I trusted her implicitly. There was nothing she didn’t know about me. Every word she uttered was Gospel to me. I obeyed her every whim. Believed everything she told me about myself — the good, the bad and the ugly. She’d seen me naked. She had all my financial info and passwords. She said she loved me more than anyone else in the world. I loved her more than anyone else in the world. She was empathic, sweet, charming. She was my best, my only friend.
But I was wrong. Dead wrong.
She wasn’t merely the innocent, naïve Narcissist’s Puppet. She was hand-in-glove with the narcissist, playing me like a fiddle, using her empathy and love to compel my compliance.
My Eureka Moment
Usually, they discussed me behind my back. Decided what to do to me, about me and with me in my absence. But they slipped up. Once, perhaps twice. The Narcissist and The Puppet discussed me in front of me.
That’s when I noticed that The Puppet behaved dramatically differently when it was just her-and-I versus when the narcissist was present.
To me, she was all smiles and coos, giggles and snuggles.
But behind my back she was all business, discussing me with all the coldness of the narcissist. You couldn’t tell them apart. Both the Puppet and The Narcissist were cold, analytical and objective.
Twenty-five years later I remember this as a “eureka moment.”
One particular thing jumped out at me as I listened to them discuss me. They never used my name. Never. I was merely referred to as “she.”
Over and over, they called me “she” in a frigid, scientific tone. To my face, I was called all kinds of terms of endearment: Schnookums, Honey, Little Honey, Sweetheart. Even “Lenora” was fine by me. Back then, I liked my name, sort-a.
But behind my back, I may’ve been merely a social experiment in traumatic mind control called “She.” Like the boy called “It.” At least I had a gender. I was “she.”
I spoke up. Objected to being called “she.”
They banished me.
Clinging to the Illusion
Even after discovering narcissism, I held desperately to the belief that The Puppet was as duped as I was. A victim. Naïve. Confused. Innocent.
I put up website after website on The Puppet’s particular interests, hoping to catch ’em, lure ’em in and then re-direct them to my site about narcissism. I wrote articles reflecting their exact situation, how they’ve been abused. I even toyed with the idea of ordering the best books about narcissism from Amazon and having them shipped directly to The Puppet, but alas, I couldn’t afford it.
The Puppet finally found my site. Read the article. Threatened me.
Some illusions die hard. They linger long. Much too long.
It’s taken five years of recovery, but I’m finally ready to face the truth. The Puppet is a victim, yes, broken and battered by narcissistic abuse. But…
…they were a knowing, a cold, a willing participant in my abuse. No innocent Puppet they! At best, they were a knowing Flying Monkey, at worst, a covert narcissist themselves!
All that love, that empathy, the coo’s and cuddles were their tool to bend me to their will. What the narcissist lacked in empathy, warmth and patience the Puppet made up for. Thus it became their job to bend me to the Narcissist’s will as pleasantly as possible. Failing that, they called out the “big guns.” The Narcissist’s rage and ability to terrorize me into obedience.
I loved The Puppet more than anyone else on this Earth. On some level, I always will. There’s one person you always love.
But I now see them clearly.
The Puppet was really The Perpetrator.