Because the narcissist doesn’t want a strong partner; they want a dependent one. They want someone just as broken, just as lost—someone who won’t walk away because they can’t even stand on their own. The moment you need them or need the substance they gave you, they’ve won. That’s how they keep you—not through love, but through addiction, through disorientation, through confusion. And don’t think for a second that you’re their first love. No, their heart belongs to the high, the thrill, the rush—whatever drink or needle they crave. That’s the real lover; that pill, that secret addiction—that’s who they go home to. You’re just the shadow in the background, the audience for their self-destruction.
Now hear me on this: you don’t have to go down with them. When they say, “Come with me,” you say, “Not today, Satan.” When they offer the bottle, when they light the joint, when they whisper temptation dressed as fun, you turn away. Because the price isn’t worth it—the price is you: your peace, your calling, your soul.
But if you stay, if you watch closely, you’ll notice something. When that mask slips, when the alcohol flows, the truth starts to ooze out. Oh, they try to keep it in; they fight to hold it back. But the bottle has a way of loosening lips and unlocking secrets. Have you ever heard a narcissist drunk? I mean really drunk? The stories they start telling, the names they start dropping, the insults that spill out like venom—that’s not the alcohol talking. Often, that’s the truth they’ve been burying. It’s ugly, it’s raw, it stings. They’ll tell you who they hate; they’ll tell you what they really think of you. And the next morning, they’ll say, “I didn’t mean that.” But let me tell you something: they did. The mask slipped; the filter broke. And for just a moment, you saw what’s really behind the curtain.
And that truth? That’s your wake-up call. Maybe they start talking about someone at work, some harmless friend they’ve been seeing a little too often. Maybe they mention a shady business deal, a violent past—something they swore they’d never speak of. And in that drunk haze, they hand you the truth like a confession they never meant to make. And the moment they sober up, they panic. They cover, they gaslight. “It was nothing,” they say. “You’re imagining things.” But you’re not. You saw the real them, and now they’re terrified that you’ll never unsee it.
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