The Narcissist's Wife

Mike Pazzo was my husband.

He was also a narcissist.

Every conversation with Mike was a fight. I couldn't hold my own, much less win those fights. Why did every conversation have to be won or lost? Damn, it was exhausting. He beat me down with his barrage of caustic words and his superior argumentative techniques. And he loved it.

Sometimes I'd fall at his feet, prostrate in absolute abject defeat just to get him to stop yelling at me. I'd sit back on my heels and bow to him, which he loathed. I'm not sure whether he was disgusted or infuriated. I'm not even sure whether I was being sarcastic or authentic in my show of submission.

In those moments he would ball up his fists in silent fury—and walk away. That is when I began to wonder when he would hit me. When—not If. It was only a matter of time before his abuse became physical. He was a violent man on the inside.

In that moment, I knew there was no turning back. I was the trapped fox that gnaws off its own foot to escape. Freedom at all costs. Even if you leave part of yourself behind.