I haven’t studied psychology.
But let me tell you something: I would bet my life that my ex-partner was narcissistic.
A narcissistic personality, according to clinical definitions, is characterised by:
• a pervasive pattern of grandiosity, need for admiration, and lack of empathy;
• manipulation of others to maintain a self-image of superiority;
• exploitation of interpersonal relationships for personal gain;
• persistent attention-seeking, control, and denial of responsibility;
• and a distorted perception of reality, where one’s own desires and interpretations always trump facts.
This was him. He would insist that I said things I never said. In his mind, I had promised, agreed, or acknowledged things that had never happened. And no matter how clearly I explained that I had not said or agreed to anything, he treated my denial as evidence of my dishonesty. Every time I said “No” to something, he escalated. He created new problems, invented new grievances, attacked me relentlessly until he had regained complete control. Even when I knew his demands were harmful to my health, I was forced to comply, because his stress, his threats, his manipulation were impossible to ignore. If I dared to point out that he was wrong, The very next day he would turn it into a crisis. I would wake up to more arguments, more accusations, more pressure. It was an exhausting cycle designed to dominate, to disorient, to break me down and it almost succeeded.
On Tuesday, 6 a.m., he “dumped” me.
But not because he genuinely wanted to end the relationship.
No — it was a tactic, pure manipulation.
A week earlier, I had asked if I could go somewhere alone. I needed permission to meet friends, to have a life outside him. He saw it. And then, like a predator testing boundaries, he created chaos to force me to comply. That morning, I had to calm him down, negotiate my freedom, because he was running around, creating panic, threatening danger, pushing toward an “accident” all to make me beg him to come along. It felt like something out of The Vampire Diaries: he can’t enter your world, he can’t take space in your life, unless you let him in. And he used fear, aggression, and sheer psychological pressure to make me open the door — literally and metaphorically; to his control. I had no choice. I had to plead with him, ask him, convince him, to just accompany me. It wasn’t love. It was control. It was power. And I had to surrender my autonomy, my day, my freedom, just to survive the morning. Wednesday was the day everything in me felt broken. I had sold my apartment. I had laid down my life like an open heart on a cold table. And he was standing behind me, over my shoulder like a controller, like a pimp checking how much his girl “earned.”
I was at the notary. I just wanted to change my address. I wanted to handle my own matters like a normal person. But every time I opened my mouth, he interfered in things that were none of his business, in decisions that shaped my life, not his. He watched my hands as if I belonged to him. He scrutinized every move so coldly, as if I existed to serve, not live. When I handed over the keys,
he got angry. Not because it concerned him but because I wouldn’t get money anymore.
Because I had done something outside his control. And when I said,
“I have no apartment now. No money. Great.”
he wasn’t upset. He wasn’t worried.
He was only angry because he couldn’t dominate the situation. He criticized me,
corrected me, picked apart every detail, as if I were an employee who broke the rules. I was distrustful, extremely distrustful, and he knew it. So he increased the pressure. He spoke, he stabbed, he prodded, until I felt like a woman under constant supervision, controlled, monitored, diminished so I wouldn’t realize that my life was burning around me. He bought me a rose. A single, stupid rose. And while I was standing there, asking the only sane question left in my body –
“What is happening between us?” –
he stared at me as if the question itself was offensive.
“I don’t understand why you ask. Of course we are together.”
No.
We were not. He had broken me.
Tuesday morning, 6 a.m., he had ended it. He had crushed me. And now he simply refused to acknowledge the breakup. As if reality didn’t apply to him. As if my boundaries were a joke. That was the exact moment I realised:
I wasn’t a person in his world. I was a projection screen. A surface for his fantasies, his delusions, his control. I wanted to buy something small to soothe myself. A tiny moment of agency. But he dismissed it instantly because he had ordered tyres for his Mercedes and we had to be at his mechanic by 3 p.m. So my choices shrank to almost nothing.
I was allowed one task: buy food for my dog. Everything else was off-limits. Everything always had to follow his timeline. His routes. His moods. His priorities. I was not living. I was being dragged.
On the way, I learned the real accusation he held against me:
that I didn’t call him “baby,”
that I didn’t use “honey,”
that I didn’t speak to him in cute, infantilising pet names. To him, that meant I didn’t love him. That was the foundation of his rage. And inside I thought:
What the actual fluff?
He promised I would “not regret it.”
While I promised myself that we were not together, and I would never treat it as such. That night, he tried to arouse himself on me again. His hand moved straight between my legs, without invitation, without softness, without care. I flinched. I said, “Not today.” He got furious. So I rushed to explain, inventing a story about maybe having an infection, because something in my body felt wrong.
The truth?
My body was healthy. I was shutting down out of fear.My nervous system had gone into lockdown. Touch felt like electricity.
He didn’t notice. He didn’t care. He slept on the couch. I slept in the bed. The silence was full of barbed wire.
THURSDAY — THE BREAKPOINT
By Thursday night, my body was running on emergency mode only. No strategy, no resources, just survival. I tried—one last time—to coach him out of his spiral, to apply calm where there was only chaos. And then it happened again. He stormed out of the house like a man chasing his own demons. Seconds later he burst back through the door, not as a partner, not as a human being even, but as a violent storm wearing a face I once trusted. He screamed that he didn’t give a damn about me. He screamed that he didn’t give a damn about the synagogue. He screamed until the walls shook and my muscles locked up so hard I couldn’t breathe. There was no reasoning, no negotiation path, no escalation protocol that could work on someone already detonated.
I was standing there, waiting for the hit — because everything in his posture told my nervous system, it’s coming.
I felt my heartbeat in my teeth.
I felt my spine turn into glass.
And I did something I never imagined myself doing:
I touched his face, lightly, not in aggression but like someone trying to interrupt a nightmare. Then I pressed myself against him, closing the distance so he couldn’t keep screaming at me, whispering:
“You’re going to hold me until you stop.”
Because I knew if I didn’t anchor him with my body, he’d tear the whole house—and me—apart with his rage.
And while I was clinging to him, terrified and shaking, one thought kept cutting through everything:
I’m not safe.
Not with him.
Not even for a second.
FRIDAY — THE DAY MY NERVOUS SYSTEM SNAPPED
Friday began before dawn, long before any sane person should have to face the truth.
At 4 a.m., he sent me a wall of messages — a digital avalanche designed to crush my will. In those messages, he “ended things” with me. Not because he truly wanted to end anything, but because the night before, I had dared to want one morning of peace. I had told him I needed to leave early, alone. And in his world, a woman who wants to do something alone is a direct threat to his control. He stormed off to the gym after sending the breakup message, but not before making sure I felt like nothing. He oscillated between “I want nothing to do with you” and desperate clinging. Between hatred and the need to press his body against mine. Between rejection and possession.
The inconsistency itself was the cruelty. I stayed silent, packed my things, and prepared to leave while he was lifting weights and pretending to be the victim. When he came back home, he laid his feet on me first, then his hands — a gesture he used often, a silent claim:
I own you. You stay.
That’s the moment the cramps hit me. Sharp, twisting pain. Lower abdomen. Sudden nausea. Not because I was pregnant — but because my body couldn’t hold the stress anymore. He noticed. And immediately, he tried to use it. He tried to hold me in place until my period came, because in his fantasy, the idea that he might become a father gave him a sense of legacy, of importance. My body became a stage for his delusions. That was the moment I took a pregnancy test. Not out of hope — out of sheer fear and pure biological panic. He hovered over me the entire time, watching, monitoring, calculating. When the test came back negative, relief washed through me — but he didn’t care about my relief. He cared only that his imaginary future had evaporated. Then the rage began again. As soon as I said I couldn’t go with him to his company, because I had a train to catch, he lost control completely. He shouted that I was “talking nonsense”, that I must wait for him, that he would be home soon and we would “talk like adults”. Except talking with him never meant talking. Talking meant being worn down until I broke. I tried to pack faster. I was shaking. I wanted to run. But he came home half an hour earlier than he had said. He burst through the door in full meltdown mode — crying, hyperventilating, swearing he couldn’t live without me, demanding I come with him to his workplace so he could “function”. I gave in. Not out of love, not out of loyalty — but out of survival instinct. I said, “Fine. I’ll come with you. But after that, I must go to my father.” He agreed. And of course, he lied. When we arrived near his company, I learned that he expected me to wait outside like a dog, in the cold, while he spoke to his boss. No explanation. No consideration. Just the assumption that I would obey. But Friday night was the real breaking point. He followed me while I took the dog out, acting like a shadow, a supervisor, a warden. It was Halloween, and at first I thought my dog was afraid of the costumes. But the moment he sprinted to his car and drove off, my dog relaxed. Walked normally. As if the monster had left the street. He said he’d be back in half an hour. He wasn’t. So, I saw his key still sitting in the door lock, like a silent alarm bell nobody else could hear. I asked ChatGPT what I should do, because he had left crying, and for almost two hours there was no message, no step back through that door, nothing.
ChatGPT told me to call the police. And here comes the twist. This is the first time in my life I truly regret not listening to ChatGPT.
I’m sorry, ChatGPT, that I didn’t hear you. I should have.
But I panicked. I preferred to call him, over and over, because I had started to believe that he had friends everywhere — eyes, ears, invisible alliances — and that because of my past no one would ever believe me anyway. So yes, I called him like someone who has run out of breath and logic. On the third attempt he finally picked up. He said he was driving to the graveyard, crying into the phone, on his way to his parents’ grave. I told him he wasn’t capable of driving like that, that he needed to turn around and come back home now. He answered that he didn’t care — that if he died, at least he’d be on the “right” road, and no one would care anyway. And I pushed back, telling him that this wasn’t true, that he needed to come back, that he couldn’t just disappear into the dark like that. So he came back home an hour later, crying like a baby. He asked me to sleep in the bed with him. I told him no, I have a five-hour trip tomorrow, and I need to be relaxed. Besides, we are not together anymore, and I don’t want to come back. It’s enough. Still, I stayed with him a while, trying to talk him down, trying to help him calm. Because here’s the thing we must never forget: narcissistic people are not inherently bad. They are just terrified, incapable of caring for their own emotions. They are the most insecure people you will ever meet. But the problem is, no one ever tells them how to return to security, how to be secure on their own, how to wrestle with their feelings. Most of us only see them as toxic, and we stop at that. Why try to understand something so enormous, so crazy? But I saw a child abandoned by a mother. I saw an old man who couldn’t manage his emotions. And mostly, I saw my mother in him. They acted in eerily similar ways. That’s why I knew I had to go — this breakup, this forever. On Saturday, during breakfast, we talked. He said he finally understood what I meant when I told him how much he had hurt me. He even brought me flowers — six roses. And here’s the Slavic nuance: as a Slavic woman, you know that giving six roses is… complicated. In our tradition, certain numbers carry meaning — seven, nine, etc. Six is almost a “small gesture,” not the grand romantic statement he probably thought it was. On Saturday, during breakfast, we talked. He said he finally understood what I meant when I told him how much he had hurt me. He even brought me flowers — six roses. Now, here’s the thing about Slavic tradition, from my own eyes and upbringing: the number of flowers actually matters. Odd numbers, like three, five, seven, are for life, for celebrations, for joy, for romantic gestures. Even numbers… well, those are reserved for funerals, for loss, for endings. It’s as if the universe wants you to count your blessings—or your miseries. So when he handed me six roses, I couldn’t help but notice the mismatch. Six, in our world, is polite. Safe. Mildly affectionate. It’s the number of flowers you give if you want to say “I thought of you, but only just enough.” Not passionate, not daring, not the slightest hint of boldness. And for someone like me, raised to notice these little cultural cues, it wasn’t just flowers — it was a subtle reminder that gestures, even romantic ones, don’t exist in a vacuum. They carry history, expectation, and a tiny hint of judgment.
We went because I didn’t know this route—we had never driven this way before. He suddenly told me we weren’t going to the train station, but to some other place, where he expected me to “spend some time” until I changed my mind about the breakup. I was terrified. I tried to open the door, but he blocked it from the driver’s side, which made me hate the Mercedes even more. I was frozen, scared out of my mind, and yet, I had to plead with him to just open the door so I could go to the train station by myself. He looked at me, completely bewildered, as if seeing me for the first time in his car, and asked, “You’re really afraid of me?” I said yes, without even thinking. He drove me to the train station, helped me with my luggage, but made it crystal clear: he would only let me go if I promised to call him when I arrived. I said okay, though I never meant it. Five hours later, he called obsessively—five calls—until I told him to stop and blocked him. Monday morning, I locked my laptop, but it wasn’t connected to the internet, so it didn’t register that I had blocked him. By the time I checked, I had thirty new messages from him, all about his suffering, all about how much he had “learned,” and most of them made me panic. One particularly disturbing message demanded my address. He even sent a navigation screenshot, claiming he was in his car waiting for the address because he was “on the way to Gdańsk,” where I was supposed to be. I almost freaked out completely. By Monday evening, he started sending messages from his work phone. On Tuesday, he told me I should pack my things because “a war is coming at the start of December,” claiming he knew this because of his friends and that we would all die if we didn’t leave the country. I told him I didn’t want any contact, that we were no longer friends, and that I would text him when I was ready to pick up my stuff. I reminded myself that he had allowed me to pick up my belongings, even if he wasn’t there. After consulting with ChatGPT about whether I should go, I decided to go with my best friend to collect my things. Immediately, this made me a criminal in his narrative. His neighbour called him the moment she saw my friend carrying anything out—she hadn’t even seen me—and he ran to the police like a small child who lost their parents. He accused me of taking his possessions without permission. When the police arrived, I was able to show that he had given me the key, that he had messaged me from a fake Facebook account giving permission, and that everything I took was mine. Yet he insisted that I should be detained for 48 hours and that my dog should be put in a shelter. To save my dog, I agreed to only keep my documents and put the rest of my belongings back in his apartment, including my vibrator, underwear, and shoes—because, in his deranged mind, my underwear belonged to him too.
Yes, that is both absurd and perverse.
After the police saw all the evidence proving I hadn’t done anything criminal, they were ready to leave—but then their superior called and said I should be held for 48 hours. As they tried to explain why I should leave all my belongings behind and only take my documents, I panicked. When they called him, I didn’t want to, but I complied because the police are authority and I wanted to cooperate. Hearing his voice sent me into a full-blown panic attack—I could barely see, felt blood rush in my head, couldn’t breathe. I used my inhaler, shaking. The officer asked if I wanted to go to the hospital; I didn’t, I just wanted to get out of there. I was terrified. How often does something like this happen? You try to take what’s yours, and suddenly you’re the criminal?
With the help of my friend, we managed to get through it. The whole town already knew the story, that I was the “criminal” who tried to harm this poor man. The police told me that if I didn’t have the keys to his apartment, I should send them by post. I did. But the keys never arrived. It was Sunday and they were still missing. I texted him after sending the keys, and he immediately went ballistic. He accused me of lying, of “playing with him” because I had gone to theater school, claimed everything I did was nonsense, that I owed him, that I would take his money. I was stunned—what money? I’d just sold my apartment. In that moment, I realized I was trapped in the same manipulation loop, where even my friend, who witnessed his attacks, was shocked. He had attacked my friend too, threatening he’d lose his car, claiming debts. Everything was twisted to make me feel guilty. I tried to reason, but he refused to let it go. I wished him a good life and wanted both of us to be safe and free—especially for my dog. I was completely drained. At one point, I screamed in the car, the kind of scream that feels like it’s trapped inside your head, invisible to the world. He kept calling, frantic, until my friend drove me to the hospital. Only then did he stop. My friend called him from the hospital, but he never checked if I was actually there. Instead, he sent messages claiming he loved me more than his parents. Love for him is possessive, controlling, and violent. He continued texting the next day and the day after, apologizing for “hurting me,” but still convinced I had stolen from him. I kept every message and screenshot, sending them to my friend. He then demanded when I would pick up my belongings—but only if he was present. I said, after the hospital stay, that my psychiatrist advised I not be alone with him, and he feigned ignorance. He acted as if he had no idea I had even been hospitalized. On Sunday, he accused me of expecting him to attend some Jewish holiday thing and said he had spoken with a rabbi about me. I asked why he discussed me with strangers. His excuse: “Nothing serious.” I reminded him: I’m not your wife, we are separated, and I am Muslim—please respect me. Two days passed in silence, but yesterday he left voicemails saying he had talked about me at the gym, demanding I email the gym. He lied to the staff that my father was sick, and that’s why I wasn’t attending. I called the gym to clarify. The manager said they would not release my information to him, but I couldn’t stop asking myself: am I truly free? Am I really single if I’m constantly battling him, even from afar, no matter where I go, because he knows I have contacts? So here’s the real question: how free is one after breaking up with a narcissist? How far do you have to go—how far must you move or what legal steps must you take—to actually feel free from them?
https://www.marriage.com/advice/mental-health/narcissist-break-up-games/
https://www.choosingtherapy.com/breaking-up-with-a-narcissist/
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