath can end the cycle and begin a fresh new life in a fresh new place with a fresh new victim. Oh, the irony — my replacement is French, and she and my narcopath moved to the destination I had always dreamed of going in my final years to watch the sun sink into the sea. When they kill you, it won’t be quick or easy… the torture is extreme and dehumanizing.
The victim served as a proxy parent who allowed the narcopath to reconstruct the tragic dynamics of his childhood. He has to punish you and thereby punish his dead, bad mother. And in the end, by killing the symbolic mother that you have unwittingly been playing all this time, he is free and redeemed enough to move onto the next target.
One good kill deserves another.
It’s actually pretty easy to understand the sick roles that you have played with one another once you look back in retrospect and do a deep dive on Cluster B disorders. But what you don’t know is that your freedom from the brainwashing and addiction does not end with their departure. It’s something you have to work on and earn over many many months and possibly many years. And I have discovered one thing that helps more than anything else in the recovery process. If you want to be free, totally free, this is the only way.
You must murder him.
You must murder him in the same way that he murdered you. There are no weapons of destruction or actual physical harm, but the murder is final and complete and oh so necessary for your recovery.
You can imagine how he died, have a mock funeral or memorial, burn things in a raging fire, light some candles, say some prayers, play some music, eat some food. Celebrate the moments when you believed that he was the Alpha and the Omega, when you believed he was destined to be one with you forever. Then accept that he is dead. Mourn him and grieve him as you would a person who is no longer one of the living. Because with Cluster B personality disordered individuals, they are already dead. They died a long time ago. They killed themselves when they were very, very young as a way to stop the pain and suffering that they were experiencing from their childhood trauma, abuse, neglect, and worse. They are empty. They’re hollow. There is no one in there. . . just a shell. A beautiful, pretty colored shell. Nothing more.
So you have to go on with your life and be glad that you are one of the living even though there are some days you wish you were not. You must practice gratitude that you do have a heart and soul that is capable of recovering, loving again, trusting and being vulnerable, and achieving complete freedom from this waking nightmare.
It is possible to arise from this dream. It was a nightmare, so you have to let it go. You can’t live in that dark place. Your narcopath will never be able to set himself free from his curse nor will he ever be able to have real emotions like love, intimacy, empathy, or mercy. He is beyond help. He is a vampire. He is the walking dead.
Once you accept the reality of this, once you accept the truth of what he is and what he can never be, you must mourn his loss because he is dead. And you must celebrate and be ever so grateful that you are still alive.
Every time you miss him, remember he is dead.
Every time you are tempted to break “no contact,” remember he is dead.
Every time you think you can never be free of this, remember he is dead.
Keep saying it. Believing it. Living it. Accepting it.
He is dead.
That is the truth, and the truth shall set you free.
Prajinta Pesqueda is a veteran of the war against C-PTSD caused by a 15-year marriage to a mid-range narcissist-sociopath addict as well as her own Cluster C disorders including layers and decades of unprocessed trauma. Her journey to recovery requires her own healing that must come from the inside out. She is a recovery facilitator and holds a Master’s degree with an emphasis on guidance and counseling.