It’s taken me seven months to write this blog.
Seven months of emotional pain that felt like taking a hot, serrated blade to the chest and twisting it around in my ribs. Seven months of questioning myself about my very being. Seven months of wondering, “What did I do wrong? Didn’t I try everything I could to make sure you were happy? What was so bad about me that you had to say I made you a worse person?” Seven months of driving my friends and family either crazy or away from me.
It’s been seven long months of reclaiming my love for Depeche Mode and Halloween. Seven long months of writing down reasons for why I’m actually not as bad a person as the abuser made me out to be. Seven long months of reminding myself of all the things I did for them, all the sacrifices, and the long, drawn out nights.
Even now I find myself wondering in the back of my head whenever I go out with someone, “Are you just telling me a really good story? Whatever I want to hear so I’ll give you what you want?” I wonder if people mean it when they say they love me. I start pondering whether normal, everyday actions I’ve taken up are okay or not. I wonder if I’m weird for my taste in music or any other little nitpicky comments that were made.
Everyday I pick up pieces of myself and stick them back in place with superglue made out of the love of my friends and family. I remind myself to give everyone a fair chance, as what I ran into may simply be a one-time deal. I remind myself not to spin narratives in my head that will make me paranoid and self-sabotage before someone has even given me a reason to be paranoid.
These are just some of the effects of narcissistic abuse.