Have you ever wondered what happens at the end of a narcissist's life? Do they become softer, kinder? Do they ever apologize? Will you ever find a sense of closure, or peace?
Today, I have a different style of video for you because I’m truly in the thick of it. Twelve years ago, my narcissistic father threatened to violently hurt me and my daughter. At that time, I believed he was not only capable but very willing to follow through on his threat. Within days, I moved to an undisclosed address, went no-contact, and since then, to some extent, I’ve been in hiding.
And for these past twelve years I’ve wondered what would happen at the end of his life. Would I get a call? Would I go to his bedside if I did receive a call? And if I did go to his bedside… what would I say, and what would I hope to hear?
Well, a few days ago, my father passed away.
And in these days since, I’ve tried to make sense of what I’m feeling, what I expected, how it all actually played out. Of course, as we do in this community, I took to YouTube for some guidance. And found a video by Dr. Ramani, who, as always, was generous and helpful. Her content has been a guiding light for so many of us in our darkest hours. But the video itself wasn’t what made the biggest difference for me. The real soul-level medicine was found in the comments. I read story after story from someone like you. Someone like me. People who have lived this, and felt this, and endured this specific type of pain.
So even though I'm not my bright and put-together self, and even though I don’t have much teaching to offer here, I thought that maybe, if I give a voice to this… that it could help someone who needs to hear it as much as I need to hear it. And maybe together we will feel a little less alone. Our stories matter. Our experiences matter. If you have any extra time today, please share yours in the comments down below.
So what actually happened? I did not get a phone call. I did not have a request to come to the hospital as he was dying. My siblings have my number, my social media, my email. His death was not sudden, they had several days to let me know. However, they chose not to. Instead, I received a text a day after the fact and then my calls were refused.
When I received that text, I have to admit that the first thing I felt was just relief. I was not sad, I was not angry. It was just over. And here’s the thing about this… you can’t tell people that. You can’t tell them that you’re relieved your dad just died. You can’t tell them that you’re not sad. You can’t tell them you haven’t spoken in 12 years. You can’t tell them you’ve been living in hiding because he was a terrifyingly violent man. There’s nothing I can say that will make sense to anyone who hasn’t lived this. To most people, I will sound calculated, callous, sociopathic even. And that is very lonely. It’s the next iteration of ostracism. It’s the next version of being the scapegoat. It’s the next rendition of gaslighting.
Without any conversation, and without any explanation, I did my best to try to paste together what happened. I scoured Facebook. I spoke to distant relatives. Little by little, more was revealed about my dad, about my siblings, and about events leading up to his death. The relief I’d briefly felt was now replaced with an aching hollowness of betrayal and loss. If this was grief, it didn’t feel like grief about my dad. Nor did it feel like the grief of losing the dad I’d always hoped for.
I didn’t sleep much that night and ended up listening to hours of ancient history podcasts. In one, the narrator spoke about Derawar Fort. It’s this huge fortress in Pakistan built in the 9th century. The perimeter is 1500 meters around with walls standing 30 meters high. The narrator said, “That is millions and millions of bricks. Each one shaped from the earth where they stood, baked in their ovens, and placed by hand to build those walls.”
For some reason, the idea of millions of bricks lasting hundreds of years in the desert made me cry. Because, what nobody tells you about no contact is that it’s built brick by brick. It isn’t a single decision. It is moment by moment, memory by memory, year by year. It is the decision to not go to a wedding. Or to not invite someone to a graduation. It is the text you stare at for hours, days, trying to figure out how to reply. It is not having an emergency contact listed when you go to a doctor or sign your child up for school. It is the birthdays that you miss, the anniversaries, the family reunions, the funerals. It is so much of your life that is not witnessed, not known. It is week after week for years sitting with a therapist as they walk you through the lonely aftermath. It is the decision to become a stranger to your own life, to your own history.
And even though I know better… I have to admit that I had the teensiest bit of hope that he’d come around in the end. That he might want to see me. Know me. Know my daughter. That he’d say he wished for things to be different between us. And I hate that I feel that way, because of all those bricks that I’ve put into place to keep me protected and to keep him away. It’s embarrassing to realize how very little it would have taken for them to all come crumbling down.
And how much I still wanted to hear:
Two words: I’m sorry.
Maybe even one: love.
It’s even more devastating to realize that he wasn’t even willing to do that. Instead, from the grave he had this to say: “I am intentionally not appointing any property to my daughter, Meadow Devore”. It wasn’t even his money. He wrote me out of my grandparent’s trust. And he even spelled my name wrong…
What I am finding is that betrayal runs deep and there are always co conspirators. The golden child plays his part till death and beyond. And sometimes… the people who you loved the most are the ones that hurt you the worst. If this is grief, it is also about my sister and my brother. If this is grief, it is also about loss, and anger. If this is grief, it is brutal.
The unfortunate outcome of this mess is that the very painful decision to go no contact has been undeniably validated. No matter how difficult it was to cut myself off from family and my past, I now know without any doubt, that I made the right decision for me, and for my daughter. I had thought I knew the story of my life. And now I think about all these bricks that I built from the earth where I stood. All these bricks that I baked into stone. All these bricks I placed by hand to build the walls for a fortress in the desert. These are the ruins that are left behind after the narcissist dies. And it is sad but it is also beautiful.
If you are going through this, I offer you my sincerest condolences. Thank you for listening.