Liar

They say living with a narcissist is death by a million paper-cuts. We’re trying to learn to yes, and — so yea it is. And on good days, at least as the adult child of one, you no longer get the rush you did as infant when something you did garnered approval. The feeling has calcified over time, maybe all feelings have, the way they’ve said the amygdala does when exposed to trauma. It’s a constant looking over your shoulder, waiting for a shift in the wind, or the bout of nausea that arises with human error. It’s the reduction of your daily lifetime of commitment and persistence to a single clatter of a plate — you gently rest your hand on the well to silence it’s cry. “Maybe something will change,” is the line simultaneously killing you and saving your life. You watch yourself crack like a whip. You weren’t crafted to become a weapon, but the constant pulling and stretching too thin, the manipulation, and your constant exhaustion keeps you from maintaining integrity. So even when implicit messages don’t suggest you should cut your friends off, you are tempted to do so, to keep them away from what you see yourself constantly evolving into.