Despite what you see, the truth of how the narcissist is living, friends, thank you for being here. You may have come seeking clarity or perhaps just a moment of stillness amid the noise of it all. Either way, I welcome you. Now, let me speak from the heart, not just to inform you but to lift the veil that has long clouded your view. So many carry the ache of injustice, the sting of betrayal, the unanswered question: Why? Why did the narcissist seem to walk away untouched, unbothered, maybe even rewarded?
Let me tell you something: Don’t chase revenge. Don’t sit by the window waiting for karma like it’s the evening train. Because once you truly see how the narcissist is living behind closed doors, behind that polished smile, behind that curated image, you’ll know they’re already living in the very storm you wished would come. You see, the narcissist walks through life under a shadow, in a spiritual drought, in a soul-level drought. It’s not a curse you put on them; it’s a weight they chose the moment they turned away from truth. The moment they began to build a life rooted not in grace, not in humility, and not in love, but in performance, pretense, and control.
Now, I know what some of you might say: “But the narcissist looks fine. Maybe better than fine. Thriving, charming, admired, even loved.” Ah, but that’s the show. That’s the current mirror they hold up to you, hoping you’ll never look behind it. But behind it, calm, there is exhaustion, a tired, clawing emptiness. The narcissist is running a one-person circus, juggling lies, walking tightropes of manipulation, taming the wild beasts of their own insecurity, and no one is applauding. Not really. Not in the quiet of the night. Not when the spotlight fades.
The narcissist lives in a state of spiritual malnourishment. It’s not just that joy is missing; it’s that joy can’t breathe in a house built from falsehoods. Peace can’t stay where the air is thick with blame and denial. And love, real love, can’t bloom in the soil of domination. You may wonder where this root took hold. Often, it started in childhood—yes, wounded places, moments of rejection and neglect.
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