The Empath and the Covert Narcissist: A Journey Through Love, Betrayal, and Self-Discovery

Romantic love is the quiet tide that pulls two souls into the same horizon—a dance of vulnerability and courage, where hearts learn to speak in languages older than words

If I could rewind time to trace the roots of my dysfunctional understanding of love, I would land on my college years—young, in love, and blind to the signs that would later shape my relationships.

One year removed from losing my virginity to my high school sweetheart, there was a girl, a girl who captivated me in ways I had never experienced before. I was convinced that what we had was solid, built on a foundation strong enough to weather anything, even distance.

But when I left for the summer to complete a summer medical school research internship, I unknowingly became the ghost in my own relationship. Out of sight, out of mind—a phrase I never imagined would apply to me—became my unspoken reality.

When I returned to campus, I was eager, electrified with anticipation. I imagined our reunion as a moment of renewal, where we would lay out our plans for the future, mapping out how we could withstand the challenges of campus life together.

But my enthusiasm was shattered when she met me in the canteen, eyes hollow, fingers clenched around a bottle of pills.

“You have some explaining to do,” she said slamming the bottle of pills on the table.

My heart slammed into my ribs. But the cruelest twist? The pain in her voice, the pills in her hand, none of it had anything to do with me!

She had stepped out while I was away, and whatever darkness she was drowning in had been created by another man.

That moment was the wrecking ball to my perception of love, monogamy, and trust. If love was real, why hadn’t she saved herself for me? If commitment meant something, why had she so easily given it away?

My parents had something sacred, something I admired with a longing to recreate, but now that vision was tainted with the constant reminder of the scar across my heart. I became guarded, disillusioned.

Relationships were no longer about deep connection but a game of boundaries and endurance. How much could I give before I lose myself again?

Even as I carried this pain, I never mistreated the women I dated. I was a master at making each one feel like the only one. But inevitably, my emotional detachment led to heartbreak—both theirs and mine.

The last straw was the one woman who not only cleaned my apartment but also stole my puppy.

That betrayal crystallized the reality that my concept of love had become warped.

I stepped away from relationships altogether.

If it required my heart, the answer was no. I had jumped off the cliff of love too many times, only to hit rock bottom, face-first.

Years passed. When I met my ex-spouse, I convinced myself I was ready. But in hindsight, the signs were there, glaring neon letters spelling out the warnings that I ignored.

The first was the boundary she trampled without hesitation. I was a head swim coach and had a swim meet at the very club I had helped desegregate as a child. It was a significant moment—one I wanted to share with people who genuinely supported me.

I never invited her, yet there she was, sitting among the crowd, her presence both unexpected and unsettling. Worse, she strategically placed herself next to my parents yet barely acknowledging them. If she wanted to be part of my life, why did she not try to connect with them?

That was the first crack in the illusion.

The second crack in the illusion was her suffocating possessiveness. She invited me to a fraternity boat ride, an event I was more than happy to support. I arrived in all black tailored suit, black shirt, black tie, and my orange lensed aviators sunglasses donned on my face, reflecting the fiery hues of the setting sun.

When she saw me, I could feel the shift in her demeanor—an immediate, visceral reaction.

But her energy was not of admiration; it was the energy of possession. The night unfolded in a twisted game of control. She drifted away, mingled, then suddenly appeared beside me when I was dancing with another woman.

When I tried to leave with a friend—someone I had history with but had lost touch with—she materialized again, this time with an entourage.

The ride home became a public trial, my character dragged through the mud by her and her “flying monkeys”—a term fittingly used in psychological literature to describe the enablers of a narcissist (Hammond, 2022).

She wasn’t confronting me out of hurt but out of the need to dominate, to mark her territory.

Then came the ultimate betrayal of my autonomy. I had told her I wasn’t ready for an intimate relationship, that I wanted to wait, to fall in love.

But she couldn’t accept my boundaries. Instead, she sought to dismantle them—insinuating that my restraint was a sign of weakness or hidden secrets.

“Are you gay? Seeing someone else?”

The mere act of preserving myself became an attack on her ego. And when coercion failed, she turned to manipulation. Shots of vodka were poured, my refusal drowned under the weight of intoxication.

When I awoke, the realization hit like a freight train—I had been stripped of my agency, my choice.

That night, I was not a willing participant but a conquest. Studies confirm that narcissists use alcohol and manipulation as tools to break down the defenses of their partners, ensuring compliance through psychological and emotional coercion (Twenge & Campbell, 2017).

Still, I stayed. The mask she wore was expertly crafted, her performance seamless. She would oscillate between adoration and devaluation, a cycle that kept me trapped in an emotional labyrinth.

She would hold me close and whisper, “You’re mine,” not in love but in possession. Each act of generosity I extended—jewelry, gifts, financial stability—was met with a lackluster “Thanks,” followed by emotional distance.

No matter what I gave, it was never enough. A phenomenon well-documented in covert narcissism—wherein the victim is left feeling drained, unappreciated, and psychologically imprisoned (Durvasula, 2019).

I hear my father’s voice, even now. Son, I wouldn’t lose respect for you if you ran.

I should have. But I didn’t, this wasn’t love.

And so, I found myself standing at the altar, smiling—fully present, despite being stripped of every ounce of power in planning my own wedding. I was there for love, for commitment. But she?

She was there as an opportunist demon. The demon who had hit the jackpot!

For years, I struggled with the weight of this trauma. But in my healing, I have come to realize that my worth is not measured by what I give but by who I am.

The only beautiful thing that emerged from the wreckage of that relationship is my daughter.

She is the light in the darkness, the tangible proof that something pure can emerge from something so tainted.

I am enough.

I am healing.

And most importantly, I now understand that love—real love—does not demand suffering as its proof.

Love is not about finding someone to complete you, but about finding someone who helps you become the best version of yourself. It’s a journey of growth, understanding, and unconditional acceptance—both for them and for you.

Sources
• Durvasula, R. (2019). “Don’t You Know Who I Am?” How to Stay Sane in an Era of Narcissism, Entitlement, and Incivility. Post Hill Press.
• Hammond, C. (2022). “Psychological Warfare: The Tactics of Narcissistic Abuse.” Journal of Psychological Studies, 38(4), 215-229.
• Twenge, J. M., & Campbell, W. K. (2017). The Narcissism Epidemic: Living in the Age of Entitlement. Atria Books.