The Person You Were Before They Convinced You Otherwise

The discard doesn't feel like an ending. It feels like an erasure. One moment you're entangled in someone's world, convinced that your love, your patience, your loyalty will finally be enough to fix what's broken. The next moment, you're discarded—suddenly, coldly, as if the entire relationship was a performance and you just received your closing notice.

And the cruelest part? You're left holding all the broken pieces of yourself, wondering how someone who claimed to love you could vanish so completely, as if you never mattered at all.

The aftermath of narcissistic abuse is a particular kind of devastation. It's not just heartbreak—it's an identity crisis. You look in the mirror and don't recognize the person staring back. When did you become so small, so apologetic, so desperate for crumbs of affection from someone who only fed you when it served them?

You spent so long walking on eggshells, managing their moods, blaming yourself for their coldness, convincing yourself that if you just loved them better, if you just understood them more, if you just stopped being so sensitive, so needy, so much—then everything would be okay. But it was never about you. It was never going to be okay. Because you cannot love someone into wholeness when they've built their entire identity around your fragmentation.

I kept trying

to earn love

from someone

incapable of giving it

The discard from a narcissist comes when you're no longer useful. When you've started setting boundaries, asking questions, expecting reciprocity. When the mask begins to slip and you catch glimpses of who they really are beneath the charm. Or sometimes, the discard comes simply because they found someone new—someone who doesn't yet know what you learned the hard way, someone who still believes the fantasy they're selling.

And you're left reeling, not just from the loss, but from the realization that you were never in the relationship you thought you were in. That the person you loved might never have truly existed. That every beautiful moment, every promise, every "I've never felt this way before"—it might have all been a script they've performed a dozen times before with a dozen different people.

This revelation doesn't bring relief - even if you know logically it “should” It brings a grief because a relationship with a narcissist creates trauma bonding in the brain. Trauma bonding is the invisible chain that forms when someone hurts you and then comforts you, creating a cycle of pain and relief that your nervous system mistakes for love. Neurologically, this happens because the unpredictable pattern of abuse followed by affection triggers intense dopamine responses in your brain—the same chemical involved in addiction. Your brain becomes wired to crave the relief that only your abuser can provide, because they're also the source of your distress. This is why you feel like you cant leave someone who treats you terribly—the intermittent moments of kindness feel so intensely good that your brain gets addicted to the pattern, not realizing it's trauma, not love. You find yourself defending someone who hurts you, missing someone who mistreats you, longing for someone who has given you every reason to leave. Breaking a trauma bond isn't just about leaving the person—it's about teaching your nervous system the difference between someone who loves you and someone who needs you to stay confused enough to stay at all. It is likely due to this trauma bond you tolerated things you swore you'd never tolerate. You made exceptions you swore you'd never make. And now, in the aftermath, you have to face the painful truth: you chose them over yourself. More than once.

But here's what you need to understand: this wasn't weakness. Narcissists target empathetic people, people with deep wells of compassion and patience. They target people who believe in second chances, who see the good in others, who are willing to fight for connection. Your ability to love deeply wasn't the problem. The problem was directing that love toward someone fundamentally incapable of receiving it.

The journey back to yourself is not linear. Some days you'll feel strong, clear, free. Other days you'll miss them so intensely it physically hurts, even though you know—you know—that what you're missing isn't real.

This is why no contact is not optional—it's essential. Every text, every call, every "just checking in" resets your healing. Because narcissists are masters of the hoover maneuver, the art of pulling you back in just when you're starting to build momentum toward freedom. They'll reappear with apologies that sound sincere but are empty. They'll love-bomb you again, briefly, until they remember why they discarded you in the first place. And the cycle will repeat until you decide it ends.

You'll know you're healing when you stop making excuses for their behavior or blaming yourself for the relationship's failure. When you can look at the patterns clearly and name them for what they were: manipulation, gaslighting, emotional abuse.

You'll know you're healing when you stop checking their social media, stop asking mutual friends about them, stop hoping they'll realize what they lost and come back. When you understand that their silence is not abandonment—it's liberation. That their absence is not a void—it's space…

You’ll know you’re healing when you understand that closure will not come from them. They will never give you the accountability you deserve, the apology you've earned, the honest explanation you crave because they're incapable of providing them. Narcissists do not have the emotional infrastructure for genuine accountability. They experience your pain as an attack on them, your needs as demands, your existence as either a source of supply or a threat to their false self.

And once you truly accept this—not intellectually, but in your bones—something shifts. The obsessive thoughts begin to quiet. The replaying of conversations starts to fade. The fantasy of what could have been releases its grip. Because you finally understand: there was never anything you could have done differently. There was never a version of you that would have been enough. The problem was never you.

And one day—not today, maybe not even soon, but one day—you'll wake up and realize you didn't think about them at all yesterday. That the first thought in your morning wasn't about them. That you're making plans based on what you want, not on what they might think. That you're whole again, or maybe whole for the first time.