Addicted to my narcissist, one year no contact

Narcissism, Recovery, Healing, Addiction

"A physical breakup is not enough."

When I read those words in Prof. Sam Vaknin's book I Want My Narcissist and Psychopath Back, my heart stopped.

I reread the line, and the meaning started to dawn on me.

Yes, he is right.

No matter how many connecting lines to my past life I cut, no matter how completely silent I went—no calls, no answers, nothing—but still I was living with my narcissist in my mind. In the darkest hours, I would hear myself whisper, "I am still yours. I am still loyal."

Being unfaithful was the worst sin for him, and he blamed me for it over and over in every fight we had, no matter how loyal and faithful I proved myself to be over the years.

One year has passed since I last saw his face, heard his shouting, felt his strong and confident strikes in a rage-filled turmoil—the adrenaline, the high of the thrill, the edge...
During this year, I achieved more than I could have imagined: from entering university, learning Krav Maga and boxing, getting my motorcycle license, serving two months in reserve duty as a commander, to publishing my first book. I've been in therapy, both CBT and dynamic; I've made good friends and reestablished strong relationships with my family—my whole life was reconstructed from the ground up.
I wanted to shout and prove to him, "I did it! I became the woman I always wanted to be. I told you I would!"
I could almost say, "I am my own woman now."
But the bitter taste of a lie would start to emerge.

Underlying the accomplishments and successful therapy, there was constant thinking about the past—How epic my life was with him.
Nothing can take away the huge things we did together, the dreams we shared and fulfilled, the hardships we endured, the rollercoaster of living on the edge.
My days were filled with life-or-death sensations—extreme fear from which I found courage, extreme desperation from which I found hope, and extreme fatigue from which I found strength.
The past is glorious and shameful at the same time.
The cost of this movie-like rollercoaster was my health, my personality, and possibly my life.

"It's now—alive, or a bit later—in a coffin," I thought the day I left the farm in Panama.

So why on earth, an honorable woman would want to see the man who raised his hand on her ever again?

This year I fought to reclaim the good experiences, to separate the pleasure from the horrors, and to allow myself to be proud of the things I had done—like learning how to build a solar system, or figuring out the parts and process to do a lift-kit and overall upgrade on our 2000s Super-Duty Ford truck. I wanted to enjoy the memories of lazy weekends, cartoons playing on the TV in the background, preparing schnitzels in the sunlit kitchen, watching the mountain goats from the porch, my dirty hands and the smell of grease from fixing old engines, morning runs with our puppy...
Those are mine—not his. No slap on the face could ever take those from me.

It is addictive—The nostalgia, the feelings of the past exaggerated and accentuated by the misery-filled hours enveloping every good memory.

I liked playing the "what if" game. What if I saw him on the street? What would it feel like? What would I do?
I'm not a vindictive person, though I am a Scorpio. I can't hate or be angry for too long. I forgive too quickly. I prefer to love unconditionally. So I imagine a perfect situation where I see him and smile, showing my most genuine self, fearless, full of love. Then comes a scene of satisfying closure, like in old romantic movies—remembering together the good old times. The end.

I knew I would never allow this to happen, but still I kept playing the scene, while thinking,
"How can you even think positively about someone who did such terrible things to you? What does it say about who you are?"

There began the duality that started to bite into my soul, creating a painful gap between my thoughts, feelings, and actions.

"When our thoughts, feelings, and actions are not aligned—we suffer," said my psychology teacher at university, and I’ve seen proof of this many times since.

The months passed, and my life was rebuilt on a strong foundation of healthy habits—I was doing everything right. But even then, this didn’t make me happy. Why?

One day, during my research on psychology, I stumbled upon Prof. Sam Vaknin’s book, I Want My Narcissist and Psychopath Back, where I read about the healing stage of a narcissistic abuse survivor.

The next day, during a morning run on the Haifa beach coast, I reflected on what I had read.
On the second kilometer, I suddenly saw the duality and the gap I was creating. That’s what running does for me—it helps me think. I could clearly see how my thoughts in recent months were not aligned with the image of my good life. I had to decide. I knew my actions were correct; it was my thoughts that were constantly running in the opposite direction, slowing me down.
So I decided to align my thoughts with my actions. But how?

On the fifth kilometer, while the heavy sounds of Korn played loudly in my headphones, a revolutionary idea came to my mind:

A narcissist is like a heavy drug.

And you, who got away, are a recovering addict.

You will always remember the good feeling of the highs.

Though you know it will cost you your life if you go back.

The drug doesn’t care if you get hurt—it just does what a drug does. It can’t help it.

So does the narcissist—he simply can’t help it.

There is no normal human sympathy there.

Your pain, your vulnerability, and all your kindness—are his weapons against you.

Treating this healing process like recovery from a heavy drug addiction changed my perspective entirely. I finally found the strength to pull myself out of every reverie I fell into when reminded of the time with him.

And finally, I started to believe what I had always hoped was true:

"There’s no one there. He didn’t create you."

I did it. It was I who was glorious.