They begin replaying old victories like highlight reels—moments where they controlled, seduced, or dominated someone. They cling to those memories as proof that they’re still relevant, still wanted, and still something. It’s like watching a fading celebrity obsess over their past fame. They will remember the way someone used to look at them, the applause after a speech, and the desperate messages from an ex begging them to come back. They relive those moments not just to remember but to feed. In those moments, they’re still the center, still adored, and still untouchable.
This is how the narcissist tries to become their own supply. They talk to themselves in delusional affirmations, like my grandfather did toward his end days. They may also stand in front of a mirror, hyping themselves up. They will scroll through old photos, reread old compliments, and revisit past conversations where someone idolized them. It is all part of a desperate attempt to reconstruct their broken and falling-apart reality. But this self-supply has a shelf life because it’s not real. It’s borrowed energy from the past and cannot sustain them for long.
Eventually, the contrast between what they used to be and what they have now become becomes too painful to ignore. The past no longer inspires them; it taunts them. It reminds them that the world has moved on and they have not. That is when their inner walls truly start caving in.
The Emotional Hell Loop
To a narcissist, failure isn’t just a small setback; it is an identity crisis. They do not know how to separate what they do from who they are. So when they fail at something—whether it is a relationship, controlling you, a career move, or even something as small as losing influence over someone they remotely know—it feels like annihilation. Not just “I failed,” but “I’m a failure.” That kind of thing is terrifying for them.
Remember, they built their entire self-worth on external validation. So when people stop clapping, when things stop working in their favor, and when they can no longer manipulate the narrative, they start to sink. But instead of naming the feeling as sadness or grief, they mask it with arrogance or, worse, with rage. This is when their anger starts to mutate. It is no longer just the usual manipulative temper tantrums; this is something else. This is implosion—the kind of anger that has no clear target. So it hits everything and everyone, even themselves.
They become volatile, restless, and desperate. Their mind becomes a battlefield of contradictions. They want attention but isolate. They want power but feel powerless. They want someone to understand them but refuse to show vulnerability. The result is an emotional hell loop that feels endless. And beneath all of it, there is this deep, unbearable hopelessness. They realize that no matter how hard they try, they can’t get the old version of life back. The people who once admired them are gone. The relationships they used to control are broken. The opportunities they once had have finished. And worst of all, they cannot admit why—because doing that would require confronting the one thing they have avoided their entire life: the truth.
So what do they do with all this pain? They weaponize it, if they can. They begin to attack because they are drowning. That’s the only reason. Their anger becomes the last shield they have left. But even that won’t save them.
The Final Collapse
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