Ingrid Life Coach

The narcissist becomes a different person when he’s sick

When he was sick he became a different person. Vulnerable. Sweet. Almost human. He’d look at me with those eyes and I’d think: there he is. The real him. Finally. And I’d give him everything. Again. But the moment he got better? Gone. The sweetness disappeared. The control came back.

The first time someone asked “are you ok?” and actually waited for the answer

The first time someone asked “are you ok?” and actually waited for the answer, I cried. Not because I was hurting. Because I wasn’t used to it. With him nobody waited for the answer. “Are you ok?” was just a formality. The answer was always yes. Even when it wasn’t.

I was alone in hospital for a week. He said hospitals scared him.

I was in hospital for a week after surgery. Alone. He came once a day. Five minutes. Hands in his pockets. Standing near the bed. He said hospitals scared him. For years I had slept in chairs next to his bed. Washed him. Nursed him. And now that it was my turn, hospitals scared him.

The Years I Stayed. It started with a summer evening in Milan.

My book starts with a summer evening in Milan. I was twenty. Everything was beautiful. Everything felt possible. I didn’t know that evening would be the beginning of something that would last almost twenty years. The Years I Stayed is the story of all of us who stayed. And who finally said enough.

He gave you just enough to keep you from leaving

You know what he was really good at? Giving me just enough to not leave. Every now and then he’d do something nice. A sweet message. A good evening. A gesture. And I’d think: he’s changing. Finally. But the next day he’d disappear again. Never too much. Never enough to be happy. Just enough to make me stay.

The narcissist’s fake apology

You know what a narcissist’s favourite apology is? “I’m sorry you feel that way.” Not “I’m sorry for what I did.” Not “you’re right, I was wrong.” As if the problem is your emotions, not what he did. If the apology makes you feel worse than before, it wasn’t an apology.

It started like a fairy tale. It wasn’t one.

It started like a fairy tale. I was young. I was in Milan. Summer. Dinners outside. Warm lights. Music. He was charming. Confident. Made me feel special. But fairy tales don’t last. And what looks like a dream is sometimes just the beginning of something you can’t see yet.

The Years I Stayed. The book I wish I’d found when I was still there.

When I was inside that relationship I looked for stories like mine. Someone to tell me: you’re not crazy. You’re not alone. Someone who had lived what I was living. I couldn’t find it. So I wrote it. It’s called The Years I Stayed. It’s not about the ending. It’s about why we stay.

I told him about my father. He promised. Then did the same thing.

I told him about my father. About the drinking. About how his face changed in the evenings. About what it did to my mother. To me as a child. I said: please. Don’t do the same. He promised. Then he started hiding it. Same face. Same eyes. Every evening.

Why you can’t see narcissistic abuse when you’re inside it

You know what’s the hardest thing to explain? That when you’re inside it you can’t see it. People outside say: “How can you stay?” And you think: stay where? This is my life. This is normal. You’re not stupid. You’ve been trained. Piece by piece. For years. Your “normal” has been reprogrammed.