Editor’s note: The Lovefraud author Eleanor Cowan wants to educate survivors of narcissistic abuse into recognizing how their own actions may contribute to their misery. This is the third article in her collection of true stories called, “Impactful Stories for Stubborn Codependents.” Eleanor’s biographical book is called, “A History of a Pedophile’s Wife.”
One Loose Thread
How could a single loose thread be this strong, Kay wondered, giving up on pulling it from the sheet that was covering Sori. Noticing its imprint on her finger, she let go. “I still remember how it felt, after all these years,” she whispered.
Kay spoke to her friend now, inert on the gurney. “I’m not going to ask why you didn’t leave him sooner, Sori. I won’t ask because I’ve been there too. In fact, it’s a real victory that I finally stumbled out of my non-partnership. Why do we stick around for more?
“Even though our precious children love us,” Kay continued, “our romantic attachment has top priority. Where did we learn that?” she sighed, before lowering her voice once again.
Where, she repeated, did we learn that?
“Your kids love you, and nothing will change that,” she whispered. “We both have enough money. You have a home under your name. You have siblings and friends like me, who love you too. We have so much, but still, here we are.”
So, what is it? Where did we learn that we have to have it all? Why do we struggle to tolerate a single hole in our ideal dream scenarios? Can we learn to celebrate the love we do have? We know that not every charismatic character qualifies for long-term love.
Kay sat down, one hand lightly touching Sori’s bare arm. “Stop talking,” she counselled herself, just before ignoring her own advice.
“I recall my own stubborn refusal to let go of a personality-disordered guy I smugly called my ‘husband.’ It took me fourteen years, Sori, to even begin to make my happiness more important than the life I clung to, so don’t think for a moment I don’t understand those steel bonds that tether us to distress.”
With tissues from the box close by, Kay absorbed her fast-flowing tears.
“We’ve heard the stories, Sori. We just never understood they were ours. It seems that bullies or ‘personality-disordered people,’ as you compassionately call them, never change. But the real question is, did we? Did we change?”
Kay’s fingers found that stray string again. “Thank you, Sori,” she said, standing to place her warm palm on her friend’s hand. “I want to make a promise to you – and to me. I promise you that I’ll keep trying to take care of my own errant threads, the ones that keep me tethered to hurt.”
Kay wept in silence for more moments. She kissed her friend goodbye and returned the tissue box to the counter. Taking a steady breath, Kay tugged open the heavy morgue door.
Eleanor Cowan
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