As my writing has progressed, so has my awareness. Awareness of just how messed up my life has actually been. Trained by a narcissist from birth, it became a way of life. To me, the abuse was normal — almost comfortable. No big deal. I honestly didn’t know any better. What a depressing realization.
Looking back over what I can only call a true train wreck, I’ve realized I repeated the cycle. Not once, not twice, not even three times. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve suffered at the hands of a narcissist.
I had been conditioned. In the 18 years I lived with my mom, I was well trained in the art of survival. In my early 20s, I started dating a wonderful guy — polite, honest, kind, generous. He was the whole package. I couldn’t have asked for a better partner, but I wasn’t comfortable in the role I had in that relationship. I wasn’t used to nice; I was used to harsh. Being taken care of felt foreign. I didn’t know how to handle it. After almost 10 years, I called it off. I was uncomfortable, and I didn’t think he was right for me. Turns out my nervous system is loyal to the wrong damn team.
So I fell for “my type”: charming, sweet, handsome, and a master at narcissism. I was good at being disrespected — that was my comfort zone. Controlling? I was all in. I would’ve made a great marionette. With each outburst, I became more comfortable, expecting abuse and unfortunately getting it. I survived living with him for three years and stayed married for another four. I had become numb to the insults and the beatings. Without it, I felt like I was doing something wrong. My body learned early that chaos was familiar, and familiar felt safe. Twisted? Yup. A seriously twisted kind of logic — but at the time, I had no clue.
The next ten years were a revolving door of narcissists. Some mild, some intense, but all abusive in their own way. And me? I followed the same cycle. My head knew I was being stupid. I knew I was being taken advantage of, manipulated, used. The numbness was what kept me alive in situations no one should ever have to endure. I adapted for survival, and it consumed me.
Determined to end the cycle, I moved back to my home state — back to where my parents were. Back to my mother, the reason for my warped sense of normal. But I had grown. I had survived. I felt I could keep her at bay and protect myself each time I had to see her.
For years, I kept to myself. No relationships. Just me, raising my autistic son. Therapy helped me see myself differently. I learned my weaknesses and the patterns I fell into. I decided to set boundaries — turns out that isn’t easy. I thought it was over. I thought I was more aware. I thought I could avoid another abusive relationship.
Surprise. Karma just loves me. I fell into the worst one yet.
It happened slowly, like they always do. And as usual, I handed her my remote. Here — control me. I can handle it. I felt broken. I didn’t know how to handle good. Trying to unlearn learned behavior? Difficult. But they tell me it’s possible.
For now, I’m going solo. No connections. No chances of being abused yet again.
No more remotes. No more puppeteers,
K.
I'm Still Here. Somehow... 