The Sociopath in My Bed: Surviving Female Narcissistic Abuse
Narcissism is not just being self-centered. Or vain. Or unfeeling. It’s not just what we call Kim Kardashian or millenials hellbent on building their personal brands on Instagram.
We mislabel the modern epidemic of me-ism as narcissistic, but Narcissistic Personality Disorder is a whole other monster. It brutalizes its victims. It’s an invisible odorless gas, nearly undetectable. It’s not just the American Psycho / Bunny Boiler Hollywood type, it often is more diabolical. Injected into its victim through intense love and giving to the victim. This is the predator’s best tool .
NPD is part of a cocktail that psychologists call Cluster B — often mixed with Borderline Personality Disorder, Histrionic Disorder and other associated disorders. I had no idea. It lived in my bed for a year. It took care of my small children. I loved it. I adored it. I nearly married it. Then, like Jekyll and Hyde, the dark side of NPD appeared instantly and the sociopath in my bed nearly destroyed me.
This is my story of falling in love with and barely escaping the most passionate, adoring woman and mother I’d ever known — a Narcissistic / Borderline Personality Disorder monster.
A Hollywood Romance
It was 2015, I was a few years divorced, living alone in a house in suburban LA, just getting over a short romance that went south. One day I drove up to my driveway to find the house next door had a new tenant.
Soon, the tenant’s children were playing with my children. They were virtually the same age.
It wasn’t long before I was out watering the lawn one day, when mom next door appeared in skin tight LuluLemons, finishing her evening run. The new neighbor mom was stunning. Healthy. Beautiful. Sweet as pie. Kind and generous. Cue slow motion as she ran up and introduced herself.
My neighbor wasn’t my usual type, there was some botox and a wondrous boob job, the hair was dyed, but her physique, her smile, her friendliness, her kindness were everything I wanted and more. A beautiful divorced woman with two kids who were fast becoming friends with my kids, living right next door. It was gift from the heavens. Add to it, Alexa was a high salaried attorney with a Chrissie Hynde style to her. After some hard setbacks in recent life, meeting Alexa was a once-in-a-lifetime reward for surviving with my heart in tact.
Alexa and I became fast friends. She was dynamic, loving, self-aware, showered me with kindness and attention, she gave until it hurt, she was a friend and a great mother. She “loved hard”, she would often tell me. She also told me that she “didn’t have great luck” in relationships. Wow, was that a foreshadowing of things to come,
Her smile, sensuality and beauty captivated me. It was almost too good to be true. It wasn’t long before we went on a date, we were soon in bed, we were a couple, and we became tied at the hip nightly and all weekend every weekend. With our kids as good friends, we were fast realizing a modern day Brady Bunch story. We became inseparable. We were the family both of us had always wanted. The romance felt unreal. Note that last word — unreal. She reeled me in with mountains of attention, reward and “love”.
The Perfect Catch
I’m quite empathic by nature, and her bond with my empathic nature deepened quickly. Had I caught the perfect fish, or had she caught the perfect prey? She had been a victim of a brutal divorce years before. So she propagandized religiously to me. She often called on the hard evidence that proved her psychopathic ex was lying about her alleged alcohol and psychological problems. She lobbied hard to show me and the world what a victim of this scumbag she was. She was an innocent. A kind heart that friends loved. She volunteered at her kids’s chool. She was an avid body builder, healthy eater and took care of her body religiously. She was hardly someone with alcohol abuse or psychological problems. Clearly her ex was crazy and retaliatory. She showed me his “crazy” emails. I bought it. She sold it hard every day, as NPD predators do, and I bought it.
My empathy for her impoverished childhood and deadbeat dad and alcoholic mother sucked me in. She loved me fast. Her desire to pleasure me constantly was obsessive, what every man dreams of. I was devoted to her, she was to me. We shared every intimate thought, feeling and vulnerability with each other and she took care of me avidly. Even if I wanted to look at another woman, it was as if she intentionally hoovered me in every morning with sexual powers to exhaust me for the rest of the day. Sex was her go to when she perceived something was not right between us. It was her go to when she did something “bad” that I disapproved of. Like a little girl who peed on the bed, if something rubbed me the wrong way, she would cuddle up, assume a little girl voice and then give the gift of dirty sex. And that sex was constant.
The Chameleon. Love Bombing.
Alexa could tell me things she never told anyone. She was a highly educated lawyer from a tough childhood. Self-made but bearing the scars of her upbringing. She was begging to be heard, understood, cared for. I loved it. She called me her King. She fed me. She clothed me. She took me on business trips with her. She hated being away from me. I was hoovered. The romance was extreme and intense. We had so much in common, we were so alike. It was as if she was a mirror image of my needs. As if anything I liked, she coincidentally had been a long-time fan of. The Chameleon.
Phase 1: the idealization phase. Narcissists do not have identities typically. They adapt to their surroundings, to their friends, to whatever gives them their Narcissistic supply. They provide a firehose gush of love and attention at this stage to get their supply. Love Bombing it’s called. Charm and social graces are at high season. You will never know what love can feel like until you are “loved” by a narcissist in the idealization phase of your inevitable plane crash.
Self-awareness. Alexa spoke like she had read every self-help book, she knew right from wrong, she was the epitome of ethics, she even despised her own lawyer peers. She was a wonderful mother, reading books endlessly about parenting, helping her children learn. All that mattered,she professed, was love, not material items. Not the mansion she used to live in. She knew the key to healthy relationships — humility, gratitude, no judging. These were the mantras from her mouth constantly. She had not only survived, but thrived after such incredible adversity. And she knew that true love and trust mattered above all. So she said.
But those were my ethics. She reflected them right back at me as hers. We were so aligned, because she was reflecting me. None of it was real. It was me talking to myself.
Alexa was a perfect facsimile of compassion. Her self-awareness and empathy were straight out of Yoga class — but learned, not felt. Hers was an oscar-winning, rehearsed, recitation from books and conversations. Alexa had no true emotions, she got supply from being an advisor, a talker, her friends were people who would listen to and follow her. The gullible. Her feelings were all scripted. This incredibly erudite woman with a bear trap memory could say it like she felt it. But it was all hollow. Love Bombing and impersonating real emotions are classic Narcissist characteristics. After scores of boyfriends and husbands, Alexa had found her perfect mark — me, an empath — to believe her drama and her sage wisdom.
Always the Victim. Despite being a body builder, strong, fierce and highly motivated, her victimhood from all her husbands was legendary, and not real. Narcissistic tip: They are victims always. They blame everyone else. They twist the truth. They never take responsibility or are accountable, even if they say they are. Self-pity is their tool. They are the perfect lawyer, twisting anything to win their game. At any cost. You, your children, your friends and family…they consume and spit out anything and everything. And she was well paid in her Hollywood legal profession with high achievements for mastering those qualities.
The Blended Family
During the glory of phase 1, I invited her to move in with me. We both wanted the perfect family badly. Alexa had a real loving family at last. She adored my kids, I did hers. We were perfect parents. I was “the one”, she professed. I “got” her. She “needed” me. I was unlike any other man, I was the real deal. A good father figure, a devoted lover. I was an angel from heaven who came down to save her. I was being sucked in to her praise and admiration. I felt like a trillion dollars. It wasn’t real.
Phase 2: Devaluation: The Devil in my bed
Soon after the move in of Alexa and her kids, Jekyll and Hyde showed up. Her dependency and “needing” me became too vulnerable and out of control. Obsession became control. She tried hard to drive wedges between me and my family to keep me close. But she knew that was wrong, she wanted to get better. She “wanted to share me with others”. She knew her jealousy “issue” needed some minor correction. In her eyes, “minor”. I bought it.
Literally overnight, her impulsive rage would burst out of nowhere, when least expected. With her kids. Around my kids. In the middle of the night. My son was scared. Her kids felt unsettled. She blamed all this on her psycho ex of course. Her 180 turn was baffling. Jekyll and Hyde.
Paranoia became the norm. While I was devoted to her, no matter how much I showed it, I was soon beating my head on the wall. Her impulses of bizarre accusations of my infidelity hit me like a ton of bricks. Hours of her fighting in bed — punishing, filthy manipulation and accusations against my integrity were leaving me exhausted. I was crucified. I tried every logical approach to assuage her insecurities, to understand why she was accusing me of infidelity. One night it was porn addiction, the next I was sleeping with co-workers. The next, waitresses. I was on trial constantly. It was as if she were in a trance in bed. In a coma that would flip on a dime into hyper aggression. It was as if she was talking about other men, not me, maybe her earlier husbands who did her wrong. And in the few moments when I would lose my patience after intense hours of abuse, I became the bad guy. I was to blame for losing my patience. This 180 turn in my greatest love was shocking, and I spent months consumed trying to understand who this new devil was in my bed.
Night after night worsened. I didn’t know who I was going to come home to. Her alcohol consumption became a regular issue. She turned from Susie Homemaker to a demonic monster in literally a blink of an eye. Her anger and extreme impulsive rage were unregulated, spontaneous fire. But by day, she was the old Alexa. The love bomber. The perfect mom. She reeled me back. By night, the devil.
Self-sabotage became the norm. Her unwarranted anger and revolting filthy language were a whole other person, and yet there were odd moments where she would stop and tell me to not listen to her ego. Her ego was bullshit she told me. One voice was telling me to come back, the other debasing me and pushing me away. She had a war inside of her.
Was the self-pity the real part? Was this pitiful, shamed little girl in bed next to me the real Alexa desperately trying to break out past her massive ego and armor? Was the alcohol and my empathy feeding her disorder or was it giving her brain wiring a last breath of hope to break away from her disorder? I’ll never know. The war within her was playing out in front of me night after night.
“Who are you?” — The Pretender, Foo Fighters
Domestic Abuse. The woman I loved more than any other woman became a true abuser. Attacks on me became more and more psychologically and emotionally manipulative, cunning, conspiratorial, fierce. She was litigating with strong evidence and logic that proved I was betraying her — all in her head. I would escape my house in the middle of the night to escape her hostility. She would use her poor, emotionally fragile son to call me in my car and plead with me to come home. He was in tears begging me. Of course, I would come home to her poor son. I loved him. I saw before my eyes the lengths of emotional manipulation that a narcissist mother/child will go to bring her prey home. Her son became her tool, her witness, her pawn. Her proxy father.
The monster would suddenly transform into a little child, crawl up into my arms, deny she had said anything to me for the last two hours and then seal the deal with a sexual act to bring me home.
The little 44 year old child in bed next to me had exorcised her demons for the night and slipped into slumber. Sex brought me back in. I had a monster / child in bed with me. Instability and volatility that was aggressive and uncontrollable. The impulses were unpredictable, without borders. And childish. Alexa was losing control on reality and herself and she was convinced she was losing control over me. I was doubting us. That scared her. And her fear manifested itself in fierce retaliation for crimes I was not committing. When loss of control grows, the narcissist loses her shit.
Gaslighting: It’s Me Who Has The Problems
I forgave Alexa’s trespasses too many times. She wanted therapy, she admitted she was insecure. She admitted she had abandonment issues. She was a huge proponent of therapy. But she never went. She never would go in the future. Instead she recommended I go to her therapist. I needed to deal with my issues, she advised.
Narcissists advise, they don’t do. Narcissists don’t really feel they “have” issues, their victims are the bad people. As she started to perceive my devotion was fraying at the edges, she took control, she played offense to protect herself from being abandoned, as is common. My growing resistance to her manipulation was a sign that I was crazy. She would get me help. This is the devaluation phase. The narcisissist is adept at convincing you that you are the problem.
The more I resisted, the more imaginary issues she found in me. Not before long, her story was that I was the alcohol abuser. I had a drug problem. I ran a meth lab she screamed from my lawn one night. The problem was, I was squeaky clean. She couldn’t find dirt or vice no matter how hard she interrogated me. And she tried very hard. Her deep interest in my life story was really an interrogation for evidence, but she came up empty-handed. Alexa the lawyer’s life is a constant court room, a constant chess board. But I have no history of abuse. Nor a public record in the court system. She had a history of all of that. She couldn’t find leverage on me and this drove her to even more cunning intimidation and manipulation tactics to try to control me. Susie Homemaker pulled out her bazooka.
In hindsight, the night of the breakup was an explosion that was me saving myself, because I could no longer save her. I tried to save her beautiful young kids, I couldn’t. She weaponized them, and made them her human shields. She leveraged them. She made them tools. The extremism of her behavior could only end in an extreme break up.
It was Mother’s Day. The break up was massive. Nuclear. Kids got emotionally hurt. I was abused for hours in her meltdown, all because she thought I looked at a waitress wrong at Mother’s Day dinner. After hours of attacks on me, I resisted. She had never seen me resist. It scared her and she pulled out the nuclear arms to try to find a way to control me. Vanquished after 3 hours of attacks, I couldn’t take anymore. I finally threw her out of the house. I calmly threw her clothes on my porch. She flipped the script and had me arrested as a revenge tactic. It was the Mothers Day nobody will ever forget.
The ultimate rejection — choosing a waitress over a highly educated, accomplished lawyer. This always played in Alexa’s head. It wasn’t true, but she feared it immensely.
Subsequently, 3 hours of her attacking me by text and phone and screaming at me as I tried to escape was the end of us. I took a stand at last. Mother’s Day fighting in front of the kids was beyond redemption. Puppeting her child was beyond redemption. Telling her child I assaulted her when I didn’t was the bitter end. I refused to comply and forgive for the first time.
She attacked harder, with weirder, random accusations. She went from vinegar, to honey to hellfire from message to message. Every weapon was out, but I refused to come home. She tried to have her emotionally distraught son call me. I refused to take the call. It was child abuse I told her. She knew she was running out of weapons. And when Borderline Narcissists cant find the tool that works, they lose control. They get more aggressive. More extreme. She lost control of reality and all reason.
I had to come home eventually. It was my home. She destroyed OUR home. Once I arrived later that night, I refused to engage, but she provoked endlessly. Alexa had a gameplan. She positioned her kids asleep in my bed so I couldn’t go there. She took my keys, took my wallet while I was trying to sleep on the couch. I couldn’t leave. I was a trapped, a beaten dog and the bizarre insults of my interaction with a waitress kept coming, relentless. They exploded into threats, condemnation of my character, endless low blows.
The narcissistic borderline abandonment unregulated impulses were off the hook. She was a machine of relentless hostility, rage, madness, having a psychotic meltdown. If she had been on meds, she clearly wasn’t now. Ill never know. Alcohol had triggered her wires. My resistance to her weapons of manipulation had spun her out of control.
I tried to protect her children by calling their father. I wanted them out of the house. I knew where this fight was going, another all nighter. She blocked me, she took the phone. Our new family, our house was consumed by her deluded grandeur, rage and manicness.
Finally, I had no choice but to make the hardest choice. I threw out the woman I loved, the woman I had wanted to marry. Literally, threw her clothes out.
That unleashed the beast. The kids got caught in the crossfire. Alexa did the unthinkable — she staged an abuse scene, she weaponized her son against me. She proceeded to feed her son lines that I had physically threatened her. Of course he would defend his mom. This was all retaliation for throwing her clothes out, for abandoning her. Rejecting a narcissist is like kicking a pitbull, you don’t escape easily if you escape at all. They can’t take rejection.
It was midnight now. In perfect calmness as I played with her daughter and consoled her poor son it happened. I watched her calmly pick up the phone, call the police and report a false domestic abuse charge against me. I had never hurt or threatened a human in my life, and the call went out that I was an abuser.
Narcissist Phase 3: The Discard .
When the narcissistic supply is gone (aka me), the vampire spits out the bones and walks away for good. The call to the police she never showed remorse for. 14 hours in jail and $8000 in legal fees, before the misdemeanor case was thrown out she never showed remorse for. In her eyes, I deserved it. I was a threat, she told the world. Only in one way was I in actuality — — resisting her manipulation made her feel threatened. She justifies the false arrest to this day, these delusions that make her the winner. The fiction that makes her the victim. This is the worst offenses of the narcissist. They will sacrifice anyone, anything.
The arresting officer was apologetic for cuffing me. I was never enraged, never threatening. I was exhausted and vanquished. Although Alexa’s story was changing with the police outside during the arrest, they had no choice. Its the OJ law. Once the call was made, I had to walk out in front of Alexa’s children in handcuffs and be put in a squad car. This whole dramatic stage, she had rehearsed in her head. Her words, her plays — methodical and calculated. She had done this before to an ex-husband. She had planned this retaliation should she ever need it.
Borderline Narcissists expect the worst, they expect to be abandoned. They sabotage their relationships, sabotage their love, sabotage their future — all to control before they get abandoned again. Alexa broke us up over delusions, she chose her massive ego, delusions of grandeur, the conspiracies in her head, the assurance that I was going to cheat on her. This is what Borderline’s do. Self-sabotage as self-preservation.
The Aftermath: Revelations of the truth
Alexa left my house quickly in the next week with the kids. She knew I had more than plenty evidence of her alcohol, emotional abuse of her child, the disorders, perversions, etc to give her ex-husband fodder for custody battles. To expose her to the world. I wasn’t going to . She was, and is, convinced I may one day, I know. Her deep exposure to me scared her. I wasn’t going to retaliate. But lawyer’s know one beat only. So Alexa started a slander campaign to discredit my sanity.
In the months after, I was left to fight through the legal system and the shock of PTSD. Eventually the case was thrown out of course. Thankfully. My kids were at stake because of her . But she never would set foot on my property, that would put her at risk. She was a very smart con. A lawyer.
Alexa’s emails were treacherous, without remorse, full of manipulation and deflection. She was convinced she was the victim. Now is when the narcissist blooms in full glory. Accusations of my mental illness for rejecting her, accusations of me stalking her. My alleged alcohol and drug problem. She remarked that going to jail was no big deal, because I had a clean record. I would be fine. This was a lesson she was teaching me, it was clear. This was her game. She was deflecting blame, fully justifying her crimes. All of this was in her way, I knew, an attempt for me to crawl back to her. How could I reject a treasure like Alexa unless I was mentally ill?
This is called Gaslighting — a common practice of transferring all her problems, identity, her issues and fears onto the victim to manipulate the victim. It’s so cunningly done, many victims start to believe they might be guilty or have mental issues — see Stockholm Syndrome.
The discard phase reveals the cruelty in the narcissist that existed all along. This is the first look at her true self. The “real” love was just exhaustion of my narcissistic supply. There is no shame, no guilt. Apologies never came. Remorse never came. I was at fault for everything, she was an innocent victim. I “damaged” her kids. Eventually I reached out to her ex-husband who appears to be the good guy in the end. The kids were going to be fine, according to him. I offered to help clean her mess up, talk to the kids. Instead she smeared me with contemptuous lies that I’m a bad person, even though the kids trusted and loved me for many months. Her poor kids. She abandoned my young daughter who loved her, mercilessly.
Accepting a Year of Fraud
Our relationship was not real I have now have to accept. I tried a thousand ways to negotiate reason, break bread, help her kids. Alexa was alone, without family. For good reason, I now know. She will always outwardly hold the persona that I abused and abandoned her. She will always tell the tale that makes her the victim, that I went from an angel to a devil overnight. How her gullible victim friends and family who knew me will buy into this propaganda, I don’t know. None of it makes sense. She is a hell of a sales woman though, a fine lawyer. She’ll sell this story until anyone who buys will believe it.
As a victim, there’s not much one can do. You are the scapegoat for her sins and crimes. You can’t retaliate. You can’t shame them. You can’t reason. They have no conscience, none of the empathy from months of love really existed. It all evaporates. It never did exist. It was all recitations from a book, so convincing, so genuine. But all a cunning ruse. Everything was fake. And she can convince the gullible friends that I’m the fraud, I’m the abuser.
Surviving narcissistic abuse is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. For months, Ive obsessed over the betrayal. I sought weekly counseling, did EMDR trauma treatment, nearly lost my job, could barely wake through the day. Depression kicked in a bit. I dated a few girls and the physiological trauma prevented connection, sex, love or anything. My nerves were and still are numb. I watched videos, studied voraciously to find an answer, worked through “let it go” with my therapist. I tried to forgive the devil in my bed. There is only one way to beat a narcissist. No Contact. And that’s so ungratifying when all you want is justice for the crimes and scam against you. Surviving a love so deep so pure and so false will be a long long road ahead.
The vampire has sucked me dry so she moves onto the next guy. Quickly. A devastating break up that hurt all our kids so much, caused by her reckless rage, anger and ego, goes unacknowledged. The narcissist answers with a quick jump into bed onto the first guy she can find.
I can only try to sleep knowing that in Alexa’s heart and soul she is empty. She is screaming that she doesn’t fit in. She is screaming that she is the abandoned little child that no one gets. And she will destroy all her relationships with her disorder. She will likely cross the wrong guy and get hurt, and there’s nothing I can do about it. Her kids will suffer, they will eventually end up with dad permanently. There’s nothing I can do about it.
But that shame is in there, I’ve seen it, I know it burns in there. I pray it’s in there scorching her.
Alexa will go on successfully in business. She’ll change her looks again and again, hiding the shame. Eating men alive with kindness until the jealous rage kicks in. And she will be believed by the many gullible friends and family who have no idea what she really is. They have no idea what I’ve suffered, the crimes against me, the calculated, cunningness of a Narcissistic / BPD powerful LA attorney. I assume other men have suffered before and will suffer in the future. What is real?
I dodged the bullet of almost marrying a borderline narcissist. I escaped the woman I loved. And it will linger forever, painfully. The true sociopath revealed herself in the end. I win. And it will feel horrid forever.
It’s the end of a hollywood romance. Or is it.