So there I stood, two weeks before Christmas 2020, in the psychology section of a bookstore in Buckhead. What’s in my hand? Unmasking Narcissism: A Guide to Understanding the Narcissist in Your Life.

Fast forward two hours later, and I’m already twenty pages in, absorbing theories about the root of a narcissist’s insecurities—their childhood wounds, the lack of proper nurture that shaped them. But let’s be real: I didn’t buy this book because I’m a psychology student. I bought it because I’ve been on two dates with a boy, FaceTimed him a handful of times, and instead of acknowledging the glaring red flags, I’m here, studying his condition like it’s a final exam.

I’m so desperate not to be alone that when someone outright tells me he’s been diagnosed with NPD, rather than delete his number and move on (as my therapist strongly advised), I decide to research him. to “understand him.” Because that’s what I do. I’m an empath, a healer. I don’t run. I analyze. I make excuses. I attempt to fix. And why? Because it’s easier to pour my energy into dissecting a stranger’s psyche than to accept the terrifying thought of enduring my forty-first first date of the year.

Sure, I could wax poetic about why this boy is attractive. His lips have that perfect curvature, the kind that makes your stomach flip when he smirks from across a cheap restaurant in downtown Atlanta. His self-obsession masquerades as confidence, and that confidence is seductive. But let’s not be fooled: he’s a diagnosed narcissist. A Pisces-Aries cusp baby, born on the first day of turkey season, named after a baby turkey because his father thought it was funny. He’s from Cumming, GA…that tells you all you need to know. 

But instead of focusing on who he actually is, I find myself drawn to the idea of him, the version I’ve constructed in my mind. This habit of mine, this fixation, keeps me from truly seeing people for who they are. My reality, his reality, and the real reality are three completely different storylines that only occasionally intersect.

And then it hits me, somewhere between chapters two and three: I am trying to understand a man I haven’t even let inside me yet. I want so desperately to make a relationship work that I bulldoze through the necessary steps: getting to know someone, slowly building a connection, etc. Instead, I skip straight to playing the role of the perfect boyfriend. But the thing is, I don’t need to understand this narcissist. I haven’t gathered enough information to even decide if I want him in my life.

Which is why, three days ago, I deleted every dating app from my phone. I couldn’t stomach the thought of continuing this endless cycle. Because if they’re not diagnosed NPD, they’re on enough testosterone and Adderall to fuel a Nazi regimen. If they’re not on amphetamines, they’re snorting three lines of coke before hopping on the M train to my old apartment. My first-date horror stories could fill multiple best-selling novels, and I wouldn’t even know where to begin.

But Jake was supposed to be different. We didn’t sleep together on the first date. The second date, he even thanked me for a lovely evening. But he doesn’t give me the attention I crave, doesn’t seem to possess the emotional depth I require in a partner. And rather than accepting him for who he has shown himself to be, I tell myself he just needs more time. That he’ll open up once he understands me better.

But I don’t wait. My ADD sends me on a new adventure, chasing another boy who, despite looking 22, has the emotional intelligence of a 15-year-old and an Adderall prescription to match. Oh, and let’s not forget the gravity bong hits he couldn’t get through our first hangout without. No, this isn’t Jake—I’ve already lost track of who I’m talking about. But at this point, can you blame me? There’s always a rotating cast of three to five men I’m trying to mold into relationship material at any given time.

My mind twists itself into knots justifying Jake. I tell myself:

• He’s just coming out of a traumatic three-year emotionally abusive relationship.

• He’s not actually a narcissist; his ex just turned him into one.

• He’s emotionally damaged, broken. He just doesn’t know how to open up.

Rather than acknowledging the reality of who he is, I fabricate a version that fits my narrative. My ADD and my impossibly high standards create a dating experience so chaotic that even my therapist and closest friends can’t keep up.

Maybe I’ve dated narcissists before and simply didn’t have the awareness to recognize it. But this time, I see everything. Dating a narcissist is sitting across from someone for two hours without them asking a single question about your life—how you feel, what you dream about, who you are. It’s a constant one-man show, a monologue where you are merely the audience.

And yet, instead of walking away, I stay. I justify. I excuse. Because attention, even the self-serving kind, is still attention. And because I convince myself he can’t help it—it’s just how his mind was shaped, the product of childhood neglect.

If he were ugly, I’d have no problem leaving. But I’m 25, testosterone-driven, and sometimes my decisions aren’t made with the proper head. I drown out his words about managing a Whole Foods with thoughts of his lips making indents on my abdomen. I want whatever he has. I want his hands on me and his tongue all over my body.

Because the thing about dating a narcissist? He knows exactly when to reel you back in. He senses when your interest is waning, so he texts: Hope you had a good day. He can feel when you’ve moved on, so he sends you a Snapchat in his underwear, tongue out, knowing exactly what he’s doing. He has a sixth sense for the moment you start slipping away—and he pulls you right back in.

The epiphanies do come. I just choose to ignore them.

But then, I remember. I remember the work I’ve done to get to where I am. I remember choosing to stay alive when I didn’t want to. I remember nights where I almost didn’t. And suddenly, the light comes on: Jake will never be what I need. He does not have the emotional capacity to hold space for me, to meet me where I am.

And yet, the loneliness still creeps in. It rushes through like a broken dam, water crashing down, and I will do anything to stop the flood, even if it means grasping at straws for a 23-year-old grocery store manager. Sure, he wants to be a biochemistry professor one day, but I convince myself I can change him. I can push him to be more. To make enough money to support a large family, with enough capital to leave behind for our grandchildren. Escaping loneliness is easier when you’re distracted by trying to fix a man.

And then I wonder, at 2 AM, why I’m frustrated and crying. Holding my own hand through yet another goddamn panic attack. 

The fight is no longer worth it. So, after two dates with a narcissist, I’ve deleted the apps, stepped off the hamster wheel. I’ve tried to make him love me. I’ve tried to make anyone love me. But all it’s ever been is a Band-Aid over a wound that I refuse to let heal. And that wound can only heal with time alone and growing closer to God.