Surviving Narcissism Exploring life after marriage to a narcissist. Learning and thriving by sharing our story. – Jesse Blayne

She pinned the boutonniere to her grandfather’s lapel and walked him out to the backyard.  His seat was in the front row of chairs under the canopy.  It wasn’t the kind of wedding where the guests or groom weren’t allowed to see the bride before the ceremony.  In fact, the bride had been scurrying around taking care of last minute details while dressed in the batiste gown she’d made and embroidered.

This had to be a cost-effective wedding, or there would be no wedding at all.

The groom hadn’t actually proposed to the bride.  Years later, when learning about narcissism, she would read that narcissists rarely propose.  It was beneath them.

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They had lived together for about a year, bought a home and settled into a comfortable lifestyle.  Getting married was a default move.  It made sense.  It was expected.  She assumed they’d marry one day.  He didn’t spend a lot of time thinking about getting married.  When she pressed, he usually said something like, “Well… I’m fine with it all as long as it isn’t a big production, doesn’t cost me a lot, or interrupt my work schedule.

Later, he’d say the same about having children.

So they picked out rings.  There wouldn’t be an engagement ring, because a simple band was less expensive.

She planned her wedding, with little involvement from him, because he wasn’t interested.  She told herself that men aren’t interested in such things.  All the while she reassured him that this would be a simple affair that wouldn’t even leave a running  balance on their credit cards.

She made the invitations and the dress.  She made the flower arrangements with herbs and wildflowers from her garden and a few store-bought roses.   Even though she’d never made a wedding cake before, she managed to make that, too.

She found friends who were willing to play music in exchange for food and drink.

The invitations suggested, “In lieu of gifts, please bring your favorite salad or hot dish.”

She rented a canopy, a couple tables, and service for 75.

She found a judge to perform the ceremony in their backyard.

The groom shopped for a shirt and pants, got a haircut and mowed the grass.

The weather was perfect on that not-too-hot-day in June, when 80 friends and family showed up.

She raced around the yard, placing the casseroles and salads on the tables, in between hugging and greeting the guests.  She looked down to make sure she hadn’t dripped salad dressing on her wedding dress.   She glanced around to see if her groom was greeting and hugging, and saw that he was nervously pacing and obviously uncomfortable with the whole affair.

She stood with a vase of flowers in one hand, and a bowl of macaroni salad in the other, as she squinted in the sun to look across the backyard at this man she was about to marry.

She briefly wondered if this was all a mistake.

Then she heard herself say, “Don’t be silly.  You are lucky that this man agreed to marry you.  Who else would come your way.  You can’t do any better than this man.”

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She stood in front of the small crowd, staring at this man, only half-listening and not hearing the judge’s words about commitment, knowing this person above all others, loving and supporting and blah blah blah…

She looked down at his sleeve and wondered why she hadn’t noticed there was nothing embroidered there.  One sleeve of her blouse was embroidered with all her bruises, mess-ups, hurts and disappointments.  The other sleeve was embroidered with her successes, desires, accomplishments, hopes and dreams.

There was nothing embroidered on his sleeves.

What did she really know about this man?  Why was she giving her heart to this man that she really didn’t know?  Shouldn’t she be the one person he told his secrets to?  Shouldn’t he share his deepest, most personal side with her?

Then she heard herself saying, “When you are married, he will reveal himself.  You will get closer.  He’ll have to open up and be vulnerable with you.  That’s what happens when two people give their hearts to each other.  You will cradle his heart, and he will cradle your heart.”

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One week after the ceremony, she saw him put her heart in the drawer of a little wooden box.  He rarely took her heart out of the box.  When he wasn’t around, she would go to the box, take her heart out, warm it in her hands and wonder if she’d made a mistake.

She kept holding his heart, warming it in her hands, and letting the sun shine on it.

She told him that she needed him to do the same with her heart.

He didn’t hear her.

One time, after the babies were born, she’d gone up to check on her heart in the little wooden box.  He had locked the drawer.  She couldn’t get to her heart to warm it up.

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One day, eleven years later, she noticed that he still didn’t have any embroidery on his shirt sleeves.  He still hadn’t shared the deepest parts of himself.

She walked upstairs, grabbed the little wooden box, put it in the car with the kids and their three boxes.

She never went back.