He doesn’t just drain me financially, though that’s part of it. He drains me emotionally, spiritually.
He always needs the next thing—the latest piece of outdoor equipment, a video game, something frivolous from the grocery store. And when I’m not looking, he’s taking coins from the laundry money, or trading items I didn’t even know were missing.
It’s despicable.
But worse than the theft is the manipulation. Every time I call him out, he acts shocked, as if my expectations are unreasonable, as if I’m the problem.
And I pity him for it.
I’ve done enough research to know that he can’t help himself, not entirely.
A father who enables him, who justifies his behavior, has set him up for this.
But pity isn’t enough to erase the resentment building inside me.
Later, lying in bed, I stare at the ceiling, the events of the past twenty-four hours playing over and over in my mind.
The man I fell in love with is gone—if he ever truly existed.
In his place is someone I don’t recognize. Someone who smirks while pissing on me, who laughs at my discomfort, who takes and takes without giving anything back.
And yet, I stay. I forgive him.
Not because he deserves it, but because it’s easier than facing the truth—that I’ve tied myself to a predator.
That I’ve allowed him to strip away parts of myself, piece by piece.
But the cracks are widening, and I’m starting to see the ugly reality beneath the thin veneer.
The deeper I dive into learning about narcissism, the more I see Timmy’s reflection staring back at me in every word I read.
Love bombing.
Devaluation.
Triangulation.
Hoovering.
Flying monkeys.
Each term feels like unlocking a secret code to my own life. It’s like I’ve been handed a dictionary for a language I didn’t realize I’d been speaking fluently this entire time.
The literature is clear—never tell a narcissist that they’re a narcissist. They won’t accept it. Worse, they’ll flip it on you.
But I don’t heed the advice.
“I think you have narcissistic personality disorder,” I say, my voice careful but resolute.
Timmy’s eyes narrow, and the next thing I know, he’s furiously Googling on his phone. I watch as his brow furrows, then relaxes into smug satisfaction. He looks up at me, triumphant. “This isyou!” he declares, jabbing a finger at his phone. “You’rethe narcissist in this relationship!”
“What article are you even reading?” I demand, trying to grab the phone.
He tilts it away, protective, as if guarding sacred text. “It says here—controlling!You’recontrolling! Sure, maybe I’ve got some tendencies, butyou’retherealnarcissist!”
I can’t help but scoff. “Do you know how much I’ve researched this? I don’tcontrolyou, Timmy. I set boundaries—there’s a big difference. If you’d actually read anything substantial, you’d see your own behavior reflected back at you.”
He shrugs, a glint of mockery in his eyes. “What the fuck ever, Margaux. You’re a terrible person, and this article just proves it. Iknewit wasn’t me. Iknewit was you.”