Why total separation is sometimes the only way: narcissists don’t do goodbyes—not really. They don’t let go. They hover, linger, wait like a bad echo in the hallway of your life. Because in their world, nothing ever ends; it just pauses until they’re ready to pick it up again. They live for control, for influence, for knowing they’ve still got a hold on you, even if the grip has loosened. But when you go blackout, you don’t just break the cycle; you shatter the illusion. You’ve stepped off their stage and pulled the curtain down behind you, and they don’t know what to do with that kind of silence because, in their script, you were never meant to exit—only to orbit.
So when you disappear entirely—no text, no profile, no trace—they start to unravel, not slowly, violently. And you might have seen it: the panic, the theatrics, the reckless online stunts. It’s all an act of desperation because they can’t stand being locked out of the story. And here’s the hard truth: sometimes blackout isn’t just wise; it’s necessary. Especially when you’re dealing with someone who doesn’t just manipulate, but violates. When you’re up against the kind of person who doesn’t respect boundaries—someone who watches, tracks, digs, maybe even tampers with things they have no business touching—bank accounts, devices, your privacy—then no contact isn’t enough. You need a firewall, a full retreat, a complete severing of every thread that ties you to their chaos. This isn’t drama; this is survival.
And yes, some of them—the ones with more dangerous traits, the sociopathic, the psychopathic—don’t just want control; they crave domination. They wear masks so convincing that even you believed them at one point. But underneath, there’s a hunger for ownership that never ends. That’s why blackout matters: because your safety isn’t negotiable. Because peace is worth more than closure.
But let me tell you something deeper—something they knew, whether they ever admitted it or not: they always saw your light. Even when you didn’t, they saw the strength in you, the shine, the goodness, the value, and it terrified them. So they did what they do best: they smothered it, confused it, lied to it. They made you forget who you were just to feel bigger standing beside you. You were never just a partner; you were a trophy—not cherished, but flaunted; not loved, but used as proof of their worth. They fed off your beauty, your brilliance, your spirit, but only to boost their affection in the eyes of others. It wasn’t admiration; it was theft dressed in praise.
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