top of page
Search
  • Writer's pictureLoveday Funck

Mourning for What Never Was

We are allowed to mourn. We are allowed to feel grief because what we were promised is not what we were delivered. I met a man. I'll call him Archie. Archie was sweet, awkward, introverted, funny, and nurturing. He loved all things nerdy. He said all the right things. He complimented me and seemed to adore me exactly as I was.

Unfortunately, Archie was never real. I loved an imaginary being.





In Stage Five of the healing process, we confront our grief head-on. We enter a period of mourning, not for the relationship as it manifested with our narcissistic abuser, but for the shattered promise that once held our hopes aloft.


Narcissists employ a familiar cycle: they elevate their victims with lavish compliments and love bombing, only to later devalue them. They view those in their lives as mere sources of "emotional supply," be it their partners, children, or friends. This destructive pattern repeats relentlessly.


In Stage Five of the healing process, we confront our grief head-on. We enter a period of mourning, not for the relationship as it manifested with our narcissistic abuser, but for the shattered promise that once held our hopes aloft.


Narcissists employ a familiar cycle: they elevate their victims with lavish compliments and love bombing, only to later devalue them. They view those in their lives as mere sources of "emotional supply," be it their partners, children, or friends. This destructive pattern repeats relentlessly.


Never again would he be the child begging for his mother's attention or love.




The rain fell like a memory, a grey curtain obscuring the world outside my window. Inside, grief curled around me like a stray cat, a prickly weight in my chest. It wasn't a grief for a person, not truly. It was a mourning for a phantom, a figment I'd christened Archie.


Archie was perfect. In my mind's eye, he was a symphony of awkward charm – a man who fumbled over his words but spoke volumes with his eyes. He loved bad puns, obscure music, and second-hand bookstores. He was the missing piece, the melody my life craved.


Except Archie wasn't real. He was a whisper in the dark, a mirage in the desert. In his place stood Rageroo, a name that tasted like rust on my tongue. Rageroo, a master of deception, a sculptor of lies. He'd built me up with compliments, a gilded cage, all the while chipping away at my self-worth with sly manipulations.


He was a shadow, a master of disguise. He'd cloak his need for control in the guise of social awkwardness. My attempts to set boundaries were met with crocodile tears, turning me into the comforter, his emotional crutch.


Over time, the cracks in the facade began to show. Archie, the bumbling sweetheart, morphed into something sinister. The discovery of his affair was the final, shattering blow. It unraveled the illusion like a moth-eaten tapestry.


Rageroo, I learned, was a creature of borrowed sorrow. He clung to a past trauma, a religious upbringing that twisted him like a gnarled tree. He played out his pain in every relationship, a puppeteer with tangled strings. He sought the power he never had as a child, yearning for a love he could control.


His ex-wife, a woman raised by a similar monster, fit neatly into his twisted game. Love-bombing turned to devaluation, religion weaponized just like it had been on him. When the novelty wore off, he cast her aside, a moth drawn to the next flickering flame.


And then there was me. He mirrored my desires, a reflection in a funhouse mirror, distorted and grotesque. He showered me with the affection I craved, the compliments I yearned for, weaving a tapestry of Archie onto his own dark form.


It took too long, far too long, to see through the charade. Though I suspect there were others, the affair was my awakening. The grief for Archie, the fantasy, was a bitter pill to swallow. But in mourning him, I release myself.


The rain continues to fall, a cleansing symphony. The world outside is blurry, but within, a spark flickers. It’s the hope of finding real love, a love not built on lies and manipulation, but on honesty and respect. I close the book on this chapter, the story of Archie and Rageroo, and step out into the rain, ready to write a new one.


456 views1 comment

Recent Posts

See All

1 Comment


cuthbertartwork
Apr 02

Been there. Done that. Still waiting for the T-shirt 😱

Like
bottom of page