I’ve walked through this life, shoulder-to-shoulder with shadows, not once, not twice, but time and time again. I’ve brushed against something that wore the face of a friend, the smile of a sibling, the voice of a lover, and yet, behind those masks, there was something else entirely. I can’t stay quiet anymore. I won’t. You see, what we’re dealing with here isn’t just human brokenness, and this goes deeper than flaws or wounds or misunderstood pain. This—this is evil that walks upright. This is wickedness with charm in its pocket and a grin on its lips. And these are the wolves the scriptures warned us about, cloaked in sheep’s wool, quoting kindness while plotting ruin. They look like you and me. They laugh at the right time, cry on cue, speak of love like poets. But if you’ve ever been behind closed doors with one, if you’ve ever seen the truth behind the act, you know. You know something’s off. You feel it in your bones. It’s cold, mechanical, a vacuum where a soul should be. I’m not saying this because I’m bitter. I’m not here crying out from a place of fresh wounds. No, friend, I’ve watched, I’ve studied, I’ve sat with the broken, the betrayed, the ones who’ve escaped with barely a sliver of their spirit intact. And when you see the pattern unfold again and again, when you hear the same horror whispered in 10,000 different voices, you realize this isn’t just trauma. This isn’t just hurt people hurting people. This is darkness, intentional, calculated, a soul turned inward until it devours itself and then reaches outward to feed on others.
So today, I want to lift the veil, not to frighten you, but to free you. I want to walk you through five behaviors—chilling, yes, but necessary to confront—because if even one person hears this and wakes up to what’s been done to them, then this truth, raw and real as it is, will have done its holy work. Let’s begin.
One: The wrath behind closed eyes. Have you ever tried waking a sleeping narcissist? I mean gently, kindly, just nudging them with the heart of someone who cares and maybe you were worried they’d catch a chill, maybe you thought they’d want to rest more comfortably. But instead of a sleepy thank you or a soft smile, what you get is a storm. A friend, I’m talking about a rage that doesn’t come from this world, not the startled kind of a soldier in war. No, this is fury from a throne, like you dared to interrupt royalty mid-dream. They’ll yell, they’ll curse, they’ll strike, and not because they were scared, oh no, but because you dared to disrupt their dominion, their sacred silence, their illusion of control. And if you’ve ever lived with someone like that, you know it’s not about sleep. It never was. It’s about entitlement dressed in pajamas and a soul that demands worship even while unconscious. I remember one man—let’s just call him the man of the house. He’d fall asleep anywhere, like the living room was his temple, and if you tried, even out of love, to guide him toward a bed, he would erupt: a shout, a tantrum that shook the walls. And I learned, like so many others, that waking such a soul isn’t an act of care; it’s a crime. And that’s what makes it chilling. It’s not just that they explode; it’s that they enjoy your fear, that glint in their eye when they see you flinch. That’s not confusion; that’s satisfaction, too.
Two: The child as scapegoat. There is something sacred about a child. A child is innocence with legs, joy wrapped in skin. But to a narcissist, a child is just another subject in their kingdom, a tiny mirror that must always reflect back their perfection. But when that mirror fogs up, when a child dares to cry or fail or forget to smile on command, the punishment isn’t discipline; it’s wrath. And wrath with no breaks becomes something sinister. I remember a boy once, fasting in the holy month, tired and hopeful. He locked a door and drifted into sleep. And when he woke up, he woke up to pain—sharp, sudden, undeserved. There was a stick, there was fury, and there was no mercy. It wasn’t about religion; it wasn’t even about rules. It was about power being questioned and power striking back. And then there was that mother. She dragged her son, 10 years old, not a day more, outside, naked, exposed. Why? Because he didn’t do well in school, and because his failure was her shame, and she needed someone to carry it. And when I confronted her, she didn’t break down; she didn’t apologize. No, she got angry, not because she was wrong, but because someone saw, because someone dared to shine a light on the truth. That’s the tragedy of it. Narcissists don’t raise children; they raise hostages, and behind closed doors, those little hearts pay the price for an adult’s unhealed void.
Three: The thief in the suit. Let’s not pretend for a second that every polished smile and power tie means virtue. No, some of the most hollow people wear the finest shoes, and when opportunity knocks, they don’t just open the door; they steal the whole house. Narcissists have a way of climbing ladders built from the backs of the broken. They’ll take the last coin from the widow’s jar and sleep soundly that night, not because they’re clever, but because they’re empty. Empathy slows the rest of us down. We hesitate, we reflect, we wonder, “Is this right?” But not them. They don’t ask; they just take. And they don’t blink when they walk away. They’ll steal from the sick, the young, the hungry, and if that’s not enough, they’ll blame them for being needy in the first place. Marriage vows? Disposable. Family ties? Optional. Friendships? Tools. They ghost without guilt, and they abandon without hesitation, and they move on, not like survivors, but like locusts looking for the next field to devour. And it’s not power they hold; it’s absence—absence of conscience, of care, of any weight in their soul. And that’s why they’re fast, because they carry nothing of value inside. You and I might struggle with regret. We might cry at night, wishing we’d done better. But they don’t. They don’t hear that still, small voice because somewhere along the line, they silenced it. And now they are their own god. The world is just a game board.
Four: The disappearing act when you need them most. If you ever want to see a person’s true soul, watch what they do when you’re in crisis. You’re bleeding, crying, desperate. Maybe the world’s crashing down around you, and you look for that one hand you thought would always be there. But instead of help, you find silence, a vanished presence, a closed door. That’s the narcissist’s nature. When your life is falling apart, they don’t lean in; they lean out. They don’t comfort; they complain, because your pain inconveniences their peace. I remember a woman, strong as iron or soft as rain, walking herself to every chemotherapy appointment because her so-called husband was too busy chasing youth and ego. And when she asked for help, he mocked her pain, called her dramatic, accused her of making things up for attention. And I’ve lived it, too. When I was young and scared, in pain, and facing a health emergency that no one should face alone, I reached out to the man who should have stood in the gap for me. You know what he did? He fumed over the cost of a plane ticket. He didn’t ask how I was. He didn’t care if I made it home alive. To him, my pain had a price tag, and anything that cost him comfort wasn’t worth his attention. That’s not fatherhood; that’s not love. That’s a heart turned to stone, where currency means more than connection. And what hurts most isn’t the crisis itself; it’s realizing that the one you needed most wasn’t ever really there.
Five: You pay so they can rest. Let me say it plain: when comfort is on the line, you will always be the sacrifice. If a narcissist has to choose between your suffering and their convenience, you’re going down. I saw it with my own eyes. A woman, frail, recovering from a medical procedure, barely able to lift her head, gets woken up by her sister-in-law because her husband was too irritated to make his own breakfast. He wasn’t injured; he wasn’t ill; he was just entitled. This wasn’t forgetfulness; this wasn’t cold; this was deliberate. A man looked at a weak woman and still demanded service. That’s not a mistake; that’s malice with manners. And don’t you fall for the ones who call themselves self-aware. I don’t care how many books they read or how many healing workshops they attend, because when pressure hits, when the ego takes a scratch, that mask flies off, and the beast comes out. They’re not sorry; they’re strategic, and what they want isn’t healing; it’s control. The moment you stop playing along, the claws come out, every single time.
Conclusion: This ain’t just brokenness; it’s evil. Let’s stop calling this what it’s not. It’s not stress; it’s not bad habits; it’s not a personality quirk. When someone rages because you woke them gently, that’s not a reaction; that’s a threat. When a child is publicly humiliated, that’s not parenting; that’s psychological warfare. When a loved one disappears during your worst storm, that’s not an oversight; that’s abandonment soaked in selfishness. And when someone demands your suffering just to keep their day on track, that ain’t love; that’s cruelty. So hear me: this isn’t human weakness; this is something darker. This is what every sacred text tried to warn us about—hearts that choose themselves at the cost of others, souls that devour instead of nourish, spirits that mimic light but carry shadows in their core. You can’t fix it. You can’t love it into changing. You can only call it what it is and walk away with your life still intact.
A final word now. If this has stirred something in you, if you feel the weight of truth pressing down, I want to invite you to something greater. I’m hosting a special event where we’ll talk about breaking the trauma bond, step by step, five practical, soul-freeing truths to set you loose from what’s been strangling you. You don’t have to stay in chains. The links down below. Register, show up, and take back what was stolen from you. Until next time, friend, let the healing begin, and may the truth keep setting you free.
Is there anything else I can help you with today?
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