Not long before my ex and I broke up, we were reading Jon Ronson’s Psychopath Test together.
The book provides a checklist of psychopathic traits, including a grandiose sense of self, a lack of empathy, a parasitic lifestyle, pathological lying, glib and superficial charm and a lack of remorse.
He looked up from the pages in realization. “Wow, I think I might be a psychopath,” he exclaimed. It seemed like an outrageous statement to make, but he wasn’t joking. He wasn’t too far off, either. Later, he would describe himself as a narcissist.
As well as the above traits, narcissists have a complete disregard for the thoughts and feelings of others, and this enables them to manipulate the people around them. Their self-important and egotistical behaviors are coping mechanisms, often used to avoid feeling shame or vulnerability. They seek out codependent people who can feed their need for admiration, and many of them proceed to wreak havoc on those people’s lives through psychological, physical and financial abuse. Around 8% of men and 5% of women are narcissists, and their abuse is estimated to affect 158 million people in the U.S. alone.
My narcissist had come into my life several years earlier, with a confidence that pulled me into his orbit. I was seduced by it, mainly because it was something I’d never had. I saw him as somehow better, stronger and more resilient than I was, and this was only the start of our differences. He was abrasive with a hot temper, while I was nonconfrontational, almost to the point of being a doormat. At the time, I thought this made us a good match.
In the beginning, he was “helping” me work on my confidence and assertiveness. He would instruct me to recite affirmations in the mirror and tell me how I should change how I thought about myself and acted around other people. This seemed like an attempt to build me up, but in reality, he was asserting power over me by making me feel inferior. In doing so, he laid the foundation for what was to come.
Eventually, he became unhappy with even the smallest things I did. The way I looked at him, talked to him or touched him would often be wrong. I’d become hyperaware that there were consequences for every misstep. He would be particularly angry with me if I disagreed with him in public, as he perceived this as a way of tarnishing his image or reputation.
One night, we engaged in political chatter with another couple over dinner, and over the course of the evening, the three of us questioned some of his views in a light, friendly debate. When we got home, he berated me for “ganging up on him” and “embarrassing” him. Occurrences like this caused me to become even more passive than I already was, walking on eggshells to make sure I didn’t upset or shame him.
He had an insatiable need to look good in every way, using arrogance to prop up an ego that was always one small dose of reality away from falling apart. His main weakness was the word “no,” which he couldn’t bear to hear even in response to small requests or offers. This, he admitted, was a trigger of his, so I did my best to avoid it.
Any success he had was solely the result of his own excellence, but he always placed blame for failure or mistakes on someone else. This attitude often caused friction with other people outside the relationship. When he upset my friends or family, I would talk it out with them while he wasn’t around. I took on the role of peacekeeper, constantly putting out fires he’d lit with other people by making excuses for his callous behavior. I explained away every mistake he made, just as he had to me. Foolishly, I believed that they just needed to understand him the same way I did.
Then, the gaslighting started. He would insist that he’d said or done things that I had no memory of, or deny saying things that I was sure I’d heard. If I ever questioned his behavior, he lashed out and made me feel as if I was “crazy.” This led me to question myself instead. I doubted my judgment, my worth and even my own sanity.
This didn’t happen all at once. It was a slow drip-feed that took place subtly in the background of our seemingly happy relationship. I put up with the lows because the highs were so high, and this often meant holding out for long periods without feeling loved or valued. When you’re starved of affection, you’ll do anything for the tiniest crumb.
I was constantly making myself smaller in order to make him feel bigger, tiptoeing around his fragile ego to make sure it stayed intact. I was the breadwinner, while his income was sporadic, with just a little money coming in every few months. This meant that I paid for everything, and I had to do so as subtly as possible. If I ever acknowledged his lack of contribution, it would trigger an argument. So I quietly took care of everything. I thought that this was an act of love.
The end became clear when I reached a breaking point, telling him that I couldn’t bear how he was mistreating me any longer. When I asked if he was willing to do better, he declined. He didn’t see why he should have to.
“Then you should leave,” I said.
