When Timmy takes the bowl, running the mallet around the rim and proclaiming himself ‘better’ at it, grinning like a child who’s just won a game, my hands curl into fists.
It’s not enough for him to let her have a moment of peace. He has to dominate, to turn it into a competition he always wins.
And she lets him.
Not because she’s weak, but because she’s tired. Too tired to fight over something so small, even though we both know it’s not about the singing bowl.
It’s about control.
I want to do more than smudge Timmy. I want to erase him from her life, to burn away every trace of his presence like sage over a festering wound.
But for now, all I can do is watch.
Margaux’s discovery of narcissistic personality disorder was like finding the Rosetta Stone for understanding Timmy. Every article, every checklist—it’s like someone followed him around with a clipboard, taking notes on his every move.
But my pride in her findings are tempered by the weight of its implications.
“This is who he is,” she mutters to herself as she reads through the research. “This is what you’re dealing with.”
And Timmy, of course, twists it. When Margaux tells him he might be a narcissist— ignoring the advice never to do this, typical stubborn Margaux—he flips the script faster than I thought possible. “You’re the narcissist,” he declares, his voice dripping with smug satisfaction.
The audacity of it makes me want to throw something.Hedoesn’t even believe it. He doesn’t understand narcissistic personality disorder in the slightest, and only partially read one article about it.
He just needs to win.
It’s a game to him, a contest of egos where the only rule is that he can’t lose.
And the worst part? For a moment, Margaux doubts herself. His manipulation is that effective.
The night he pisses on her in bed, my rage reaches a boiling point.
He calls it an accident at first, his voice tinged with disbelief.
But when he smirks and says, “That’s the only leverage I had against you,” something in me snaps.
This isn’t just abuse.
It’s degradation.
It’s a calculated attempt to strip her of her dignity, and to remind her that she’s beneath him in his twisted hierarchy.
And then he laughs about it.Laughs.
I want to scream, to reach through the screen and grab him by the throat. To make him understand—really understand—what it feels like to be powerless. Chop his dick off so he can never piss on anybody ever again.
But all I can do is sit here, helpless, as he turns her pain into a punchline.
Timmy’s use of DEARMAN against her is perhaps the cruelest twist of all.
He introduced her to it as a tool for healthy communication, a way to navigate conflicts with respect and understanding. Now he weaponizes it, turning her own words against her, twisting the framework into a tool for gaslighting.
“You’rethe one who doesn’t stick to DEARMAN,” he accuses, his voice laced with condescension.
It’s infuriating to watch. She’s trying to engage with him, to have a real conversation, and he’s using the very method she learned from him to derail it. Every argument becomes a maze with no exit, a loop designed to exhaust her into submission.
By the time the fight escalates to tears, my anger is a storm, roiling and unrelenting. He mocks her for crying, his voice high-pitched and cruel. “Oh boo hoo, I’m so sad.Shut the fuck up.”
I don’t know how she survives it. How she doesn’t break completely.