Dear New Girlfriend of My Abuser

I hope my narcissistic ex isn’t treating you how they did me—and if they do, know that I’m here for you.

The chances are slim, and I think it’s more a matter of when, and not if. But I hope more than anything that I’m wrong!

I hope that you’re the woman that will help him end this cycle. I hope that you’re the one to make him a better person, to help him heal, to make him whole—save him even.

I hope this, not just for you, or for his daughter—but for him too. It’s a strange kind of predicament, to despise someone, yet wish them nothing but the best. Not only do they deserve better, despite the grief they’ve caused, but I know now, that a hurt narcissist is a walking pain-amplifier: Human cumulus clouds, they take their shade and looming thunder with, wherever they move.

It was with mixed feelings that I met you last summer, but trust me, jealousy wasn’t one of them. I felt a sting of sadness when I saw you, fresh-faced, rosy-cheeked and bright-eyed—You looked so innocent. When our gazes met, you were hiding slightly behind him, but quickly put on your brave-face that almost disguised your nervousness. You stepped forward to great me.

I can only imagine how you must have felt at that moment. Here I was in the flesh, the woman that I’m sure you’d heard a lot about, ten years your senior, the mother of his child, his partner for a decade. Personally, I would have been quaking in my boots, but like you, I, too, would have masked it behind a stoic face and a stern smile.

You’re exactly his type; pretty and kind of unassuming looking. I’m sure few pick up on that mischief hiding behind your calm exterior, but I did. I sense that we’re alike you and I; strong and soft, proud and gentle, and often, we give people the benefit of the doubt—a few too many times.

I immediately opened my arms and gave you a big hug. I wanted to hold on to you, to tuck you under my wings. Instead, I let you go, and lifted my daughter up to meet you as well:

—This is daddy’s girlfriend.

She hugged you too.

I felt compassion for you, love even. I wanted nothing more than for you to feel safe—to know that I’m not a threat. I wanted to show you that you can trust me and that I’m here for you—if you need me.

I want you to know, that if he ever turns on you, and you feel like you’ve got nowhere else to turn—you can turn to me.

I keep saying if, while knowing deep down that it’s a matter of when:

When the honeymoon phase is over; when he’s shown you all of his most charming sides, his wit, his silliness, his intelligence and creativity, his street smarts, his worldliness, and his vulnerabilities; when he’s taken you on a combined physical and mental trips that feel nothing short of magic; when he’s told you that you’re his perfect princess; when he’s built you up to feel as high as only he can.

Then, he’ll start tearing you down:

When he starts dropping ostensibly innocent comments that sow doubts about your desirability to him—the ones making you think that if you were just a bit cooler, more fit, more well-read, sexier (but not in a slutty way), less like those other girls—he’ll like you even more.

When he starts making a slew of seemingly inconspicuous comments that just don’t sit right, but you excuse them as harmless, clueless or a case of his class-clown-self speaking. When he eventually blows up on you, over something minuscule, and you end up staying up all night fighting until you forget how it even started.

When you cry yourself to sleep after, and wake up the next morning, still in shock. When you go on aimless walks to fathom it all, and you’re wishing that you had someone to talk to—perhaps someone with a similar experience.

Then, I hope you think of me.

When you do, I hope that you know that I’m here for you. I hope you have the courage to reach out. I hope you know that someone has your back—just like I wish I had back then.

What I wouldn’t give to have had someone to call when nothing made sense. But apart from his own close family, who were the only people I couldn't call, I knew no one who’d understand. I was alone in my bewilderment.

There was no one there to help me unpack. There was no one to tell me that I was strong, beautiful, fierce, and capable. No one to say that I deserved better, that what I experienced wasn’t right, or that it wasn’t my fault. No one to tell me that I wasn’t asking or expecting too much.

I wish someone had told me that I was young and had the world at my feet. I wish they had told me what I know now; that love isn’t scarce, but infinite and abundant, and that what I was experiencing was not love.

I’d never heard of verbal abuse, and I’d never heard the word narcissism. I’d never encountered any kind of mental illness either. I was basically clueless as to what I was dealing with.

I’m sure you’ve heard less-than-positive things about me—the vile woman that dumped her poor, grieving husband while their child was still a toddler. I have my suspicions about how I’m described to you, but I won’t speculate. Besides, he’s far too smart to trash talk me entirely, as that would put himself in a bad light.

I bet he adds just enough positive to make the rest seem trustworthy—and to portray himself as the gracious and respectful man he believes himself to be. I wouldn’t be surprised if the picture gets sprinkled with a few comments that make me sound a just a tad super-human to you—enough to add to your self-doubt and give you something to aspire to.

I imagine he tops it all with a snide comment about a part of my body that he liked—one that you happen to be insecure about yourself. (He was always very ‘goofy’ like that.)

Despite it all, I hope you’ll never be scared to come to me, if…

And if you do, I’ll tell you that you’re strong, beautiful, fierce, and capable. I’ll tell you that you deserve nothing but the best and that it’s not your fault. You’re young and you have the world at your feet. Love is not selfish or cruel, but infinite and abundant.

I’ll tell you that I love you too, because darling, I really do!