This One Thing Drove Me Crazy About Loving a Narcissist

My need for others to realize I wasn’t crazy

“He’s being really terrible to me,” I say.

My friend doesn’t miss a beat.

“You mean the guy who’s given you a beach house?” she says.

“Just because I spend time at the beach doesn’t mean he’s good to me,” I say.

I hang up the phone.

I’m beyond frustrated I feel completely crazy.

This is one of my best friends. She should believe me. But she doesn’t. She’s completely enamored with a handsome, successful, fun, and incredibly charismatic guy.

She’s treating me more like a sister than a friend.

You get what I mean.

Sometimes with family, we lack a bit of respect and boundaries.

But even my family believes me. They see my truth. They want me to leave my husband. They love him but they don’t like the way he now treats me. They see me for who I am.

They know my faults but know I deserve better.

My sister tells me she’s talking with my uncle.

“He’s always seemed like such a nice guy,” says my uncle.

“Yes,” says my sister. “But he isn’t good to Colleen.”

My uncle immediately believes my sister’s words and my truth.

I don’t need to feel crazy around my family.

The rest of the world is a different story. I anguish not only in my relationship, I anguish in my untold truth. I don’t know why I care. But I do. I need people to understand who and what I am dealing with.

I wish I didn’t care.

I wish I didn’t feel any need to explain myself.

But I do.

At this point, I think I can blame it on the diagnosed narcissist I have married. Although he is not yet diagnosed with a narcissistic personality disorder. That will come a few years later.

When I sit in our marriage counselor’s office.

“You’re not crazy,” says my marriage counselor.

“How do you know I feel crazy sometimes?” I ask.

“Because your husband is two very different people but the rest of the world will never believe you,” he says. “But make no mistake about it. Down deep it’s all about him.”

I should have run for the door of his office.

And then I should have run for the door of my house.

And then I should have run for the door of my car.

You get the point…I should have made my escape.

I loved a narcissist who made me feel crazy. He was the love of my life, my best friend, the life of the party, and the greatest guy in the world.

He was also a cold bastard.

A tear-inducing bully, a detached and vacantly physical presence sleeping next to me. A man who made me feel lonelier and crazier than I ever knew possible.

I shouldn’t have cared if anyone knew my truth.

I shouldn’t have cared if anyone knew I was married to two men.

I’m not sure I can blame it entirely on the narcissist. Because quite frankly, the narcissist didn’t give a sh*t about anything or anyone. It was me who cared.

I was the one who cared what our inner world thought.

It was exhausting.

I think anyone who has loved a narcissist will relate.

It was completely exhausting. It’s exhausting thinking about how exhausting it all was. It’s exhausting reliving loving a narcissist. It’s exhausting recalling leaving a narcissist.

It’s all exhausting.

There’s one thing that drove me crazy about loving a narcissist.

My need for others to realize I wasn’t crazy.