Today, I want to shine a light not on just any ordinary pattern, but on 10 peculiar rituals that tend to follow the narcissist like a shadow. We’re not talking about the usual routine of waking up, sipping some coffee, heading to work, and calling it a day. No, no, this is a whole different rhythm—a strange dance that spins around obsession, ego, and illusion.
Let’s begin with this: the bathroom. Have you ever wondered why the narcissist disappears for hours behind that door? It’s not about hygiene; it’s not about soaking in peace. It’s sanctuary, it’s escape. Behind those walls, they build a secret world. That shower? It’s a soundtrack for deception. While the water runs, their fingers run too—across glowing screens, texting, scrolling, searching. They’re not just freshening up; they’re refreshing supply—other people, other lives, other mirrors to reflect their hunger for attention.
But there’s more. That mirror on the wall is not just glass to them; it’s a stage. They’ll stand there endlessly, sculpting each strand of hair, grooming every edge, worshiping their own reflection like it’s a shrine. Not a single imperfection can survive, because in that mirror, they don’t just see a face; they see a god. And if you’re waiting outside that bathroom, pacing, watching time dissolve, understand it’s not about getting ready—it’s about performance. The mask has to be flawless.
Now, step into their next obsession: the phone. That glowing rectangle is not just a tool; it’s their altar. Day and night, it’s in their hand, by their side, under their pillow. They scroll not because they’re bored, but because they’re hunting. Social media isn’t for connection; it’s for conquest. You’ll see them pepper someone’s profile with likes—not one, not two, but 20 in a row. That’s bait, a signal flare: “Notice me.” A come closer, because if someone responds with a “thank you,” oh, that’s a door the narcissist will wedge their way through—a new target, a fresh audience.
And let me tell you something else: their inbox is no ordinary inbox; it’s a theater of seduction. “Good morning, beautiful,” “Doll, you look like you need a message,” “Hey, handsome, what’s your day look like?” These aren’t compliments; these are hooks. They’re casting lines to see who bites, who blushes, who replies. And when someone does, that’s the one they mark, the one they start circling. Because it’s not love they’re after; it’s control. It starts in the inbox, but it never stays there. It spills into dating apps, into comments, into any platform where validation flows like wine.
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But it doesn’t stop with adoration. No, there’s another side—the suspicious side, the side that snoops. The narcissist doesn’t trust anyone because deep down, they know they themselves can’t be trusted. So they assume the same of you. They’ll rummage through your drawers like a thief in the night—not always for treasure, but for evidence—a message, a receipt, a sign you’re doing exactly what they are. They’ll scroll through your browser history like it’s a map to betrayal. They’ll open your mail, your bank statements—anything that whispers about your life. Sometimes they steal—not always something big, maybe just enough to test how much they can get away with. Sometimes it’s not about possession; it’s about power. Can they breach your space? Can they invade your peace? Can they shake your sense of safety?
That, my friend, is what makes this so dangerous. It’s not just what the narcissist does; it’s how they twist ordinary places—a bathroom, a phone, a drawer—into their playground of control.
Now let me tell you something else, and this one might hit harder than you expect. The narcissist’s idea of creation often spirals into addiction. You might not even see it coming. You think they’re just tired after a long day, slouched on the couch, but then you stumble on the bottle tucked under the bed, hidden behind the books, masked with mints and silence. They say, “I’m fine,” but the smell lingers, and so does the truth. That drink, that smoke, that pill—that dark screen at 2:00 a.m.—it’s not just escape; it’s worship. A narcissist doesn’t seek peace; they seek highs—quick ones, loaded ones. They’re chasing a feeling to fill the emptiness, even if that feeling burns them from the inside out.
And while the world goes about its business, guess what else the narcissist is doing? Watching, always watching—not the stars, not their reflection this time, but the past. Oh yes, the narcissist watches old flames like a hawk circling a field. They scan social media like a detective on a case. Is the ex smiling? Did they move on? Are they glowing without me? Because if the answer is yes, that glow feels like an insult. That joy, to them, feels like betrayal. And so, with quiet fingers, they dig. They search your name, Google your life, scroll through your wins, your photos, your victories—not to celebrate—no, to look for cracks, to find a moment where they might still have power. It’s not curiosity; it’s obsession.
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And when that old itch starts to crawl again, they don’t stay silent. The narcissist will hoover—oh yes, that’s the word—hoovering like a vacuum, trying to suck you back into their grip. Out of nowhere, a text arrives: “Just thinking about you,” or “Happy birthday,” or “Hope you’re well.” They send these messages like seeds, hoping one might sprout. It doesn’t matter if they’re with someone new; it doesn’t matter if they claim to move on. If the new supply starts getting dull or if they just crave a little more attention—boom! They’re back in your inbox, whispering like a ghost you thought you buried.
Because for the narcissist, more is never enough. They don’t close doors; they leave them ajar just in case they feel like strolling back in.
And you know where else they show up? The grocery store. Sounds harmless, right? But for the narcissist, even food becomes a battlefield. They’ll act like experts, pointing at your choices, criticizing what you buy, acting as if every apple or carton of milk reveals your worth. “Why would you get that brand? That’s so unhealthy!” Control—that’s what it is, wrapped in kale and coupons. They’ll wander the aisles like royalty in exile, correcting your cart, flirting with the cashier, chatting like they own the place. It’s not about nourishment; it’s about control, charm, and being seen.
Now listen—remember how I said they live on their phone? That wasn’t an exaggeration. The narcissist doesn’t settle for one dating app. No, one is never enough. They’re not just swiping on Tinder and calling it a day; they’re casting wide nets. They’re on Hinge, on Bumble, on Plenty of Fish, on Christian Singles, on apps you’ve never even heard of. Because to them, connection isn’t about depth; it’s about options—a constant buffet of validation and possibility. They want to be everywhere, talking to everyone, casting shadows in every inbox. You see, to the narcissist, life is not about presence; it’s about pursuit—not about love, but leverage.
And their hobbies—oh friend, their hobbies are the breadcrumbs they leave behind on a path of manipulation, a trail that only leads back to one thing: the altar of self.
Now let me paint another scene for you, one that’s as telling as it is exhausting: the narcissist and the selfie. Oh, what a love story that is! It’s not just a picture; it’s a performance. You go out with them—to the car, to dinner, to the ocean—and you think maybe, just maybe, you’re going to make some memories together. But no, they’re not trying to capture the moment. Oh no, they’re trying to capture themselves—over and over again. Click, pose, filter, again. It’s relentless. And here’s the catch: you’re not in the frame, because you’re not the audience—they are. Or more accurately, their next target is.
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Those photos are being saved, curated, shipped out like resumes of a false identity. “Look at me, living my best life,” they say in captions, but you’re right there, cropped out, erased, invisible. They’ll post that sunset shot and pretend they were alone, and people will eat it up—not knowing they’re witnessing a performance, not a moment, but a lure. See, the narcissist doesn’t want to share the spotlight; they are the spotlight. And if you try to squeeze in beside them, they’ll either ruin the picture or cut you out entirely.
But that’s not all—not by a long shot. Walk into their home, or worse, invite them into yours, and you’ll find another stage—one where every dish becomes a debate, where every pillow becomes a problem. “Why’d you clean it like that? Why’d you fold it this way?” And here’s the irony: they might be a total slob, with dishes crusted over and socks on the ceiling, or they might be obsessive clean freaks who treat a single fingerprint like a personal attack. It doesn’t matter which extreme; the point is control. Some narcissists want spotless glass, spotless floors, spotless silence. You visit their place and feel like you’ve entered a museum where breathing too hard might set off the alarms.
But try inviting them to your space—oh, they love that. Because that’s where they let loose, lounging across your couch like it’s theirs, rifling through your stuff like you invited them to, asking “What’s for dinner?” like you’re the help. They don’t want to share space; they want to invade it, to dominate it, to leave their chaos where you sleep. And they’ll criticize—not kindly, not constructively, but cruelly. “Why is your stove like this? Who folds towels that way?” And they don’t even lie there. They could; they’d be couch surfing or room renting. But they’ll still act like they’re the kings and queens of domestic law. Because again, it’s not about the bed being made right; it’s about power. It’s always about power.
So what do we see here? Let’s call it what it is: the narcissist’s day isn’t filled with peace, progress, or purpose. No, it’s filled with habits that feed a hollow soul—from hiding in the bathroom to living through a screen, from snooping through drawers to lighting up addictions, from trolling the past to debating the future, from selfie sessions to social media stalking, from nitpicking to control. They chase control like it’s oxygen. This isn’t love; this isn’t partnership; this isn’t life. It’s performance, it’s manipulation, it’s a never-ending audition for worth.
So if you’re seeing the signs, don’t ignore them. Don’t silence your own voice just to avoid their wrath. Because the most dangerous part of all this is how normal it can start to feel. But normal doesn’t mean healthy; familiar doesn’t mean safe. You were not created to be controlled. You were made to live, to breathe freely, to walk in dignity, to be loved honestly. Don’t let someone else’s chaos write the script of your day. Step back, step free, reclaim your peace. You don’t have to play a supporting role in someone else’s story.
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