The first time I ever danced with my husband was at his mother’s wedding nearly twenty years ago. I think it was number six out of eight, and that in itself should have been a red flag except that her faith and optimism made it almost admirable. I was so terribly blind that I could only see him and feel the magnetic pull of gravity that lingered between us. Little did I know that the gravitational pull was the same as that of the Death Star in all of the Star Wars movies. . . the large space station command center for the forces of evil and destruction that locks on its targets and pulls them to their death.
My narcissist husband was empty in a way that was very different from my emptiness. I thought that his quest for fuel was insatiable and tragic. The constant need for external validation, for eyes and ears to hear and see, the thirst for attention, the hunger to feast on their adoration.