And when the rage comes? Oh Lord, run. Some pass out, some explode, some shatter lamps and scream and hit walls. The rage isn’t new; it’s just been caged. And when the alcohol opens the door, it comes barreling out like a beast—the kind that puts holes in drywall and bruises on souls, the kind that sends police sirens wailing down the street. This is why so many toxic homes turn violent when the drinks come out: because the narcissist can’t contain what they’ve refused to heal.
And if you’re dealing with the covert kind—the quiet one, the one who always seems calm—don’t be fooled. That mask is just thinner. Their truth leaks out slowly, almost sweetly, like poison in a cup of tea. But when the night’s long enough, when the drinks have flowed enough, even the covert will say something they wish they hadn’t. That’s when you catch them. That’s when the light shines through the cracks.
But listen to me: don’t ignore what you see in those moments. Don’t explain it away. Don’t excuse it with “They were just drunk.” No, that was real; that was the real them. And now you’ve got a choice. You can stay in the pit, or you can rise. You can let them pull you into the fire, or you can walk out with your head held high. But don’t wait for them to change; don’t wait for the apology that never comes. When the mask falls, believe what you saw. The truth—it’s a gift, even when it hurts.
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