“Did I really do that?” she asked, tears threatening to spill from her eyes.
We were driving back to the house after meeting with the nurse practitioner at the mental health clinic. Not wanting to incur Ella’s ire by bringing up the subject, I had secretly slipped a note to the nurse so she could ask the right questions to bring the conflict into the light.
“If my mother had locked me out of the house, I would have gotten in my truck and left and never gone back,” the nurse had boldly exclaimed.
She seemed broken. Contrite. Embarrassed. All appropriate emotions for the occasion. She wanted help. She agreed to take her medication.
My heart overflowed with compassion toward my mother-in-law as she verbally berated herself.
“Mom, look at me.” I glanced back and forth between Ella and the road. “Repeat after me. I am loved.”
“I am loved.”
“And I am forgiven.”
“I am forgiven.”
She reached for my hand. “I am so sorry I did that to you and Warren. I don’t know what got into me.”
Could this be the breakthrough I had been praying for?
What I did not understand then was that I was experiencing the textbook definition of what experts call “hoovering.”
It can be incredibly powerful to think that your words finally got through to someone. For a short while they may appear to have turned a corner, and then just as you exhale and shelve your ideas of splitting up or moving out, they slowly slide back into their narcissistic patterns. In other words, hoovering is where future faking is deployed as a tactic to draw you back in. The same red flags are there, the charm and charisma are front and center, but during hoovering you may feel avenged, as if you were finally ‘enough,’ worthy of being heard, and the exception to the rule in narcissistic relationships. And boom, you are back in it—except this time you feel more foolish and maybe even more likely to fall into the cycle of self-blame when things go south again.
Ramani Durvasula, It’s Not You
Things certainly did go south again! This was only the first time my mother-in-law locked us out of the house. She later locked us out in the cold. She locked us out in the rain. We could hear my father-in-law’s stroke-stricken hand fumbling with the doorknob, trying—and failing—to turn the lock mechanism. We learned to keep our car keys in the garage. At least then we could go somewhere when refused admittance to the house where my husband was the only caregiver for his father.
Perhaps you recognize this pattern in your own life—the way false hope can feel more cruel than no hope at all. The way promises ring hollow when they’ve been broken so many times before. If so, this prayer is for you:
O God, I lift up to You my grief-stricken friend, attempting to pick up the pieces of a heart shattered by the empty promises of a narcissist. A glimpse of light, a resolve to do better, rings hollow once again, and the pendulum swing of emotion feels devastating. Having no light at all often seems better than having an impression of light where only darkness dwells and devastation is sure. Comfort my friend today. Send forth your light and your truth; let them guide my heartbroken friend. Let them bring my friend to your holy mountain, to the place where you live (Psalm 43:3), that they may find peace in the storm, and healing for their broken heart. Amen.
Your story isn’t over, and neither is your healing.
Sawubona. I see you.
Works Cited:
Durvasula, Ramani, It’s Not You: Identifying and Healing From Narcissistic People, Penguin Random House, 2024, 72-73.
Your posts are helpful. When I begin to think maybe it will be different this time, I remind myself nothing has really changed except her tactics. Thank you.
It can be hard as Christians, because we know that our God can change the hardest of hearts. But for reasons we can’t begin to understand, he seldom changes the heart of a narcissist. What he does change is us—giving us wisdom to recognize the patterns and strength to set boundaries.
Sometimes I wonder if the miracle isn’t their transformation, but our freedom from the need for it to happen. Keep trusting those instincts—they’re a gift from the One who sees what we cannot.
With my mom, it’s after you’re driving home that you realize she’s slipped a knife between your ribs yet again. I finally learned to space out my visits so that I can honor her on my own terms and have time to process and determine how I’ll do the next visit better. These blogs are needed. Thank you for taking the time to share your experience and what you’ve learned.
Oh, friend, I know exactly what you mean! It’s like those injuries you don’t realize you have until you see the blood dripping. I’m glad you found a way to manage your visits, and I hope that “doing the next visit better” includes safeguards for your own heart. It took me a long time to understand that “honoring” doesn’t mean accepting whatever they dish out. I’m so grateful that my experiences can offer some comfort to yours. There’s something sacred about shared understanding, isn’t there? When someone else knows the particular ache of loving someone who wounds you, it makes the healing feel less lonely. Thank you for sharing your heart here.