Learning to Live Again in the Aftermath of a Narcissist’s Future Faking

Today would be our wedding anniversary

In another life, today would be my one-year wedding anniversary. In that life, I had no idea I was planning a wedding that would not, and could not ever be, because the man I loved was living a double life.

I managed not to think about it for most of the day. I focused on my last few hours with my kids before they left for their Dad’s house for the week.

I read a few articles on Medium and tried to get caught up on comments.

I snuggled with my dog. I cleaned my house.

And then after posting an article, I looked at the date.

October 17.

All the memories I’d been trying to avoid hit me like a freight train.

We’d picked this date together. We planned to get married in a little white chapel in a small Texas town. We knew who would officiate, where our reception would be and we often talked about inviting the hodgepodge group of friends we’d made on all of our adventures. We decided my oldest son would walk me down the aisle, my younger son would be the best man and my daughter the maid of honor.

All of these things, I believed would be true. While he knew all along it was a lie.

As the memories flooded in, I looked out my window to the place he used to park his truck and I wondered if any part of him remembered today. And then I scolded myself for wondering such a foolish thing. Remembering would mean admitting to himself that he lied to me for two years straight — and I now know a narcissist's brain is hardwired to conveniently forget the ways their actions destroy anyone who tries to love them.

There’s an unexplainable heartache that being conveniently forgotten brings up within me. It’s pain all people healing from narcissistic abuse know too well — the pain of loving someone so much who never existed and being conveniently forgotten by the fake person who did.

It truly is a special kind of hell to be left to figure out life in the aftermath of future faking.

I originally planned to spend today at the beach. Before I met him, the beach was my favorite getaway. The kids and I would make the two-hour drive at least once a month and hang out for hours in the sun. We boogie boarded and made up games and listened to the wise ocean and her advice.

After he came into our lives, he started joining us there, too. We showed him all our favorite spots. We taught him the games we’d made up. He and I even rang in the New Year of 2019 there, together.

Little did I know at the start of that year what kind of devastation was awaiting me. Or that every time we drove to the beach, we passed right by his other life. The one which included a wife, three dogs, and a new house.

After finding out the truth, I stopped going to the beach. This became one of the many joys he ripped away from me with his lies.

I’d intended to take back that piece of my joy today. However my son had homecoming last night and my daughter had cheer practice today and well, we don’t always get what we want when the kids come first.

So instead I’ve been here in the apartment we used to share telling myself I wouldn’t write about him— yet constantly getting pulled back to this keyboard.

I guess I have things I need to say.

There are pieces of him here still and they are covered by the dust of the memories we created together. Though I’ve thrown most things away that remind me of him, I’ve left other things in full view — not sure of what to do with them.

The olives and sauces he bought when we used to cook together are still in the back of my fridge.

The side of the closet where his clothes once hung remains bare.

There is a dollar bill that used to be his behind the nightstand on what was his side of the bed.

The dry-erase calendar we kept track of our travel schedules and the kid’s activities on is still stuck to the kitchen wall — frozen in time — July 2019.

While I now know and have known for two years that the life we were building was all make-believe, part of me is still holding on to something. I’m just not sure what.

Admitting that to myself just now pushes me to audibly sob as I type these words.

I’ve healed so much, yet there is still pain.

After I wrote the words above, I took a break to try and recalibrate. I went outside and watched the sunset. It was a spectacular display of pinks, yellows, and sunset orange — my favorite color.

Then I walked to my refrigerator and cleared out everything still leftover from him. I pulled the calendar off the wall, rearranged my closet, and put the dollar in my daughter’s wallet.

And then I let myself mourn the loss of all the things that would never be again.

In the grand scheme of things, these actions individually are small. However, as a whole, they represented something I have been unable to do until now — finally clear out the last remaining bits of memories still lingering within my view.

I can’t get back the time he stole from me. I can’t remove him from the memories he inserted himself into. But I can continue to do my best to move on with grace. To keep my chin up. To understand that there will be days when the hurt is so heavy that I sit here and sob as I write, but with each passing moment — I am further away from him and the devastation he left me in.

And as time continues to pass, there will be new memories without him which he’ll never be able to steal away from me again.