I did the same thing with my mother in a different context. I remember her sitting there, wailing loudly, fake crying, throwing herself into another performance because she’s a covert narcissist. She was trying to bait me with guilt, trying to lure me back into the role of the good, obedient child who would fall for her script. It had worked for years, I’m telling you, it had worked for a long time. But not anymore. I stood there, I did not rush to console her like I used to. I did not fall into the trap of believing the performance.
I simply gave her the look that said, “Stop. I know exactly what you are doing here. Your tricks are exposed to me.” And like magic, the crocodile tears disappeared not gradually, but instantly. The fake sobbing stopped, and the mask slipped. What was left was not sadness, not regret, not pain. What was left was calculation, coldness, and fury hidden behind empathetic expressions. She saw that I was no longer buying what she was selling, and without my belief in her performance, it collapsed like a house of cards.
That is the thing about narcissists: their entire power depends on your participation, your belief, fear, and your reactions. When you take that away, when you become a mirror they can no longer manipulate, they’re left standing alone with their emptiness. This look, the look of ultimate detachment, strips them bare. It is a look that is so powerful, not because it attacks them, but because it withdraws from them. It denies them what they crave most: supply, relevance, power, fear, admiration, and attention.
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