I Never Knew I Could Shatter So Completely: The Cost of Loving Her
- Elle Dee
- Oct 7
- 6 min read
Updated: Oct 16
Note:
This is the beginning of a story I never believed I'd tell. It's the story of how I got out of a relationship that almost destroyed me.
And who I've had to become to start clawing my way back.
I won't be using my ex's real name.
For the sake of this series - and my own mental health - I'll call her Cam Nevah Taknamor. I'll use Cnt for efficiency.
So when Cnt shows up throughout these pages -
in the dehumanization, in the lies, in the slow erosion of everything I once trusted -
you'll know I'm referencing my ex.
The name is fake. The devastation is not.
I hope you find something of value in my story.
And you'll join me for the series through the coming months.
🤎Elle
When the first message hit
I won’t go into the details of what led up to it - not yet.
But the first rage text came in at 7:50 AM on a Saturday.
Her fury didn’t fade the way it usually did. This time it grew - nastier, more vicious, more dehumanizing with each message. By that night, I knew I couldn't be there when she got home.
Remote, alone, and nowhere to go
I grabbed what I could carry and left.
We’d moved here during COVID, settling at the top of a mountain above a small town of 700 or so. The town itself sits about thirty minutes up-mountain from the nearest highway exit - already forty minutes outside the closest city.
In other words: we were remote, and then we were more remote.
I loved this community the moment we moved here. But I also knew these weren’t my people. They were hers - family, decades-long friends, lifelong ties.
I had no history here.
No network.
No safe couch or spare room.
The usual options didn’t apply.
So I drove until I found a place I thought she wouldn’t look for me. I just needed time to forge a plan.
I parked behind a line of trees near an old cemetery where no one would see my car.
I folded into the driver’s seat.
Turned off my lights.
Turned off my screen.
And went still.
That night, I slept in the car.
And the night after that.
And the night after that.
Three nights behind a cemetery, hiding from someone who said she loved me.
76 hours of control
The messages didn’t stop.
They came day and night.
Texts. Missives. Paragraphs.
Each one rewriting what happened, shaming every part of me, reclaiming control.
“Go now because breakfast is a joke.”
“I’ll post to Facebook that you quit.”
“Tell ‘your friend’ to go fuck herself again today.”
“You flipped out on me over $30 in breakfast.”
“You’re broken. You’re selfish. You’re unbelievable.”
They filled my phone for more than 76 hours.
Engaging didn’t calm her.
Agreeing didn’t satisfy her.
Kindness didn’t soften her.
And silence didn’t stop her.
The session that named it
We already had a counseling session scheduled for that week. It was an online appointment - each of the three of us in separate locations.
Before the appointment, I emailed our therapist & Cnt. I made it clear the only thing I was willing to discuss that day was the siege I was still - up until the time of the appointment - living through.
In that email, I asked Cnt for permission to forward the text thread to our counselor.
She said yes.
And I sent them.
When the session began, the counselor looked into the camera and said to us both:
“This is abuse.”
The apology that didn't last
Our counselor didn’t offer caveats.
She didn’t use soft language.
She called it what it was.
She told Cnt she could not continue working with us on communication or any other issues while this was happening. She was also adamant that Cnt begin seeing a personal therapist immediately.
Even then, she insisted that we not be alone together and communicate only through email. She didn't even want us texting.
We agreed to the terms.
That night, Cnt emailed an apology to me.
It was only a few sentences.
But for a moment - just a breath of one -
it felt like this could be the thing that reached her.
Then came the accusations
But the remorse didn’t last a day.
At some point, it seemed to land for her that she'd lost control - of her image, the narrative, me. The next day when I heard from Cnt, every issue from the day before had been replaced with a new set of crises.
The only kind that let her feel safe and in control: ones that cast her as the victim, and me the monster. Her tone had shifted completely from the apology she emailed the day before.
I couldn't be trusted.
I'd ambushed her.
I'd tricked the counselor.
I know she's incapable of abusing anyone.
She's devastated I see her this way.
She's done so much for me. How could I?
I'd been cheating on her.
She had proof.
I'm gaslighting both her and our counselor.
Cnt insisted that if the counselor understood the depth of my betrayal,
she’d understand it was me who was the abuser.
Of course, none of this aligned with even the most basic facts of our lives.
But facts were never the point with Cnt.
The point was to keep me on the defensive.
To flood the space with suspicion so there’d be no room left for accountability.
After the apology that had me feeling so hopeful, the abuse was never mentioned again.
I never went back
I never went home again after July 6, 2024.
There was no final conversation.
No mutual decision.
No parting moment of grace.
Just one final, horrifying thread of messages
and a decision that stayed made.
Truth as survival
Sometimes survival means disappearing.
Sometimes healing means no longer protecting the lie.
And sometimes, the bravest thing we can do
for anyone battling their own narcissist
is to tell the truth.
We can’t always save each other.
But a shared path
is more survivable
than an isolated one.
I know that now.
But my narcissist knew it first.
It's why keeping me dependent and isolated was never an accident.
It's why I risked everything - and lost most - to get away.
If you recognize something in this story -
the apologies with 2-minute lifespans,
the rage texts that never stop,
the quiet humiliations that turn love into a horror show...
you’re not imagining it.
This isn’t just a blog post. It’s the final moments of a five-year wreck.
The pdf I’m releasing - The Narcissism Files: A Survivor’s Exposé - collects it all:
the actual messages in real time, the reversals, the sabotage, the unraveling.
It’s part memoir, part evidence archive.
Mostly, it's what I wish I’d known back when I still believed the problem was me.
This is what narcissistic abuse of a neurodivergent person looks like - and why it rarely leaves a mark you can show, even when it nearly kills you.
You can now preview the full Table of Contents,
with real chapter titles and the tone this story actually deserves:
Check out the text screenshots we're sharing for this post! Have you experienced anything comparable from your own narcissist?
And if you already know - because you've lived this,
or you're scared you might still be in it -
you can pre-order the full PDF and get early access the moment it drops:
And if part of you is super uncomfortable with this whole thing -
or wondering why I’d share something this personal & unflattering,
I explain all of that right here.
.
It may not erase your discomfort. It hasn’t erased mine.
But you’ll understand exactly why this book exists -
and why I've made peace with the necessity of it.
🪶 Preview the Table of Contents here ➳
🪶 Pre-order the full version (with free bonuses) here ➳
🤎Elle
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