Falling for the Narcissist Part 2: Déjà vu and Ignoring Red Flags

It was the French accent that threw me...

I was 4 months post-breakup from a serious relationship. I was single and happy, content to enjoy nights out with friends, long dog walks in the park, and blissful evenings in watching Netflix.

Then one morning, I woke up and decided I was ready. It might be nice, I thought, to go on a date. To have a glass of wine and a conversation. To see what was out there.

I met Thierry on a dating app. He moved the conversation quickly to WhatsApp and invited me for a drink the following evening.

The following evening rolled around, and I was getting cold feet. I’m not ready, I told myself. I’m tired. I can’t do the whole dating thing again. I’ll cancel, stay home, watch Netflix and have an early night. But there was a second voice that disagreed. Take a shower, it said. Dress up. Put some makeup on. Have a glass of wine and come home.

What’s the worst that can happen?

Thierry was extremely tall and bore more than a passing resemblance to Obama. Jackpot! I thought as the conversation flowed, and we ordered a second glass of wine. Thierry was charming, funny, eloquent and…did I mention the French accent?

He was in the military, he told me and was in Spain for a conference.

“Oh,” I said, “So, you don’t live here?”

“I live in Naples, “he said. “I fly back tomorrow.”

Oh well, I thought. That was the beginning and the end of Obama. But it was fine. I had been on my first date since my breakup. I’d had a pleasant evening.

I fully expected never to hear from Thierry again.

But a few days later, he sent me a message, and before long, we were texting several times a day. Every morning, I awoke to a good morning message accompanied by a romantic photo; a steaming cup of coffee, a picture of the Eiffel Tower, flowers, candles, wine…you get the idea.

Over the next week or so, Thierry’s messages got flowerier.

“I miss you, amour.”

“I need you.”

“I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Within weeks, he had booked a flight to Spain to visit me. We spent three amazing days together. We walked hand in hand on the beach. We ate paella next to the glittering Mediterranean. We lazed on a blanket in the park under the sun.

Two weeks later, he returned, and we had an equally amazing time.

Almost without realising, I had found myself in a relationship. I visited him in Naples. He visited me in Spain. Soon, he was talking about the future. Our future. He was about to retire, he said, and was looking to relocate. And Spain seemed the obvious choice.

But that old, familiar feeling squirmed in my gut. Something wasn’t right. It was moving too quickly. I felt jittery, trapped. Every instinct in my body was telling me to run.

But that’s the problem with surviving narcissistic abuse. Your self-trust is non-existent. Your compass between a “normal” reaction and an “overreaction” is skewed. You can’t tell the difference between an irrational panic response and an actual red flag.

But there were other things too. Over time, Thierry was becoming increasingly critical and controlling. Little comments about everything I did. Subtle put-downs. Incessant “jokes” where I was the punchline. He reminded me of my ex-husband.

One morning, I snapped. We were in Italy, on the last morning of three days together. I was tired. My social battery was zero.

“You know, Thierry,” I told him sarcastically after he criticised the way I rinsed the dishes (too much water, apparently). “It’s a miracle how I’ve managed to get through life without you telling me what to do!“

A look of disbelief spread across his face.

“But, I am joking!” he said, as if it were obvious.

“Well, it’s getting really old.”

“I won’t make jokes anymore,” he told me later. “I didn’t realise you were so oversensitive. I thought you could take a joke. You’re overacting because of your past.”

I began to doubt myself. What if I was overreacting? Was the uneasiness in my gut a throwback to my abusive marriage? Was I about to sabotage a perfectly good relationship?

I apologised and pushed my feelings aside.

A few weeks later, we went to Mallorca on our first proper holiday together. After the argument, I was on my best behaviour. Determined not to overreact. I ignored his thinly veiled criticisms, brushed off his disparaging comments and laughed at his “jokes.” Everything seemed fine. Until it wasn’t.

One night, we walked along the windy promenade, looking for a place to eat.

“It’s cold,” I said.

“It’s not cold,” he said dismissively, as I wrapped my arms around myself against the chill. We walked past restaurant after restaurant, but Thierry didn’t like any of them. Eventually, he decided on the first place we had seen, and we walked back along the seafront and sat down at a table.

Immediately, Thierry stated that he didn’t like the music. He picked up the menu and said something about the price of wine. He frowned as he scanned the page. “There isn’t much choice,” he muttered.

“Do you want to go somewhere else?” I suggested.

It was a seemingly innocuous comment, but the change in Thierry’s demeanour was instant. He glared at me.

“We can’t go somewhere else, we’ve already sat down!” he hissed.

“Of course, we can!”

“Don’t be so stupid,” he continued. “We will stay here.”

“I was just asking,” I stammered, “I thought you didn’t like it...”

“You thought,” he sneered, “But you didn’t ask. We came here because of you! You were complaining about the cold. So we chose the first restaurant we found.”

“But it wasn’t the first restaurant…” I protested feebly.

The waiter arrived and took our orders. I stared at my hands in my lap as the old familiar sense of dread settled over me.

“So, now you’re not talking to me?” he snapped, fixing me with an accusatory stare.

I froze, unable to move or speak, as panic flooded my body. I felt my heartbeat quicken. My mouth was suddenly bone dry. I had been here before. Whatever I did would be wrong. To speak was wrong. To not speak was wrong. To leave would be wrong. To stay felt impossible.

Suddenly, I was back there. With him. Frozen in fear as Serkan’s words flew at me like weapons.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” I managed to say eventually.

I made my way to the bathroom and threw up into the toilet. I sat on the floor, as I had done at the villa so many times. Trying to stop my hands from shaking. Trying to breathe. After a few minutes, I managed to calm down enough to stand up. I stared at myself in the mirror.

How was this happening again?

I returned to the table where our food had arrived.

Immediately, he started again.

“Where have you been?” he demanded, “Leaving me here to eat on my own. What were you doing?”

The accusations flew. I was texting someone, he said. Or calling. How rude and selfish of me to leave him there on his own.

“I was throwing up,” I said eventually.

“Well, you should have told me,” he snapped. “I’ve been sitting on my own for 15 minutes.”

I stared down at my unappetising meal.

“Eat your food!” he snapped.

“I’m sorry, I can’t,” I replied as a wave of nausea rose from my stomach.

He glared at me. “You are behaving like a spoilt child,” he said. “Now, eat your food!”

We sat in silence as I moved my food around my plate and pretended to take a few bites. We didn’t speak as we walked back along the windy seafront. There was nothing left to say.

The next morning, Thierry wanted to talk.

“I’m sorry I hurt you,” he said.

I nodded.

“Can we keep seeing each other?”

I shook my head. “It’s not possible for me,” I said.

And it was at that moment that I realised.

You see, despite the events of that night putting me straight back to my past, I’m no longer the person I was. The old me would have accepted his apology. Given him a second chance. And a third, and a fourth. The old me would have blamed myself. Made myself small for him. Stopped being “difficult” and “sensitive.” Changed who I was.

But not anymore.

Looking back, the red flags were there all along. The charm, the love bombing, the moving too fast, the subtle attempts to manipulate and devalue. To erode my sense of self and make me question my worth.

But here’s the thing. I’ve read this story before. I wrote this story. I don’t need to read the next chapter to know how the story ends.

It took me less than five minutes to remove all traces of Thierry from my life. All photos and messages deleted. All social media blocked. As if he never existed.

The only way to win against a narcissist is not to play.

I don’t beat myself up for ignoring the red flags. For doubting myself and not listening to my gut. Thierry was a lesson, and for that, I am grateful. Not to him, but to myself. For becoming the person I have become. For knowing myself. For trusting myself. For being so strong, I am literally unfuckable with.

But then again, I can always blame the French accent…