Which brings me to the next play in their book: enter the new person—a fresh supply, a new audience, someone shiny and eager and unsuspecting. The narcissist isn’t leaving you because you failed; they’re leaving because they found someone new to charm, to trap, to feed off of. And I know that truth stings. It’s the kind of betrayal that hollows you out. One day you’re the one, and the next there’s another—no warning, no closure—just replaced. And the worst part? They act like this is normal, like it’s justified. But it’s not about you lacking anything; it’s about them being empty of everything.
And the reason for this? It’s not love; it’s never been love. It’s control, plain and simple. The narcissist craves it like oxygen. That new person? They’re not special; they’re just the next pit stop on the road of destruction. But let me say this loud and clear: just because someone else is in the picture doesn’t mean they’ve forgotten you. Oh, no—they’ll be back. That’s the pattern, that’s the sickness: discard, return, repeat.
Then there’s the martyr move. You ever heard this line? “You deserve better than me.” Oh, it sounds noble, doesn’t it? So self-sacrificing, so poetic. But don’t buy it. That line isn’t humility; it’s a smoke screen. See, what the narcissist is really doing here is escaping responsibility. Maybe you set a boundary, maybe you asked for something real, maybe you finally stood tall and said, “No more.” And instead of growing, instead of rising to meet you, they exit stage left with the most dramatic line they can muster. Because if they leave the right way, and if they frame themselves as the tragic hero, they never have to answer for the damage they caused. They never have to grow.
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