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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