There’s something chilling, almost prophetic, about what happens when the narcissist drinks. You may have seen it: the shift, the flicker in their eyes, the unraveling of a soul that’s already been hiding behind masks. And when that mask falls, oh friend, it falls hard.
For the narcissist, alcohol isn’t just a drink; it’s a doorway. It cracks open whatever they’ve worked so hard to keep hidden—addictions, obsessions, deep-rooted rage. Maybe it’s not always booze; maybe it’s porn, gambling, sex—whatever promises them power for a moment. But today we’re talking about what happens when they get drunk, and believe me, it’s not your average night out. When the bottle takes hold, so does the recklessness—the kind that makes your stomach twist. They don’t care who they endanger physically, emotionally, or spiritually.
Ever seen someone insist on driving drunk because they can handle it? That’s not just arrogance; it’s entitlement. The narcissist feels above the law, above consequence. That steering wheel becomes their throne, and the road, just another stage where they act like God. Let’s be clear: drunk driving is a crisis no matter who does it. But when a narcissist is behind that wheel, they’re not just ignoring the rules; they’re rewriting them in real time.
And they don’t stop there. Maybe they hook up with someone they shouldn’t. Maybe they break a vow. And then here it comes: they blame the drink. “I didn’t mean to; I was wasted.” No remorse, just reruns of the same tired excuse. That’s the tragedy of it. For the narcissist, alcohol isn’t a mistake; it’s a permission slip, a license to sin without repentance. If they get caught, well, it’s your fault for not trusting them. It’s your words that push them—always someone else’s burden to carry. They just shrug it off, light another fire, and walk away from the ashes as if they weren’t even there.
And then there’s the rage. You’ve seen it; maybe you felt it. When a narcissist gets triggered with alcohol in their veins, it’s not just yelling; it’s explosive, destructive, dangerous. The air shifts, walls get punched, phones get thrown. Their face comes inches from yours, spitting venom you didn’t know they had inside. And if you dare to walk away, they’ll block the door, snatch your phone, hide your keys—not because they love you, but because they’re afraid. Afraid of being exposed, afraid of consequences, afraid that you might reach someone who still sees the truth.
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