I’ve had people whisper stories to me, tears in their eyes, hands trembling. They grab my throat and say, “They told me I made them do it.” That’s what the narcissist does under the influence. They don’t just lose control; they give it away willingly because control isn’t lost; it’s weaponized. You might hear, “Well, anyone can get aggressive when they drink.” Maybe. But here’s the difference: the narcissist won’t own it—ever. The bottle isn’t the problem; you are. Their cruelty is just a reaction to your nagging, their betrayal, their excellence deserved. They bend reality until they’re the victim, even when their hands are still clenched with rage.
And that, my friend, is the heart of the matter. It’s not just the drinking; it’s the complete and utter rejection of responsibility. It’s the spiritual rot that spreads when someone refuses to be held accountable—not by you, not by God, not by the law. And that’s what sets the narcissist apart; that’s what makes them dangerous.
Now, let’s talk about what happens when the narcissist lets liquor seep into their bloodstream and the mask starts to slip. Sometimes, brace yourself, they get wild. They’ll pull you close like you’re the center of the universe, as if no one else ever existed. The chemistry is electric. You might even think, “Wow, this is the most passionate night I’ve ever had.” But don’t let the heat fool you, because behind that frenzy is a fractured mirror. While you’re looking into their eyes, they might be picturing someone else entirely—someone they’ve been texting on the side, someone who feeds their ego a little harder or a little louder. And in the heat of that moment, they might even say the wrong name. Just like that, the truth slips out because the narcissist isn’t really there with you.
Their body might be sure, but their heart, their mind—it’s off collecting validation from another supply somewhere in the shadows. You’re just the backup, the placeholder. And the drink? That’s what lets them blur the lines without shame.
But the flip side is just as hollow. Sometimes they don’t want anything—no touch, no closeness—just bottle after bottle until they crash on the couch, dead to the world. Not because they’re tired, but because they’ve replaced intimacy with intoxication. The drink becomes their partner, their joint. They’re soulless; they don’t need affection from you; they’ve already numbed the ache with their substance of choice. And when you ask what happened, “I was just drunk”—that’s their favorite getaway car. Blame it on the booze and move on like nothing happened.
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