Pathological Narcissism

It’s been a while since I posted anything, I guess, huh? Nothing has changed, really. As Stephen King’s characters in Dreamcatcher say, “SSDD.”  The only thing that’s new is that I’ve discovered there’s a clinical term for the abuse I’ve been taking: pathological narcissism. And one for the toll it’s taking on me: Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I keep seeing these quips on Pinterest like “Women are not Victims” and “If you keep tolerating it, you’re not a victim, you’re a volunteer,” and I want to punch them in the face and then say, “What are you crying about? There’s no such thing as a victim!”

Let me tell you why my PTSD is complex: because I have no way out. My only relative is an enabler. My abuser has cut me off from the world. He provides a taxi service for some girl down the street, any time, day or night, but wouldn’t help me fix my car (although he’s happy enough to help other women and anyone whose car died in a parking lot). And so now I don’t have one. There is no bus system where I live. When I point this out, I am told, “Don’t like it? Get the fuck out.”  He says this to me at least once a week.

About ten days ago he bought a $600 guitar he can’t play, his second laptop in six months (I think he gave it away, as I haven’t seen it since about the third day after he bought it), and his second GPS in two weeks. I don’t even ask anymore because I already know the answer by heart. “What’s it to you?” I can’t afford a divorce. I can’t even call a lawyer because I have no phone. Not even the pay $35 in advance kind. The only reason I have an internet connection is because a kind neighbor who knows my situation lets me jump off her wifi when she’s not home. He tips 50 to 100% but when my favorite candidate for president asks me for a $5 contribution to his campaign, I don’t have it to give. I no longer own a piece of clothing without at least one hole in it. When my only pair of winter shoes fell apart, I had to wait a year before I got another pair. I am a sucker for those who have it harder than I, so while I’m not a hoarder by any means, I have several pets who depend on me to take care of them. Two are terminally ill and require quite a bit of care and attention.

I could give example after example of the many ways my abuser keeps me imprisoned, but you know what? I’m not even going to bother because it’s a waste of time that could be put to better use. No one reads anything over a paragraph anymore. No one cares about me or what becomes of me. No knight in shining armor is coming to my rescue. If I get out alive, it will only be because I somehow managed to get myself out. It’s not going to happen because I’m writing this, that’s for sure. This blog is only a painful reminder to myself of all the reasons I will walk out the door and never look back when I am finally able.


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