With profound love, for all the women who have ever been abused by a narcissist. With endless love to all of us girls.

How do I feel?.


Fragile. Flaky, faulty, flawed.

Feel the intense feeling that feeling the real feeling of the other towards me conveys. Emptiness. Betrayal. The betrayal of myself trusting what I thought were my instincts, when this hour reveals itself to be the true version of the reality I used to, or at least believed to, live in.

Instrumental to his dismay of kindness, a tool to avenge the previous mutilated selves he attempted to not carry upon his back, yet were visible to me each day I looked at his shadow escaping every wall of our bedroom. Our bedroom. His bedroom. His house. Our home. His house. His home. His house. Our prison. His house. His house. His house. His house. Not ours.

Ours is not a position in the map of his world. Ours is not an alternative. Ours is the denial of the supreme power he believed so childishly he had. Ours meant to him, denial of the self. Of himself. Ours was a curse in his universe. Ours was the outcome of oblivion. Of his oblivion. He would not allow the World to deny him once more of what he so ferociously believed was his right to have.

Someone had to pay to restitute the power he felt robbed of.


I had to pay.

The debt was mine, he believed. His faith in the restitution of order, as he saw it should be, took form when I said “kiss me once more”. The debt was mine, he knew. I had to pay for what the world had robbed him of. He disguised revenge as love. He saw my skin as the drum where all the other women of the world had rejected him. He knew my tongue to be the lying machine where his beliefs where challenged. He hoped my thighs would receive him in their warmth, to proclaim to all the World that This time HE would reject all of us. He sought the punishment that entering me meant to him. Making love was not the deal. Breaking the hymen of love was the aim. Love is not real. He does not believe in it. He trusts he alone loved all the women in the world once and all of them laughed at his tender offerings of love for a lifetime.

Unable to receive love, much less to give it. Unable to touch the fabric of sweet loving gestures. Unable to believe in it. Unable to see love. Unable to feel my love. Unable to see me loving him.

Yet. I felt love. I had a home. I had a family. I had a lover. I had a partner. I had. I had. I had. I had not a single real thing. I failed to see the power of my children´s love in my quest to seek his. I did not had a partner, I had an executioner. I did not have a home, I had the illusion of chinese shadows in the wall of my wishes. I did not have a lover. I had a hater. I had a family, a family of 3. My small children and I. We invited him in. We trusted him. My children trusted me to trust him. My children felt love. For him. They wanted him to be their friend, their grown up friend. They trusted me to keep them safe near him.

And I failed.

The strength of my desire to have a family, a partner, love, companionship, tenderness, warmth, time, feelings, connection, emotion, meaning, future, history, laughter, overpowered any sense of reality I doubt I ever had. I wanted to believe there was hope. I wanted to believe in him. I wanted to believe in happiness. I wanted to believe he was my man. I wanted to believe I could believe. Wanting made me believe. Yearning for faith became the reality I inhabited. The fabric of love I believed to be enveloping my family in, was a poisonous web. I willingly gave him control over my reality. And in doing so, I presented him with the gift of my children´s lives. I presented him with the best of me, trusting he would treasure these gifts and hold them dear to his heart.

He did not have one. He took his heart out in delusion and convinced himself that us women had taken it and annihilated it. He fantasised us women, all the women of the world, past and present, were wrong and did not love him back. I, was all the women in the world. I, was the keeper of all the sins any women had ever committed. Mine was the flesh that needed to be bruised and bitten, so he could inhabit his evil reality, where no woman would love him back and we all deserved to suffer.

And I did.



My flesh was bruised. My flesh was bitten hard. My flesh bled. My legs were broken. My hands were frozen. My eyes were shut. My breasts were cut. My heart was mutilated. My mind was possessed. My love was rejected. My self was forgotten. My soul faced oblivion at the image in the mirror he placed in front of me. This image had no eyes, My eyes were sown shut with ignorance. My mouth was left eternally open to penetrate. My hair was not there. My skull was pure bone. My breasts where kept bruising back to black every day in shame for giving milk to children that were not his. A giant rod penetrated my left ear, pierced my brain and came out my right ear. The rod burned red hot day and night with ever powerful abuse, accusations and humiliation. My feet were cut off and reattached with staples. The staples made my feet irrelevant. I had feet but could not use them. I could not run away. I could not walk away. I could not stand. The iron rod piercing my mind protruded from two walls beside me. I was the prisoner of his irony and hate. Bound to breathe his hate, bound to taste his anger, bound to rip apart my groin with shame for others, all of them who had not loved him ever before. He devoured my uterus and vomited my vagina every night, then slept as I regrew them every day. Some nights he would vomit other people onto my sore eyes and made me swallow his hot dick until he grew another one. One for each time a woman had rejected him. One penis I had to swallow whole for every time he felt not desired.

My buttocks he ate. he sliced them with sweet blades that tasted of tenderness and proceeded to munch on them revoltingly, as a priest, saying a prayer as he did so: “You thank me for forgiving you, I eat your shame and you will grow back the curves of the beauty I take from you, adoring me, worshipping me, for I forgive you for not worshipping me before, each day I presented my heart to you and you looked the other way, when your eyes where green, brown, blue and yellow, when your name was yours and had all the names of the women of the world in it, when your hair was long with auburn locks, and short and bleached blond, when your smile was the most beautiful smile in the world, when you did not ever smile, when you laughed in crystal drops at other men´s words, when your desire was given as a present to other men´s poetry, when your words spoke all the languages of the world, when you did not see me standing in your future, waiting for you to worship me for offering the universe to you: I forgive you now, as I devour the youth you do not deserve, your sooted self. Thank me for forgiving you. Thank me for my mercy. Thank me for making you worthy by devouring your beauty, I forgive you”.

Thus, I forgot. I forgot my name. I forgot my face. I forgot my children. I forgot to breathe. I forgot how my voice sounded like. I forgot I was. I forgot.

And I learned. I learned to love the pain piercing my thoughts, I learned to love the words of hate, I learned that hate was his way of loving me, I learned time existed because of him, I learned I had no children, I learned there were small shadows in another room that screamed Mommy every minute, but I learned that Mommy was a bad word, it was not my name, I learned they deserved to be punished by him, I learned to love to be despised, I learned to yearn for the tearing of my flesh, I learned to ask for my breasts to be bruised purple and black, I learned to swallow. I learned. I learned. I knew. I knew. I knew that what I saw in the mirror was a carcass, a corpse, the most perfect creation of his in all of time. I knew I existed. I knew I finally was. I knew the white noise piercing my mind was his magnificent voice, I knew that he was the life I did not have, I knew he was the air and the land and the water and the space and the future and the past, and I knew perfection.

For two years I hung from the rod piercing my mind. Two years, or a million years, or a lifetime. Two lifetimes.

I died. I died.

My children died.

Their unborn children died.

Being dead, there was only void. Being dead there was silence.

Being dead, there was loneliness.

Being dead, I remembered.

Being dead, I remembered I was alive. I remembered there was a mirror in front of me, an image made by him, not me at all. I remembered there was a “me”. I remembered I was. I remembered my name. I remembered my legs, my eyes and my tongue. I remembered my children. I remembered my love. I remembered my past. I remembered I was still here. I remembered I used to love and walk and laugh and cry and be alive a whole lifetime before. I remembered I could speak. I remembered I could move. I remembered My own skin. I remembered my own smell. I remembered my own taste, my own feelings. I remembered to remember all, everything. And I knew. I knew I could move, I knew I had feet, I knew I had children. I knew I had hands.

I moved my neck. I slowly felt the muscles in my head come alive.

I turned around.

I looked around.

I spoke. I spoke. I spoke. My voice left a broken echo hanging in the air. I barely had a voice. A faint sound came out of my throat. I remembered I used to speak before. I used to say what I thought. I used to rejoice once in the luxury of speech. Free speech.

I listened. Tiny faint sweet voices kept saying “mommy”, “We are here”, “mommy”…

With sound came sight, and I saw. I looked. I saw my children. They still existed, they too had died and come to life once more.

I took their hands in mine, I nestled their fragile fingers in my palm, and I moved my feet: one step after another, and I walked out. We walked out. We walked out of oblivion and into life.

The voice I once had, kept humming these words, over and over and over:

You abused me for years.

You no longer can.

You tortured me for years.

You can no longer touch me.

You can no longer speak to me.

I am no longer yours to manipulate.

You can not abuse me anymore.

You can not keep me isolated.

You can not punish me for not earning enough money.

You can not blackmail me over who owns the house.

You can not say I am a whore anymore.

You can no longer argue I am not worthy of you.

You can not choke me anymore.

You can not make me choose between my children and yourself anymore.

You can not force me down on my knees anymore.

You can no longer make me believe I deserve the punishment.

You can not convince me I must beg for your forgiveness for standing up to you.

You can not longer kick us out of our home and wait for me to beg you to open the door.

You can no longer yell at me that you need to have sex with young girls and not me.

You can no longer convince me I am dumb.

You can no longer say I am a bad mother.

You can no longer threaten to abandon me each time something isn´t to your liking.

You can not steal my music.

You can not hide my movies.

You can not rob me of my books.

You can no longer shatter glasses against my face.

You can no longer force me against the bed and spit on me.

You can no longer yell at me.

You can no longer launch chairs at us.

You can no longer force me to love you.

You can no longer break me.

You can no longer blackmail me.

You can not manipulate me ever again.

You can never threaten to rape my children ever again.

You can no longer lie to me.

You can no longer make my children cry at dawn.

You have no place in my mind.

You can never again speak to me.

You can never again ask anything of me.

You can never again break my soul.

You can no longer beat me down.

You can no longer ask for my forgiveness.

You can never again touch me.

You no longer exist.

You have no power over me now.

You have no power over me.

We walked out of that house: his house, in fear and liberation, and never returned.

Into the world, we were free.

Like what you read? Give Rosario Larrain a round of applause.

From a quick cheer to a standing ovation, clap to show how much you enjoyed this story.