The Subtle Slave: The Losing is Winning Paradox

You can’t win an argument with a person with Narcissistic Personality Disorder. That’s not an exaggeration, it’s a fact. You cannot and will not win. Ever.

You can’t win an argument with a person with NPD because arguing a point requires logical reasoning and a Narcissist does everything in their power to skirt logical reasoning. In fact, they are very strategically gifted at introducing logical fallacies into an argument. If their opponent recognizes the fallacy and calls them on it, they are quick to compound it with yet another fallacy.  This pattern continues until the original argument is buried so deeply in layer upon twisted layer of invalid reasoning, blame-shifting, and misdirection, that there is no hope of the opponent ever untangling it.

A Narcissist knows that it is far simpler to argue with a fallacy than to rely on the burden of true logical reasoning. They also know that if they argue long enough, that eventually they can wear their  logic-minded opponent down to the point where they choose to forfeit. Because what any logic-minded individual knows is that to continue to argue with a fool is itself the action of a fool.


Throughout the nearly-15 years of my marriage to a man with Narcissistic Personality Disorder, I fell into this trap time and time again: trying to argue my point with logic. And time and time again I found myself exhausted and utterly depleted.  Of the literal thousands of arguments I engaged in, not one did I win. NOT ONE.  You may wonder then, why in the heck I persisted to try.  There were two main reasons: 1) I didn’t understand the nature of what I was up against, and 2) I was filled to the brim with righteous indignation.

If you’ve read my previous installments in The Subtle Slave blog series, you’ll recall that for the duration of my marriage I did not recognize that my husband had a personality disorder.  I knew full well something was wrong with him – that much was painfully obvious – but what it was exactly, I could not put my finger on.  Because I had no other frame of reference, I assumed he was a normal-functioning intellectual with the capacity to empathize. And, because I had never heard of NPD nor had I encountered another person with the disorder, it did not occur to me that a person could, at times, so closely emulate decency yet have no ability to differentiate between right and wrong, good and evil.  For so many years I was left wondering if I was losing my flipping mind because the man who presented himself to the world as a thoughtful, compassionate individual was incapable of conjuring those characteristics behind closed doors.  And, when it came to arguing with him…well, let’s just say I lost long before I ever put up my dukes.

Still, knowing I had truth on my side, I tried my damnedest to get him to see the light; to get him to acknowledge the fallacy in his thinking.  I would make clear and logical points, but my engineer husband – who should have been the one with a Spock-like rationale – seemed to deflect logic like The Great Wall of China would deflect a little rubber ball.


You see, what I didn’t realize then was that arguing is a Narcissist’s superpower. They thrive on their ability to drive you to the brink of insanity.  They gain a sick sense of satisfaction watching you writhe and struggle, trying in every way possible to get them to acknowledge the truth.  But the reality of the situation is that they already know the truth…they just don’t care.  Their game is not about getting to the truth. No. Like a prize fighter, the Narcissist’s game is about getting the Knock Out. They enter the ring not necessarily expecting to throw the hardest punches but secure in their ability to endure any punches thrown at them (little rubber ball meet Great Wall of China).  They can go round after round with logical fallacy and not break a sweat. However, watching their opponent bob, weave, and perspire profusely only serves to fuel their energy.  In the end, their relentless bombardment of absurdities and their unfathomable ability to defy logical reasoning will either exhaust their opponent to the point where they break down or enrage them to the point where they explode.  As in boxing, a technical KO is still a victory.


I’m ashamed to admit that it took me as long as it did to learn how to win an argument with my NPD spouse. But, after more than a decade of losing my mind, losing my sh*t, or most typically, both, I finally cracked the code: LOSE.  And lose quickly.

In my experience, losing victoriously has been obtained by employing one of the two methods outlined below. Don’t be mistaken, in none of these scenarios will the Narcissist ever cede the victory.  They will still claim that they have won by default.  Though they may never agree, YOU will know that by preserving your dignity and your sanity, you are the true winner.  Here are the methods I suggest in order to lose victoriously:


Refusing to allow a person with NPD to begin an argument that will eventually, inevitably, and without fail lead to your demise, is likely the most effective way to take the wind out of their sails.  Nothing pisses them off more than not being allowed the opportunity to drag you onto a battlefield, pump you full of lead, and witness you slowly bleed out while they watch smugly from the bunkers.  When the Narcissist tries to strike up an argument, simply tell them; “I refuse to engage in an argument with you.”  Do not open your mouth after that.  No matter what.  Have no doubt that they will unleash their entire arsenal of hateful and offensive slander trying to bait you into battle, but do not acknowledge them. Just sit quietly and look away as they shriek and claw the air around them like a demon who’s been doused with holy water.

Of course, there is a chance that this tactic of avoidance may escalate them to become physically violent.  If you feel you may be in danger, forgo this tactic and opt for the following:


Another highly effective method of losing victoriously is to wave the white flag the second the first shot is fired.  When the Narcissist is trying to place blame on you for something (because they never accept fault.  Never.) all you need  to shut them up and shut tbc32320cf8c4782af3ac81df0523b6c5hem down is to wholeheartedly agree.  For instance, one of my husband’s favorite means to enslave me was by not allotting me adequate funds to pay the bills and still purchase other basic necessities (though we had ample funds available) then micromanage our financial accounts and scrutinize my every purchase- an aspect of financial abuse. Often he would say to me something to the effect of, “You’re incapable of staying on budget!” To which I would reply, “You’re right.”  You should have seen his face turn an inhuman shade of reddish-purple.  He would continue, trying to drag me into the fight; “You’re running us into the ground!”  Again, “You’re right.”  Smoke would billow from his eye sockets. “Aren’t you even concerned?!”  “Yes, I am.”  His body now convulsing with rage,”So what are you going to do about it?” to which I would politely answer, “Whatever you say, dear.”  And that was that.

Sure, he would then go on to lecture me about all the ways I needed to shape up and fall in line.  All to which I would nod and agree.  That did not mean, of course, that I planned to follow through on any of the absurd things he just demanded of me, but it put a quick end to his game by handing him the victor’s crown straight out of the gate.

At first, choosing to lose to someone who is so clearly in the wrong may be a bitter pill to swallow.  But, I promise it will get easier and easier.  And, in the end, it is the only way for you exercise control over the situation while maintaining your sanity and self-respect.

So, my friend, should you find yourself in the unfortunate position of trying to reason with a Narcissist, don’t. Don’t give them the satisfaction of watching you fail. By assisting them to a swift victory, you come out the ultimate winner.

Happy losing,

P.S.  If you are just now joining me for my blog series The Subtle Slave, and would like to learn more about NPD and about my own personal experiences being married to a Narcissist, please check out my blog page Bittersweet Me.  If you would like to read more about the topics covered in this post, see the links below.

The Ten Commandments of Logical Debate

6 Signs You’re Arguing with a Narcissist

The Narcissist Blames You!

3 Reasons You Can’t Win with a Narcissist

The Subtle Slave: Big Little Lies

The 2-1/2 years since my divorce from a man with Narcissistic Personality Disorder have been a process of discovery.  The longer I am removed from the situation, the more clearly I am able to see just how unhealthy it was for both myself and my children.  While I was entrenched in the madness and the mind games I had become so numbed to the abuse that I viewed much of it as normal.  “All couples fight,” I thought. “It could be so much worse,” I told myself over and over again.  And since my ex was so masterful at manipulating reality and confounding my thought processes, I truly believed that much of what was happening to me was my own fault.

In order to protect my family from the scrutiny of outsiders, I became extremely adept at telling little lies.  I had learned from the best, after all.  I would sometimes lie to people who asked, “how’s your marriage?” or “are you okay?”, but mostly I learned to lie to myself.  I learned to justify every ‘off’ behavior, to excuse every damaging word, to cover up every sign of physical and emotional abuse, until both the abuse and the lies became just another normal everyday part of our existence…until I hardly recognized them at all.


I recently devoured a book by Liane Moriarty titled Big Little Lies.  It’s a work of fiction about the interconnected lives of three mothers of kindergartners. Besides hilariously depicting elementary school politics, Moriarty gives a very true-to-life account of the lies we tell to protect our families and ourselves.  One of the main characters, Celeste, finds herself, much like I did, justifying the abuse she endures.  Without spoiling the book for you, Celeste grapples with whether the good in her marriage outweighs the bad: is it worth destroying the family – namely the lives of the children – to expose what truly goes on behind closed doors.  If you have the time, I highly suggest reading it.  Or you could do like I did and download the audiobook.  But be forewarned: once you pick it up, it will be near impossible to put it back down.


Reading Celeste’s story sparked my own personal revelation about how I still find myself – albeit subconsciously – protecting and justifying the behaviors of my ex-husband and throwing myself under the bus for allowing it to continue as long as it did.  You see, I’ve been fearful that fully exposing their NPD father will create a horrific backlash on the lives of my children.  While I was able to divorce him, they were not – he still exerts manipulative control over them, poisoning their minds in reprehensible ways. And they are still too young to understand what the truth of the matter is (hell, I’m 44 and I’m still struggling to understand which of the thoughts rattling around in my head are true and which are fabrications planted there by a pathological narcissist!) But one thing I know for certain is that it is my responsibility to protect them and I can’t let my fears stand in the way of fighting for the physical and emotional well-being of my children.


Friends, if you are in a situation where you find yourself lying to cover up a potentially abusive relationship; if you find yourself justifying the bad behaviors because they aren’t as frequent as the good; if you are suffering in silence, or worse, allowing your children to suffer because you are afraid that the suffering will get worse if you stand up against it – don’t hesitate any longer!  Reach out to someone: a therapist, a doctor, an attorney, or anyone who is removed from the situation.  Tell them the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth about what is happening in your home.  While it’s important to have the support of friends and family, often they unknowingly impress on you obligations and guilt, and though they are well-meaning, they can talk you into staying in a toxic relationship.  You need black and white counsel from someone without knowledge of the gray areas. Most importantly, stop making excuses.  Stop accepting the unacceptable.  Stop the circle of lies.

Much love,


P.S.  To read more about my story, see my other blog posts in the series entitled The Subtle Slave, or click here.

The Subtle Slave: Playing the Victim is Not the Same as Being a Victim

I have very low tolerance for people who play the victim. By playing the victim, I mean those who like to blame others for their misfortunes and refuse to take responsibility for their own poor choices. For example, I once dated a guy who would play his victim card anytime he needed an excuse to justify his blatant stupidity. He showed up to work hungover: "It's because my dad left when I was just a kid and I never had a good role model." Or you could just not drink to excess on a weeknight…or ever. He received an eviction notice because he hadn't paid his rent in months: "If my dad wouldn't have abandoned me I'd have someone to help me." Or you could not blow all of your money on beer, cigarettes, and lottery tickets…and pay your bills instead. He had excessive ear wax buildup: "My f*ing dad never taught me to clean my ears." Or you could ask yourself what are these fancy cotton-tipped swabs for?  Seriously, dude, own your sh*t.  The only thing he could partially justify placing on his deadbeat dad is where he peaked on the intelligence spectrum…education and environment can only do so much to combat the effects of inferior genetics.  Needless to say, that relationship didn't last long.


And so I am having a heck of a hard time writing this blog series.  The whole subject matter of having been in an abusive relationship makes me queasy.  I don't like portraying myself as a victim.  I don't like making a grand show of placing blame on the Narcissist for the ultimate demise of our marriage. After all, there are two sides to every story. I'm sure he could give you an earful of what I nightmare I was to be married to. In fact, I could give you that same earful, because, unlike my ex-boyfriend with the earwax issue, I own my sh*t.

Nevertheless, each time I sit down to write, I have to fight off my inner voice telling me to quit whining and move on and instead remind myself that telling my story serves a greater purpose, it is a means to reach out to others who need to experience healing in their lives. As I've said in both of my previous installments, my goal in writing the Subtle Slave series is to be a voice for those who are or have endured the abuse of a person with Narcissistic Personality Disorder.  To do so, I have to perpetually encourage myself to step out of my comfort zone in order to do what needs to be done, even if it means that I am viewed as the very thing I despise – someone playing their victim card.

In this instance, putting myself in the limelight is a necessary evil in order to achieve a greater purpose. I'm not telling my story so that others might look at me with pity and say "You poor thing, you suffered through a lot."  Firstly, that's complete B.S.  While it's true that my marriage was essentially a steaming pile of cow feces from the word GO, and that I felt miserable and trapped much of the time…I did not allow myself to suffer.  Suffering is a state of mind.  If I suffered, then I had let him get the best of me. So, except for short intervals when I was exceptionally exhausted from the fight or was otherwise hyper-emotional, I would talk myself through the pain.  I would frequently give myself pep talks: "You are strong, Kristin, don't let him break you.", "You are smart, Kristin, don't buy into the lies he's feeding you.", and "You are brave, Kristin, you can stand up against him and protect yourself and your children."  I wasn't looking for others to run to my rescue. I would not allow myself to be a victim.

And yet I was.  No matter how much I convinced myself to be strong or smart or brave, my pep talks did nothing to stop his rapid-fire psychological warfare.  He was as equally determined to pierce me as I was to be impenetrable.  I could keep myself from playing the victim, yet I couldn't prevent myself from being victimized.  Not until I got out.


Unlike normal, healthy relationships where allowing yourself to be vulnerable to the other person helps to create an environment of acceptance and increased intimacy, opening oneself up to a person with Narcissistic Personality Disorder only serves to provide them with a storehouse of ammo that they can later use against you. It's a double-edged sword: by withholding you cheat yourself out of the possibility of having an authentic loving relationship, but by lowering your guard you only invite more abuse.

Intellectually, I know that most humans don't operate the way that persons with NPD do, so I am gradually learning to deprogram myself of the safety mechanisms I had put in place for my own sake of self-preservation.  I am retraining myself to trust others.  But I've got to tell you, it's scary as hell. Anyone who's suffered through an abusive relationship with a spouse, parent, boyfriend/girlfriend, sibling, etc. knows that once you've been damaged, it's hard to smooth out the dents…and even if you manage to do so, you'll never again be in show condition.

It's been over two years since my divorce and I often still find myself in warrior mode, guard up, ready for battle. Deprogramming takes work and vigilance not to fall back into the old patterns of thought and behavior. If you are a victim, former or present, it is imperative to surround yourself with people who 1) believe your story, 2) allow you to tell it, and 3) allow themselves to be vulnerable with you as well.  Guarded people don't help break down the barriers of guarded people. Nowadays my personal pep talks are something along the lines of: "It's okay to trust, Kristin, your friends aren't conspiring to hurt you.", "It's okay to be vulnerable, Kristin, your friends aren't looking to prey on your weaknesses.", "It's okay to love, Kristin, your friends are capable of loving you back."

I want to extend my deepest gratitude to those who have encouraged me to tell my story, as it inspires me to press onward with my mission.  And now that I have openly confessed my fear of being viewed as a buck-passer and an attention-seeker, I can move beyond yet another of my internal roadblocks. Now I can finally start to get down to the nitty-gritty of what it's like to live with a person with NPD and share techniques that I have learned along the way to combat their abusive tactics.  So stay tuned, folks, because sh*t's about to get real.

Love to all,


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P.S. If you are struggling to overcome your own victim identity, here are a few resources that may help…

Positivity Blog – How to Break Out of a Victim Mentality

Psychology Today – Emotional Abuse (Overcoming Victim Identity)

7-Mindsets: 7 Powerful Ways to Overcome the Victim Mindset


The Subtle Slave: IT.WAS.ABUSE.

Thanks to my beautiful and courageous friend, Britt Schaeffer, who's poem about her experience with an abusive spouse inspired me to write my own…


Just because I was naïve. Just because I said yes at the altar. Does not mean it was his right. Does not mean it was not abuse.

Just because you don't understand it. Just because you didn't witness it with your own two eyes. Does not mean I made it all up. Does not mean it was not abuse.

Just because he claims to know Jesus. Just because "but he seems like such a nice guy." Does not mean he wasn't capable. Does not mean it was not abuse.

Just because he would say that he loved me. Just because he didn't hit me often enough. Does not mean the threat wasn't as real, the damage wasn't as painful. Does not mean it was not abuse. 

Just because I stood up for myself. Just because I refused to go down without a fight. Does not mean I brought it on myself. Does not mean it was not abuse. 

 Just because every time I tried to tell you how bad it really was you told me I just needed to suck it up and try harder. Just because you didn't believe my allegations. Does not mean it was all in my head. Does not mean it was not abuse. 

Just because in my desperation I made some poor choices. Just because I tried to find alternative means to escape. Does not mean that I didn't give that relationship my all. Does not mean it was not abuse.

Just because I never could bring myself to leave. Just because, in the end, he was the one to leave me. Does not mean I wasn't trapped. Does not mean it was not abuse.

Just because I have a resilient spirit. Just because I have found joy and peace in my life at long last. Does not mean I wasn't abused.  IT.  WAS.  ABUSE. 

Although my poem was written with one specific person in mind (and if you are reading this, rest assured you are not that person), I know that many of our closest friends – friends that knew us both equally well – may have known our relationship was rocky, but had no inkling of what truly went on within the walls of our home. But how could they possibly know when, at the time, I didn't fully understand it myself?

For most of my marriage, I couldn't identify what was at the root of the constant turmoil. I knew our relationship wasn't normal or healthy, but I was hesitant to label it as abusive. At the time, to the best of my knowledge, abuse came in four distinct flavors: physical, sexual, emotional and neglect.  What I was experiencing didn't fit nicely into any of these categories.

He did lay hands on me in anger on three occasions over the 14+ years we were together. But because the aggression was infrequent, there was no reason for me to claim a pattern of physical abuse. Additionally, I was so entangled in his manipulation tactics that I actually thought I was to blame for the attacks. I had argued with him, somehow antagonized him, which in turn provoked him to hurt me. I was ashamed, not abused.

There were never any incidents of forced intimacy, so I certainly couldn't profess to be sexually abused.  Although, I could write for days on the ways he would use my sexual performance as a means to threaten or otherwise try to control me.  That, my friends, is a whole different twisted ball of wax, but not abuse.

Thankfully, I had entered into our relationship with a solid sense of self-confidence and an unshakable assurance of my immense value in the eyes of God. Otherwise, the constant criticisms and belittling that began on our honeymoon and only grew in intensity over the duration of our marriage may have crushed me.  But because his barbs never had their intended effect – he would shoot, but they would ricochet right off my protective armor of truth – I had no right to claim that the attacks were emotional abuse.

Of course, neglect was definitely not a fit as he would never leave me the hell alone.  No matter how much I would beg him to give me some space, he would follow me around the house goading me until I snapped. When I would scream or slam doors he would tell me that I was out of control, that he was just trying to have a conversation, why couldn't I talk things out like a rational person?  He tried his best to micromanage every facet of my life from my ability to work outside the home to every dollar I would spend, from my private interests to my personal faith in God. Of course, I bucked against this too.  I was not a Stepford wife with a golden remote control, I was a real human with the ability to think for herself. Still, there was never a time when he didn't have me pinned tightly under his thumb. No, he certainly was not neglectful.

And so, it wasn't until I was free from my marriage and the stronghold he had on my daily life, that I began to grasp the level of psychological abuse I had endured. Notice all of the wrong-thinking mentioned in the examples above.  The man hit me multiple times…that's abusive.  He manipulated me sexually…that's abusive.  He made a sport of trying to crush my spirit…that's abusive.  He was relentlessly overbearing…that's abusive.  But I was coerced into viewing it differently at the time.

All those years I had been brainwashed to believe that I was crazy, that my mind wasn't functioning properly, and that I was mentally unstable ("You're the one on 'crazy pills'," he would say). I was made to think that I was the toxic one in our relationship, that I was the one who was never satisfied. I was told over and over again that because I was not actively taking to heart the wisdom he was trying to instill in me through his countless lectures, that I was sabotaging our marriage. And by lectures, I mean lengthy diatribes where I was required to sit quietly and maintain proper eye-contact as he scolded me about my many shortcomings. These lectures were typically followed by his action plan for me to fix my inadequacies (note: He was never wrong, so it was always up to me to make the changes.)

Worse yet, he tried to convince me that God was displeased with me because I wasn't being a dutiful and obedient wife. It is true that I would not blindly follow my husband's orders: not out of obstinance (I truly desired to be respectful to his wishes) but because he regularly did and said things that blatantly contradicted Biblical teaching. He would claim I was a traitor because I questioned some of his decisions and his decision-making processes. I was vilified because I didn't stand united with him as he "disciplined" our children in excessively cruel ways.  He often told me that he had been gifted with Godly wisdom, so it wasn't necessary for his dictates to align with the Bible because both were directly from God.

Turns out, I wasn't the crazy one after all.

Since our divorce, my health has notably improved and I have been able to ween completely off of two prescription medications I had been on for years: one an anti-depressant and the other a medication to control irregular heart palpitations.  Not surprisingly, by eliminating the main stressor in my life, my physiological symptoms were also eliminated.  My children have also thrived since the divorce.  Both their attitudes and school performances have improved.  They are no longer afraid to be imperfect because, for the first times in their lives, they are able to experience grace in their own home. Under my roof, they are allowed to follow their natural bent, not conform to their father's every imposed choice for their lives. Where there used to be fear, there is now freedom.  Where there used to be trepidation, there is now joy.  The kids and I are finally able to go about our lives without having to constantly walk on eggshells around the Narcissist.  In many ways, it's like we have been born again.



To read more about my experience being married to a person with Narcissistic Personality Disorder, see my blog series titled The Subtle Slave, or click here.

P.S.  If someone you know tries to confide in you that they are being abused, don't write them off as being overly-dramatic. Just because it may be incomprehensible to you, does not mean it's not happening. Listen. Love. Support.

For more information on how to deal with someone with NPD, check out the following resources:

Flourish After Emotional Abuse by a Narcissist: A Healing Guide to Transformation and Empowerment

Becoming the Narcissist's Nightmare: How to De-Value and Discard the Narcissist While Supplying Yourself

Narcissistic Abuse: A to Z Narcissism and Narcissistic Personality Disorder

Open Letter to

The following is a letter I sent to customer service this evening…

Hello fun people at Zappos,

I wanted to let you know that for the first time in all the many years I’ve been a customer, I truly felt your company has let me down.

Today I intended to shop for women’s swim separates on your site because I knew you’d have a large selection to choose from. Lo and behold, I was correct. When I hit the button to browse through women’s swim bottoms up popped 1,091 items. Hooray! But my excitement was short-lived, because when I applied the ‘Plus Size’ filter to my search, all of a sudden those 1,091 items dwindled down to 10. That’s correct. You have exactly TEN items I can choose from for my size 18 derrière.

Let me tell you a little bit about myself, my Zappos friends… I am a beautifully well-proportioned woman. Although, technically, my BMI would land me somewhere in the ridiculously exaggerated catagory of ‘obese’, my size does not define my attractiveness. At age 43, I am extremely comfortable and confident with my body just the way it is and I enjoy prancing around in my bathing suit far more nowadays than I ever did nearly 30 years ago when I was a size 10 and had a socially-induced negative self image. Sadly, the powers that be at don’t think my shapely size-18 body deserves to be clothed as nicely as someone who wears a size 0-12.

Whether the above statement is representative of your company values or not, the proof is in the product selection. Don’t get me wrong, Zappos, I wasn’t expecting you to grant me an equal 1,091 plus-size options, this isn’t Bernie Sander’s America. But I did presume that at least 10% of your merchandise might be suitable for the nearly 40% of American women who are currently labeled as obese (according to …not less than 1% of your total products.  Any savvy businessman could see that you are severely limiting your sales by not providing for a larger segment of the population (pun very much intended).

This incident makes me sad. Sad that I’ll have to take my business elsewhere – for lack of options, not for lack of interest. And sad that a company that I had grown to trust, whose praises I had sung to others, has shown me that they don’t care much for me…or for anyone who isn’t what the media deems to be the ideal size.

With sincere disappointment,

Kristin Williams (AKA 204lbs of Loveliness)

The Subtle Slave: Life with a Spouse with Narcissistic Personality Disorder

For the past year I have had this grand idea that I would blog about my experience being married to a person with NPD (Narcissistic Personality Disorder).  The problem is that every time I sit down to write about the topic I hit a wall.  It’s not writer’s block, per se, as I have a truckload of information and episodes just waiting to make their way to the page.  If anything, my problem is the opposite.  I want the blog series to be thorough, covering all of the bases of what it’s like to feel trapped in this kind of relationship.  I want to be a light in the fog to those who aren’t familiar with the disorder and a beacon of hope to the men and women who have or are currently being abused by someone with NPD. But with so much important material to cover, I am at a loss where to begin. The task seems both monumental and without end.

Worse yet, even if I were to find an organized way to relay all of the material to you, I don’t know that you’d believe me.  Not because you think me a liar, but because the kind of inhumane behavior I would be exposing does not compute within the context of the average human experience.  It would be like trying to describe an alien abduction to someone who doesn’t believe aliens exist. You will find it extremely difficult to accept that a seemingly innocuous human being could be so disturbingly duplicitous and still function successfully within society.  And I wouldn’t blame you. Your doubt would be rational.  But NPD is anything but rational.  And that is why I couldn’t wrap my brain around it either…until I experienced it firsthand.

Part of the baffling conundrum is that persons with NPD are chameleon-like in nature. They have an uncanny ability to adapt to their surroundings, putting on whatever persona will best win the favor of their current audience.  Not unlike sociopaths, persons with NPD are typically highly intelligent individuals.  Although they lack the ability to empathize or identify with other persons, they are gifted in their ability to fit in with the crowd and mimic appropriate actions and responses.  They can give academy award winning performances for “normal” and “decent” behavior that could fool even the toughest critic.  But it is all an act.  A ruse.  A long-con.

That’s why I fell for it.  That’s how he was able to manipulate me into dating then marrying him. He targeted me because I exhibited the characteristics that persons with NPD look for: I was popular and well-liked (ie: I was an excellent showpiece for his collection), I was bright and had connections (ie: I was an important tool for his personal advancement), I was easy-going (ie: I would bend to his will and be excessively tolerant of his bullsh*t), I was selfless (ie: I would give and give and give of myself long after he sucked me dry), and I had high moral integrity (ie: I would choose to honor my commitment to him even to my own detriment.)

He put on quite a show of courting me.  He said all the things he knew would win my heart, though they were just lies on top of lies on top of more lies. In hindsight, there were certain things about him that I couldn’t quite put my finger on at the time, things that seemed “off”.  But, because my brain wasn’t able to reconcile the delicately complex contradictory behaviors I was witnessing (and because outwardly he appeared to have all of the qualities I wanted in a husband) I foolishly elected to assume I was misreading the red flags.  I gave him the benefit of the doubt.  I chose to believe that he was everything he claimed to be.

Thus began my life as the subtle slave.

In the coming months, I will try my best to present my story with the least amount of bias I can muster (although, c’mon, how exactly does one remain perfectly neutral in their own story?)  I will share with you what I discovered from my personal research, what I  experienced firsthand, and what lessons I learned the hard way. I will list resources and I will try to answer any questions you pose.  And I promise that I’ll do my best to help expose this subtle yet soul-crushing form of abuse without playing the victim.  Because, honestly, the last thing I want is to be pitied.  What I truly want is to educate and empower others.

Here’s to the painful process of enlightenment!  – Kristin


P.S.  If you are the victim of an NPD abuser, know this: though you may be kept in isolation, you are not alone.  Though you may lose every battle, you can survive the war.  You have the strength to escape their snare and the power to rebuild your life.  God and I have faith in you!

For more information about Narcissistic Personality Disorder, see the following resources:

Mayo Clinic: Narcissistic Personality Disorder – Understanding Narcissistic Personality Disorder

PBD Central – The Hallmarks of Narcissistic Personality Disorder





The Golden Lemonade Rule

I keep spare change in a small compartment in my car. It is reserved for the express purpose of tipping the baristas at the drive-thru coffeehouse and for buying lemonade. Without exception, when I spot a child-run lemonade stand (or whenever a kid has drawn up a poster advertising items for sale) I stop and I buy. I don’t always want lemonade.  In truth, I rarely do. Often my new purchase is later pitched into the trash.  It doesn’t matter. My desire for the product plays no part in my decision to stop and purchase it.  For I am obliged to a higher calling, The Golden Lemonade Rule.

The Golden Lemonade Rule is this: Do unto the child at that lemonade stand as you would have had every car that passed you by while you were the child with high hopes and over-watered kool-aid do unto you.  In other words, stop and buy the danged lemonade.  And do it with a smile and a word of praise to the young entrepreneurs.  It’s an exercise in empathy. One that takes such little effort on our part but makes such a positive impact in the life of that child.

Last week some neighborhood children hosted a bake sale to benefit our city’s homeless. They had labored over their wares and their set up. Their pride for the endeavor shone in their twinkling eyes. I stopped, of course, to purchase a treat for myself and a few extras to share with my children. In the short time I was at their table selecting from all the goodies they had laid out, a few other cars drove by. Each time the children would see a car approaching they would flag their signs and break into a little ditty they had written and rehearsed for the occasion. It was precious to watch. What wasn’t precious to observe was when the drivers of these other cars would wave at the children but drive on by, or worse, pretend not to notice them at all. I would watch their sweet faces fall with each passing car. All that enthusiasm dashed by someone who, with minimal effort, could have made those children quite literally jump for joy.

Maybe you’ve been the driver of one of those cars.  Maybe you’ve waved at those kids but felt no compulsion to stop at their sale.  Certainly it wasn’t your intention to dash their spirits, you just had other things on your mind.  That’s reasonable. But I’d like to challenge you to step outside of yourself for a moment, for this is where the exercise in empathy comes into play. Empathy is nothing more than trying to view a given situation from another party’s perspective.  In this instance, I would ask you to take a brief moment to think back to when you were a child. Think about when you hosted a lemonade stand or a bake sale, or went door to door to solicit for school or sports fundraisers, or any number of childhood endeavors where you relied on the generosity of adults. Think about how disheartening it was to be told “No” time and again, and likewise, how overjoyed you were when someone made a purchase or a pledge.  

But what if empathy just doesn’t come naturally to you? Maybe you never hosted a lemonade stand or the like. Maybe you were never in a position to rely on the generosity of adults. Maybe you never were a child at all; maybe you were born a high-strung forty-year-old with a mortgage, a dead-end job, and no soul…although that’s highly unlikely.  Or maybe, just maybe, somewhere between birth and present day you lost that childhood wonder, that lust for life that keeps us young at heart. No matter if you’re an old curmudgeon or just oblivious, there is virtually no excuse for not adhering to The Golden Lemonade Rule.

You don’t have proper change?  Give the kid a twenty and blow their impressionable little mind!  A few bucks on an unplanned expense isn’t going to be the tipping point that lands you in the poor house.  You’re running late to work?  The additional 60 seconds that it takes to hand over your change and grab a cup of lemonade isn’t going to lose you your job. You’re rushing someone to the hospital because they’ve severed a limb or are actively birthing a baby?  Okay, you get a free pass. But hit the lemonade stand on the way home!

For the price of a couple quarters and only a few of the 86,4oo seconds out of your day, you can prolong a child’s innocence and allow them to believe in the goodness of humanity for a little while longer. And, as it is with The Golden Rule, The Golden Lemonade Rule does not solely benefit the receiver, but the giver also gains in equal measure. For each time we exercise our heart, it grows stronger.  And as our heart grows stronger, our perception of the world is illuminated.

So the next time you see a child standing by the roadside, waving and smiling, the ice in their lemonade pitcher long ago melted from hours sitting out in the warm summer sunshine, Stop.  Buy.  Make the world a better place.  The kind of place you yourself would like to live in.  The kind of place where life doesn’t just hand kids lemons, but it buys the  lemonade they make from them.

Open Letter to an Aspiring B*tch

Dear 10-year old girl that I was assigned to chaperone while accompanying my son’s fourth-grade class on today’s field trip,

I could tell immediately that you thought you were hot stuff by the way you talked down to your classmates and disrespected the accompanying adults.  But I didn’t realize how rotten you were until the day progressed.

You started out with subtle insults, like telling the other kids in our group that the things at the museum they were interested in learning about were stupid. I cringed but said nothing. Instead, I just affirmed that I too found those items interesting and I led the group to that area. You didn’t care much for that.

Later you went a step further and told one of the boys in our group that you didn’t think he was capable of operating an interactive device – although all the other kids in the group had already done so successfully – and told him he shouldn’t even bother to attempt it. You even tried to push him out of the way and make him feel incompetent by showing him how easy it was for you. I asked you to wait your turn and I encouraged the boy to keep trying. I told him that I had faith in him. You huffed off, not waiting around to witness the boy go on to accomplish the task like a champ.

Later, when you were sitting next to me, I whispered a gentle reminder in your ear, “You should encourage your friends,” I said. Instead of taking that piece of wisdom to heart, you shot back, “Technically, he’s not my friend.” To which I replied, “It is important to be kind to everyone.”  You just rolled your eyes.

A little while later you were standing with a group of girls from your class. One had brought a Polaroid camera on the field trip. You all were passing the camera around to take group selfies. Two other girls leaned into the frame with you. When the camera spit out the undeveloped photo, you snatched it before anyone else had a chance. Once the photo came into view one of the other girls asked if she could keep the print, you shoved it at her, saying; “Fine! You guys look ugly in it anyway.”

Unfortunately, I wasn’t close enough to say something to you at the time, but I saw the hurt looks on the other girls’ faces and I hurt for them.  I wished I could have spoken into their hearts and told them that they are beautiful, that it was your behavior that was ugly.

Apparently you still hadn’t yet met your daily quota of belittling others. Only a few minutes later, one of the girls in our group called out to some other kids passing not far away; she waved and smiled with youthful exuberance, kindly greeting her fellow classmates.  You took that opportunity to say to her, in front of myself and all of the other kids in our group, “You know, those kids don’t like you.”
That was the last straw. With all the couth I could muster, I said to you; “Don’t you ever say that to someone.”  You didn’t appreciate my input and replied, “Well it’s true.”  To which I said with steely eyes; “There is never a reason to say something so hurtful to someone else. You are being a bully and it needs to stop.”

You and all the other kids in our group went quiet and stared at me with slack jaws. Except for my son.  He just chuckled and said, “Well, now you got a taste of what my mom is like.” His smile broke the tension. He wasn’t embarrassed that his mom had just put you in your place. He was just stating a fact. You see, that is what I’m like. I don’t put up with bullsh*t or cruel behavior: not from my own children, not from other adults, and not even from a young girl I just met a couple hours before. In fact, I was proud of my son for recognizing this character trait of mine and confidently bringing it to the attention of his peers; it was affirmation that I model the behavior I am training my kids to emulate.

You didn’t say another word to me for the remainder of the field trip. You didn’t say another word to anyone, for that matter. Maybe you were letting my words soak in. Most likely you were just sulking. Either way, the nastiness stopped, and for that I was grateful.

Young lady, I’m not sure what your home life is like, what you’ve been through, what’s made you into the aspiring b*tch that you are, but I want you to know that it’s not too late for you. You still have time to change the trajectory of your life, to adopt a new perspective and a new set of behaviors. You don’t have to follow that all-too-easy path to becoming a full-fledged Mean Girl.

I want you to know that if you need someone to encourage and embolden you toward empathy, I’m here for you. If you need someone safe to talk to about your fears and insecurities, I’m here. If you need a shoulder to cry on because someone has been hurtful to you, I’m just a heartbeat away.

You see, every nasty word that came out of your mouth today made my heart break for you. Every despicable act of snobbishness, I recognized for what it truly was. People don’t behave that poorly unless something inside of them is broken. I’m here and I’m willing to help you glue those broken pieces back together.  I believe there is a tender-hearted girl inside you that desperately wants to come out but you’re too afraid of being vulnerable. I understand.  I’ve been there too. I’m willing to take the time to listen to you and to help you learn to be confident and assertive without purposely hurting others. Because guess what, you little sh*t, I love you despite yourself.

With hope for who you can become,


Bye Bye Boobies

A few weeks ago I underwent breast reduction surgery. It’s been a long time coming…like since I hit puberty.  Here’s my story.

[Above is me cradling a friend’s baby in “The Bosom of Happiness”. Below is the banner of bras I strung across my living room in celebration of my upcoming liberation.  A few close friends enjoyed their first and last look at the miracles of modern engineering that upheld my monumental breasts for far too many years.]


The day I realized that I was doomed to life of large-chestedness is etched into my memory like an epitaph on a gravestone.  I was but a mere fifteen years old when my friend Melanie and I went for a professional bra fitting at the department store.  At fifteen, our bodies were just blossoming and we were excited to finally have grown beyond combed-cotton training bras and ready to indulge in the luxurious frilly undergarments that made us feel like grown women.

The lady that worked in the Intimate Apparel department led us back into fitting rooms.  As modest young ladies, Melanie and I giggled awkwardly when the woman wrapped her measuring tape first around the top of our ribcages then across the fullest area of our teenage breasts.  “You’re a 32B,” she told Melanie. “And you, young lady,” she said, motioning to my burgeoning bosom, “are a 34DD.”

The rest of that experience is somewhat of a blur. What I remember most was that I failed miserably at holding back my tears when the lady returned to the fitting room with dozens of flirtatious bras of every color and design imaginable for Melanie while I was given the choice between a no-frills quadruple-hooked monstrosity that all-too-closely resembled the eye-sore that dangled from my grandma’s shower curtain rod in both plain white or the more playful beige. I imagined the horror on my future boyfriend’s faces as they went to feel me up and found my chest locked down tighter than a prison yard…and encircled by more wire. I bawled the whole way home.

Of course, it turned out that the boys didn’t seem to care in the slightest what hideous contraption encased my chest as long as they were allowed to get their sweaty hands on it.  During my dating years, my ample bosom was one of my greatest assets, as it helped to balance out my equally ample thighs.  As it was, I offered little in the way of enticing a “leg man” but for the “breast man” I was a virtual treasure trove.

[The collage below shows my high school sweetheart and I at my senior prom.  As you can see by the photo on the right, I DID wear a dress to the event. Yet the school yearbook editor approved the photo cropping on the left so that I might become the unwitting subject of many a teenage boy’s “special alone time.”]

Prom Collage

Like every one of us, God designed me perfectly unique. I was born with a congenital heart defect, a deformity of my tricuspid valve.  While I wasn’t a candidate for surgery, neither was I a candidate for baby birthing, as a pregnancy would likely have ended with the fetus and I in the morgue.  I never begrudged this fate, partially because I couldn’t imagine my already-monstrous utters swollen larger still and engorged with milk.  The mere thought made my neck and back throb.  And so it was that I had my tubes tied off and my husband and I headed to the adoption agency.  We were blessed with the gift of a beautiful baby boy, and three years later, we were thrilled to add another sweet boy into our fold. As a mother, my overabundance of supple flesh made for an ideal cradle to rock my babies to sleep. All babies, for that matter. As an homage to my God-given gift, my circle of friends began referring to my mountainous mammaries as “the bosom of happiness,” where all creatures great and small find comfort.

[My youngest son, Aaron, a born cuddler, nuzzling into the bosom of happiness.  When I informed him a few weeks prior to my surgery that my breasts would be getting smaller, with a look of grave mourning, he said to me; “But Mom, that’s my favorite part of you!”


As my womanhood advanced and my weight increased, so did my boobs.  This is expected, of course. However, what was not expected was that when I lost the weight, my breasts didn’t deflate.  Years of weight fluctuation saw my DDs gradually advance through the alphabet until last fall I had no choice but to upgrade to an H cup.  While the bosom of happiness may have provided comfort to countless others, it was becoming increasingly uncomfortable for its bearer.  Deep grooves formed in my shoulders, my posture was compromised, and I was limited in the activities I could partake in.  It was one thing to avoid high-impact aerobics for fear of knocking myself unconscious, it was entirely another not be able to do something as simple as swing a golf club because the massive obstacles in my way made it impossible to assume the correct grip.

[My besties Michele (left) and Kim (right) bet me that each of my breasts was equivalent to the size of a human head.  Doubtful, I took them up on that bet.  They proved me wrong. Look at them happily residing inside my G cup with room to spare.]


[The selfie below was taken just a few months prior to my surgery.  Typically, I take my selfies from an elevated point of view to minimize my double chin.  Perspective changes everything…as is apparent by the photo below.  Yikes!]


After years of counting down the minutes until I could remove my bra at the end of the day – yet feeling little relief once it was off because the pendulous swinging of my breasts while walking around the house sans scaffolding was equally uncomfortable – I set up a consultation with a plastic surgeon.  My biggest concern with going through with the surgery was that I would no longer look proportional.  I’m a big girl, and as I mentioned before, I have meaty thighs.  My giant breasts balanced me out.  I was afraid that pairing them down would cause me to appear bottom-heavy. Ultimately, my suffering trumped my fear of malformation and six weeks later I went under the knife.  A few hours after that I was down 4 lbs and 5 cup sizes – reverted to the DD I was nearly 30 years prior.

[Without my pre-surgery breasts to give me that hourglass look, I was fearful I might end up resembling Grimace.]Grimace Collage

A perk of breast reduction surgery is that a breast lift is part of the package.  So, not only are my chestibules now fun-size, but they stand at full attention all on their own. The best part, of course, is that my shoulders haven’t hurt for a second since the day of my surgery – a massive weight has truly been lifted from them.  I still have several more weeks of healing before I’ll be cleared to resume strenuous activity, but in the meanwhile I am already enjoying the benefits of my more aerodynamic form.  My t-shirts fit without straining the seams. I can sleep on my stomach without my esophagus being crushed. I can sleep on my back without my breasts spilling into my armpits. I can see my own feet. I can hug my friends and family without the gesture feeling pornographic. And,  I can soak in the bathtub without my boob-buoys rising to the surface to freeze in the chilly air. Better yet, to the best of my knowledge I don’t appear Grimace-like and my son Aaron still loves to cuddle with me.  I couldn’t be more thrilled.

Like every woman I’ve talked to who’s had breast reduction surgery, my only regret is that I didn’t do it sooner.  And while I am thankful to God that I am created in His image, fearfully and wonderfully made, I am also thankful to Blue Cross Blue Shield for approving my surgery as medically necessary and to Dr. Stacy Peterson for chopping those suckers off.

So bye-bye, Boobies, we had a good run (or rather, a good brisk walk, as running was never an option with you), but it was time we parted ways.  I can’t say you’ll be missed. In fact, in a few more weeks when the doc clears me to resume normal activity, I plan to jump for joy…because I finally can!

[My pup Lucy playing nursemaid while my newly-carved chest heals.  Yes, they still look big…because they are, by normal human standards.  But they fit me nicely.]



The Curious Incident of the Lady in the Corvette, pt. 2

I grew up with money. My father owned his own business and was very successful. We had a large house, nice cars, and we took expensive vacations. But my parents weren’t prideful about their money, nor did they ever think that having an abundance of resources exempted them from treating all others with dignity and human kindness. In the little time he had off from his hectic work schedule, my father could be found plowing the snow off our street in the wee hours of the morning so that our neighbors could get their cars out to go to work, or helping a friend with a home improvement project. Because my father’s business generated enough income on its own, my mother was able to stay home and be available to us kids while we were young. When we grew older and more independent she volunteered a great deal of her time at various ministries and civic organizations where she could give of herself, and sought nothing in return except the personal satisfaction she gained from helping others. 
Although we had plenty of money, my parents bought used cars, shopped at garage sales, repaired broken items instead of trashing them, and never ever flaunted their wealth. They were the elusive millionaires next door. A friendly couple that one would never suspect sat on a small fortune. A fortune amassed from years of hard work and wise financial decisions. This is the ethic I was raised with.

I was also raised to follow the golden rule; to do to others as you would wish them to do to you. That mantra guides my actions every day of my life. Now, I’m not claiming to be perfect…not by a long shot. I can still be quite selfish and rude and hurtful to others. And at times, I can be downright nasty. But that is never my intention. My desire is to build others up. My hope is that I might leave each person I encounter feeling more positive about themselves. 

Unfortunately, when I have an encounter like the one I had last weekend with the lady in the Corvette, I can sometimes lose my focus and my cool. I can become filled with righteous indignation and instead of spreading joy, I can spew venom. I don’t like this about me.  God doesn’t much like this about me either. I’m supposed to be a representative of him, and I’m pretty sure that he wouldn’t approve of me snapping at the lady in the Corvette. 

I’m not offering an excuse for my actions, but let me take a moment to explain how I got there.  You see, Christ teaches that the greatest commandment is to love your neighbor as you love yourself. So, when what is asked of a person is minimal and within reason (such as backing your car up a few feet to make room for someone else to park) there is no acceptable excuse not to act accordingly. In fact, it should be ones pleasure to do so. It would have taken zero resources and literal seconds of Corvette Lady’s time for her to engage in the simplest act of humanity, but she refused. Instead she mocked me as I labored in vain to fit my van into the tight space. And when I approached her and asked her to back up, she quarreled with me about it. To say I was dumbstruck would be an understatement. One has to make the conscious decision to be a complete and utter jackwagon in this situation. There was no misunderstanding of what my need was, but still she made the cognitive decision to put herself before everyone else.  

When she saw me trying to back into the space, she had the chance to move her car the necessary distance to assist me without having to be asked. But she didn’t.  When I asked her to back up her car a few feet, she could have said “Sure”. But she didn’t. When our conversation took a more heated tone, she could have remained in her car instead of jumping out to make herself a physical threat. But she didn’t. And she could have decided, even after all that, to say “Fine, I’ll back up, but you don’t have to be such a b*tch about it.” Even that would have been acceptable to me, because by that point, I was being a b*tch about it. But still, she didn’t.  She had lots of opportunities to do the right thing long before I nearly snapped and considered ramming her car, but doing the right thing was nowhere on her radar…although it would have saved us both a lot of grief. 

Unfortunately what happened next is all on me. I was so flustered by the event that I decided to post a short rant about it on Facebook. Typically this wouldn’t have been a big deal. I would have aired my grievance and felt better for having vented. But I didn’t stop with my little rant.  I posted the photo I took of the back of her car along with it…license plate exposed. I acknowledge that my decision was an unsavory one intended to call her out publicly, although she was a complete stranger to me. In hindsight, I should have just written the post and not included the photo. If I had, the following events would have never unfolded. But I did. And this is what happened…

Someone on my Facebook friend list recognized the car in the photo and contacted the woman with the Corvette about it. The Corvette Lady then sent me a private message via Facebook, which went something like this:

“I was parked in that spot for nearly  2 ½ hours before you arrived, but you didn’t care about that at all. You were very rude to me and it was obvious that you are used to getting your way. I’ll have you know that I’ve worked very hard for all of the things that I have…not that you would know anything about that, since you are fat and lazy. It wouldn’t have hurt you to walk the extra three blocks to the complex.”

I did not reply to her, but deleted the message. Then, because the whole incident was still weighing heavy on my mind, yesterday I wrote the first half of this story on my blog. My blog site is preset to automatically post a link to both my Facebook and Twitter accounts when I have an update so that my followers know to check it out.  Unfortunately, the same person who tattled on me to Corvette Lady regarding my original facebook post also saw the link to the blog post and became irate. Although all she knew of the encounter was what I had written and the wildly contradictory version of the episode she was given from Corvette Lady, she went about slamming me on my Facebook page. She called me a liar. A hypocrite. A shame to the Christian faith. She misquoted me multiple times and refused my offer to sit down with her so that we might discuss the incident face to face. She said that I was a bully and so were all of the other people who had posted comments regarding the blog. 

While her rant was irritating to read, I was actually quite fascinated that she, just like her friend the Corvette lady, took a neutral incident and escalated it into a confrontation.  The blog post was a story. My story. Writen by me, from my point of view, to tell about an incident in my life from my personal perspective. I mentioned no names, I did no one any harm. Still, she went about shaming me and name-calling. Each time I tried to diffuse the situation she went for the jugular. In the end I had to block her from my page to put a stop to her relentless attack.

Interestingly enough, when the Corvette lady sent me the private message I learned her name. Her name rang a bell, so I did a quick Google search to refresh my memory and sure enough, she owns a local business. A business associated with her name. In fact, her face is plastered on adverts all over this area of town (I hadn’t recognized her at the time because the face she wore with me was twisted in anger, not the smiling face of the lovely professional headshot.) The business she’s in relies a great deal on word of mouth and positive customer reviews.  One would think that a person in her position would be especially cautious about how she treats others in public as you never know where your next business reference will come from and likewise, as in this instance, who might witness or otherwise catch wind of any unpleasantness and use that as fuel to harm your livihood.

Luckily for Corvette Lady I am not vendictive and petty (or I would have rammed her car). Although I feel very strongly that she initiated the wrong in this incident, it is possible she was just having an off day. Lord knows I was. God shows each of us grace when we least deserve it, the least I can do is extend that gift to others. 

So Corvette Lady, wherever you are, I’m sorry I was rude to you.  I was wrong and I ask your forgiveness. I hope that we can put this incident behind us.  And if our paths cross again, I hope that it can be a cordial encounter. 

However, please understand that whenever I am witness to an act of injustice or inhumanity, you can bet your bottom I’m going to step up and intervene. And there’s a good chance I’ll blog about it too.