Don’t Let the Narc Mess With Your Heart

Think about all the lies, the put downs and the gaslighting.

All the times you tried to explain your heart
to someone who was committed to misunderstanding it.

All the times your empathetic heart was used by the Narcissist,
who said it was your own fault.

All the times the Narcissist stepped on your heart,
then said you were too sensitive.

All the times you were told to ignore your heart,
and sit down and shut up and put up.

Think about the beatings your heart has gone through.
Think about all the times you ignored your heart—
because of the Narcissist.

There was a time when your heart said, “Speak the truth,”
but the Narcissist said, “Shut up.”

There was a time when your heart said, “Watch out,”
but the Narcissist said, “Don’t worry.”

There was a time when your heart said, “This is a lie,”
but the Narcissist said, “Trust me.”

 

There was a time when your heart said, “Remember,”
but the Narcissist said, “Forget.”

There was a time when your heart said, “I’m worth it,”
but the Narcissist said, “You’re not worth it.”

The truth is you ARE worth it–

You are worth speaking your truth,
You are worth explaining your fears,
You are worth remembering your pain,
You are worth sharing your heart
And you are worth having a relationship with someone
who treats you with respect and honesty.

It’s way past time friend, to listen to your heart.

2 Replies to “Don’t Let the Narc Mess With Your Heart”

  1. This is lovely, thank you. ❤ There it all is in a nutshell too!

    I came across something that I thought you might like too. It's from Australian poet Judith Wright's biography of her grandparents' lives, scratching a living off inland cattle runs at the time of the land clearing, and living in bush shanties. It's this reflection from her grandfather Albert, just before he turned 50:

    "He must be getting old, he thought; but an idea which a year or two ago would have raised in him such alarm and repudiation now came quite simply to his mind. It was as thought the light his mind cast had begun to change its angle, illuminating now a different side of things, casting new shadows. It had been morning; now it was afternoon. That could be understood and accepted.

    It surprised him, this sudden rearrangement of his perspective, so natural yet no longer resisted. Somehow his mind was eased by it, the tension broken that had held him to his wheel. He was free now to feel the sun's warmth, to look about him…to pursue his new trains of thought. Somehow he had escaped from the imprisoning circle which had for years made up his inner life – his debts, his responsibilities, the thousand details of his work. He could put them aside and follow wherever his thoughts might lead.

    The track along which he rode ran through country still sparsely settled; the big land-owners held most of it for winter pastures, and it was still unfenced and as closely timbered as it had ever been. Only here and there, a line of fencing showed; one or two new houses had been built lately, the earther-floored slab shanties of the small settlers, with their big chimneys of clay and rough wood. Before long, he supposed, free-selectors would begin to flood this part of the country; fences would net it everywhere, roads would be built. Another fifty years – could he come this way, then – he might not know his road. Even Paddy (native man), then would not know his own country, its trees cut down, its birds and animals fast vanishing.

    That would be partly Albert's own work – his and that of his sons. They spent their lives, as his was spent, in destroying one way of life to make another. Yet, he thought – and the thought was new to him – none of them paused to wonder why; or what, in the end, they would make.

    What was so important to them – what drove them, single-minded, panting in greed and eagerness, while their lives vanished in the labour? Would his sons, too, be driven in this whirlwind of destruction, and wake, perhaps, as he was doing, to ask in the end what had consumed their lives? Money, security, prosperity – those three words had led him on as they led the others, clawing at his very sleep. They had built the cities that had grown so much larger and noisier during his lifetime; on his visits to such places, he felt nowadays discomforted and uneasy. Doubtless they would build larger cities still. Words of power, but not words of life, they had killed Paddy's people, driving them in hundreds over the cliffs of the tableland to die on the rocks below – for spearing cattle, for rebellion against the dominion of money and prosperity… He imagined a whole civilisation haunted, like a house haunted by the ghost of a murdered man buried under it."

    This was in the late 1880s in New South Wales, Australia. Amazing though how it transfers to our own time in so many ways. I particularly loved the metaphor of the light of the mind changing angle so you could see things from the other side. That's what has to happen when you unravel from an abusive childhood too, and I find in so many ways that in the five years since I turned 40, I am suddenly seeing all sorts of things that used to baffle me from the other side, and therefore making sense.

    You don't often hear about that – people spend far more time telling you about wrinkles and disintegration. Makes me laugh now, that middle age, so popularly feared and denigrated in both our respective mainstream cultures, should come with so much that is positive and should be so much easier in many ways than youth, and so creative, and calm and relaxed.

    Wishing you a wonderful day, and keep writing! 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

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