The Anatomy of the Narcissistic–Avoidant Soul

Yesterday I told you a very heartwarming love story. Even though it had its bittersweet parts, nothing in life is only rainbows and sunshine. While writing, I even found myself in tears at some parts. Yet the truth is, memory is not really reflective of reality. With time, even the most hurtful stories are remembered through their softer sides.

Everything, living or not, has its shadow side. His front-line soldier was intellect dressed as kindness, but behind it, his shadow plotted otherwise. He always needed to be right, and that is when he showed his narcissistic–avoidant type. Those, my friends, are the most dangerous ones.

At first, they feel magnetic. The shadow pulls you in with charm, the illusion of depth. Giving just enough to make their victims believe they’ve found recognition, opening themselves to draw you closer. However, when the time comes, they remain distant enough to keep your guesses alive.

Every time you lean in, they withdraw. Retreat is their ritual, treating closeness as trespass they cannot allow. Whenever you invest more, their warmth dims, their replies slow. And yet, when you finally pull back, they crawl back in. He wanted the power of being both my comfort and my wound.

There was a time I could not believe how easily my so-called lover stood beside the worst person alive. He owed me an explanation, yet that is the thing with the avoidant kind. They assure you they will explain, but when it matters, they retreat. Their silence is survival to them, but deception to the one who believed. His apologies fade too fast, only to keep me orbiting a past.

When we were together, I felt like the only girl in the world, his love spilling over in endless ways.

But love-bombing is its own cruelty when the heart never means to keep what it gives. His promises had no ground; they were spoken only to calm the moment.

That is the nature of the avoidant soul: to dazzle with fire, then vanish into cold.

Then came the blame, the criticism, the sharp edge where all the love disappeared; whatever tenderness we once shared was gone. He stood there ice-cold, like stone, even in his eyes.

I have always been a fan of closure, owing to my drama queen side. After that breakup, I even sent an actual letter by post, from London all the way to Istanbul.

Do you know what his reaction was?

“Was this really necessary? Why is she creating such drama?”

To a letter into which I poured my whole heart.

That is when I realised, nothing good ever comes out of closures. Why do we torment ourselves by seeking one?

Then, as they always do, he crawled back, wanting to reclaim the same place in my life. Of course, I never let him, and I never would again.

Yet, he had his own weapon he relied on. When narcissists cannot cope, they put the blame on others. For me, it became the worst kind of betrayal, the kind that would never have even crossed my mind. It was all built on illusions, stories with no proof, no ground to stand on.

Deep down, I am sure he never believed them either. Yet, his words turned into disrespect, and from there, I couldn't recognise him anymore. With narcissists, kindness often appears as a costume, worn when it suits, discarded when accountability arrives.

To all my friends who have been victims of this kind, let me tell you: I played this game many times and never won. Winning was only possible when I chose to walk away, something I could not do then, but that’s what I do now.

I do not love him anymore, and no respect is left to give. Yet still I tried, not to return, but for the sake of what once was. I wanted our memories to remain unstained, even as he had already stained his soul.

Questions are never welcomed; they threaten the throne of certainty that narcissists have built in their minds. I bent myself to explain, gave him every chance to see through the fog of his paranoia, but he chose the comfort of shadows over the light of truth.

He never listened, not because he could not, but because he did not want to. Listening meant admitting defeat, and that was a language he refused to speak. His only real problem was the weight of his fragile pride, splitting into countless forms.

I never held his insecurities as debt, but he let them outweigh every fragment of goodness he had left.

Blame is not truth-seeking; it is ego-preserving, a shield to protect the illusion of perfection around which they've built their so-called identity. He could not accept being left behind, so he rewrote the ending as treachery.

Let us give him applause; that was a creative one.

That is the nature of the narcissistic-avoidant soul: when truth unsettles their pride, they turn shadows into evidence, and instead of confronting their reflection, they sacrifice the heart that once stood by them.

Yet, the joke is on them because when we wake up, we never choose to stay again.

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