And then comes the question I hear all the time: why don’t they ever get what they deserve? Why doesn’t karma catch up to them? People say, “Oh, I’ve seen narcissists live to be 90, full of pride, untouched by justice.” But I ask you this: how do you know they’re not suffering? What makes you so sure they’ve escaped judgment? Just because they post smiling selfies or show up in public with their hair done doesn’t mean they’re not breaking inside. You don’t see the tears in the mirror; you don’t hear the screams into the pillow. You don’t know the weight pressing on their chest at 3:00 a.m. Some people walk around carrying depression like it’s their last breath, but you’ll never know it. They wear it well; they smile through it.
And the narcissist? They’ve made an art form of it. They’ll hurt hundreds and still pose like saints. But God sees. Pain has a way of collecting its due, whether through sickness, sadness, or isolation. It will find them. Sometimes that karma looks like a silent house; sometimes it looks like a full bank account but an empty soul. So don’t waste your energy counting their days; don’t measure their downfall like it’s your justice to serve. Just know this: nobody escapes the truth forever—not even the narcissist.
Let me tell you something real: when the narcissist starts drinking, it’s not just about numbing their pain. No, they’ve got an agenda. They want to take you with them. They don’t just want company; they want contamination. They want to drag you down into the same pit they’re crawling in. And make no mistake: that pit is deep, dark, and smells like smoke, shame, and regret. They don’t want to drink alone. Oh no, they’ll offer you the shot glass like it’s communion. “Drink with me,” they’ll say. “Relax, let’s have fun.” But what they really mean is, “Join me in the spiral.”
You don’t even see it at first; it’s subtle, it’s friendly—just a little toast, a little escape. But the more you drink, the more they own you. And they know it. It’s control disguised as camaraderie, seduction cloaked in influence. And if it’s not the bottle, it’s the pill. If it’s not the pill, it’s the blunt. If it’s not the weed, it’s the lifestyle, the late nights, the fast thrills, the slow spiritual death. You start to change; you start to bend; you start to fade into something you swore you’d never become.
That’s how it happens: that’s how the narcissist drags souls down—not with chains, but with invitations. You might have been healthy once—pure, focused, strong. But then you got caught in the crossfire of someone else’s self-destruction. Maybe you knew a person like that—a good person who fell in love with someone they shouldn’t have. They were clean, had goals—then they met a narcissist who handed them a bottle and said, “This is how we do life.” And now that person drinks just to function every single day. That’s not romance; that’s entrapment. That’s a slow spiritual poisoning masked as love.
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