The Only Revenge That Actually Works on a Narcissist
They'll never get over it...
I hadn’t spoken to him in seven years when my phone went off with a *ding.* I nearly choked to see his name.
It was my rapist.
Before he was my rapist, he was my lover for three years.
Before he was my rapist, he was the most explosive sexual chemistry of my life, a man so stunning with his 6 foot 6 inch frame and his eight pack abs that I felt like I was looking at the sun.
Other than sex, we were the embodiment of “opposites attract.” In my journal, I describe his intelligence as “on par with a rattle.”
I had a graduate degree: he didn’t graduate high school, going to juvenile detention at 18 for a year.
I was a professor: he worked as a landscaper. I’d met him while he was working shirtless in the neighborhood.
He was raised amongst drugs, poverty, and crime in the inner city of Boston; I was raised in an abusive home in a suburb in Michigan.
He was Dominican; I’m white. He was a raging sexist and homophobe; I’m a feminist who believes in equality whose closest friends are gay men.
He was 20 when we met; I was 32. (In my defense, he told me he was 26…)
He’s a narcissist and sociopath; I’m a borderline and empath.
I didn’t know myself that well yet, and I definitely didn’t love myself.
Neither did he — we had that much in common.
We had almost nothing to talk about, yet I’d lay in his armpit, feeling safe nestled into the nook of his muscled arms, and we’d talk all night.
We both had other lovers — I’d come to the conclusion that no man could love me or be faithful, so I gave men their freedom, seeking out the next best thing to love: sex.
But when we were together, we clutched each other with the intensity of two spiritual orphans; our abandoned inner children laughed and frolicked in pleasure; we professed that we were each other’s favorite. It was fun, easy, passionate.