The Damn Thing Called Self-love!

When I was thirteen years old, I got it into my head to write a book. Weeks later, I felt foolish as I realized that would be the shortest autobiography ever written. Even at that age, I already understood that my story was different from other children's; I tucked that dream away and forgot about it for years.

Years later, the abuse repeated itself, and for almost ten years, I was the dedicated wife of a covert narcissist. It took me years trying to convince myself otherwise. Now, at this exact moment as I write, five years after the separation, this is still an inconvenient truth. It's hard to believe I didn't see it, to think that there were moments when I saw beneath the veil of his lies and still chose to see only the fog. It's even harder to admit to my daughters that I chose so wrongly. I'm terrified they'll do the same. That's why I write.

But what leads someone to place themselves in this position and remain there? Of all the victims of narcissistic abuse I've met and with whom I've shared my story, all without exception report the distrust, a kind of feeling that something was wrong, but still they stayed, endured years of abuse, humiliations, and betrayals in the most diverse areas. What makes a person become the food source for this type of predator? I had to dive so deep into my own story that I confess at times I believed I wouldn't be capable of reporting in detail what I saw and lived.

This book is the scream of a frozen woman.