dear brandon (TW)

Part 2: A reflection on the long-lasting effects of a narcissist's abuse that took nine years to heal from.

ICYMI: Here’s part 1—

dear brandon

It was subtle at first. Remarks like, “I was just joking,” “Calm down,” “You’re overreacting,” “It’s not a big deal,” “I obviously didn’t mean it like that.” Then, slowly, Brandon set rules to control me disguised as “boundaries.” Mornings became “his time,” so I wasn’t allowed to talk to him. For example, one day I texted “I know mornings are your time so you don’t have to respond, but I just wanted to tell you that I hope you have a great day!” He responded with “Why are you talking to me? Stop.” When it came to talking on the phone, I wasn’t allowed to call him — he had to be the one to call me. And when he was done talking to me, he’d just hang up… even if I was mid-sentence. No “bye,” and no warning.

I made excuses for him. “He’s just in a bad mood,” “He doesn’t mean it,” “He’s just particular,” “He’s allowed to have boundaries,” “He’s just stubborn sometimes,” “The highs make the lows worth it,” “I’m not perfect, either,” “He’s helping me mature.” I’d never heard of gaslighting — it wasn’t a term widely used at that time. I had no knowledge of narcissistic personality disorder (NPD). I didn’t know the signs. I saw the best in him, like I do everyone. I was too young and naïve to understand the gravity of the situation. Or that some people choose to be cruel, and it wasn’t just a bad mood. I didn’t know he was manipulating me, or that his behavior was intentionally malicious.

He became very picky about me: How I could dress. What I should eat. How I should behave. Things I could, and couldn’t, say. Questions I could, and couldn’t, ask. Who I could, and couldn’t, talk to. Who I wasn’t allowed to be friend with on social media. What I could, and couldn’t, tell people. Which picture I should set as my profile photo. He didn’t like that I took anxiety medication, and tried to get me to stop taking it. He wouldn’t touch me in public, and if I touched him, I was scolded. He hated how affectionate I am. He told me I couldn’t wear the prom dress that I spent $100 on. He said he wouldn’t be seen with me in it. That it was “slutty.” I wasn’t able to return it, so I borrowed the purple dress you see pictured throughout this article from a friend after it got his approval.

Then the name-calling started. He frequently called me things like “fatty,” “overly dramatic,” “stage 5 clinger,” “prude,” “virgin,” and “kid” (because I was still in high school). Oh, and remember in part one when he told me he liked “Rachel” better, and would be calling me that instead of Rachelle? He wasn’t kidding. He only called me Rachel the entirety of the time I knew him. He even introduced me as “Rachel” to other people, and his family. He didn’t have enough respect for me to even use my birth name. The insults began flowing, as well. He’d say I was being “dumb,” “immature,” “annoying,” “so emotional,” “stupid,” “crazy,” “defensive,” “too sensitive,” “a baby,” “clingy,” “obsessed,” “irrational.”

He went from teasing to straight up making fun of me. Then he went from making fun of me to telling me everything he hated about me — whether he did or didn’t actually hate that thing didn’t matter. The point was to put me down. He’d tell me he couldn’t kiss me anymore because I was such an “awful kisser.” He’d poke my (flat) stomach and say I had “love handles.” He’d squeeze my arms, laugh, and call them “noodles.” He’d laugh hysterically over how flat-chested I was. One time, we were laying down, and he poked at my chest and said, “You’re like a boy!” Then, with both hands, he started drumming a beat on my chest. He destroyed my self esteem… for years his insults haunted me.

He made me deeply ashamed of my own body, but that’s not all. He took immense pleasure in making me jealous. He would hang out with women, like, adult women… but it was “his business.” He would tell me they were hot. That they were out at the bars, or at so-and-so’s house. Then he’d disappear for hours — something he never did, which I’ll get into in the next paragraph. He would tell me my friends were hot. He would try to get me to invite my friends along sometimes. One friend in particular — Mary. He always talked about wanting to get with Mary. I’d told him absolutely not, and that Mary also wasn’t interested. She wasn’t. But it was one of those things he just never let go. There’s a reason I’ve introduced you to Mary.

All of my time and attention were spent on him because I wasn’t allowed to be too busy for him. It didn’t matter if I was asleep, at practice, at school, with friends, with family, or at work — I had to be responsive seven days a week. To this day, I’m attentive to text messages to the point that I respond embarrassingly fast. I have to actively restrain myself sometimes because I understand that while that was my norm for so long it became habitual, others find the speed strange and unusual. Brandon was rewiring me to exist to serve and please him in a very toxic way. I had to like what he liked, think the way he thought, and agree with his opinions without opposition.

I worked at Pizza Hut on some school nights and weekends. One evening, I texted him “Sorry I was busy” after being unresponsive for a few hours while manning the drive-thru. Big mistake. He replied “Too busy for me? Alright then” and ghosted me for seven days. He resurfaced by sending “Sorry I was busy.” If I broke his rules, I’d be punished. Sometimes with silence, other times with yelling, reprimanding, shaming, or blaming. I wasn’t allowed to say “I’m sorry.” He said that “I’m sorry” is only something you should say when it “matters,” and that saying it too often made it lose its meaning. I also couldn’t repeat any of his catchphrases. They were “his thing.” Basically, I wasn’t allowed to adore him.

I wasn’t allowed to lie — even if it was a white lie or a joke. It was one of his “pet peeves.” One Friday evening, we had plans for me to drive the +2 hours to his place for the weekend. I worked a longer shift than expected though, and was running late. He was threatening to cancel our plans for keeping him waiting. He called me and asked if I had left yet, and I was just getting into my car. I lied and said yes, that I had left work already. I left my door open so that he wouldn’t hear me close it, indicating I wasn’t driving. I started my car, and to my horror, the seatbelt alarm began dinging. “What’s that?” he asked. I said it was nothing. He said, “Are you lying to me?” I tried to explain, to tell him it wouldn’t be much longer. He shut me out, and shut me down. He said I could still come, but that he couldn’t guarantee he’d stay up for me, or even let me inside his house. I took my chances.

When he’d hurt my feelings, I’d react like a puppy he’d just kicked across the room. He hated that about me — how emotional I am, how deeply I feel things. To be fair, as present day me looking back at how he treated me, my feelings were valid as fuck. I was a puppy he was kicking across the room. Anyway, I drove as fast as I could, drowning in tears, anxiety, and guilt for lying to him over something stupid. I just didn’t want him to be mad at me, that’s why I lied. To avoid his anger. I got to his place, and immediately tried to apologize. He put his hand over my mouth and said, “No talking.” I nodded my head. He led me to his bedroom, where a romantic scene awaited me. He had candles burning, soft music playing, and red rose petals. He shut his door, put his hands in my hair, and pulled me in for a very passionate kiss. I was shocked. It was like he was a different person.

That night was filled with trauma I’ve never told anyone before — and I don’t think I ever can. Many nights with him were, actually. I really want to, but I don’t want to relive them. I know it’s been nine years, but what he did to me was so cruel, it makes present day me wince. I still find it debilitating telling someone they have hurt my feelings in some way. I’ve been unable to recover from the feeling that I’m “too much.” This is by far the biggest struggle I have with communicating with others. If you hurt me, I’ll hide it, possibly forever… hoping it works itself out on its own. I avoid conflict. It doesn’t matter who you are. Talking about a negative feeling you’ve made me feel is like pulling my teeth.

Brandon told me if people asked me if he was my boyfriend, I could say yes. However, if they asked him if I was his girlfriend, he was going to tell them no. He asked me to start playing Sims, the Facebook version of the game, with him. On Sims, he would act how I wanted him to in real life. The players could be a couple, kiss, hug, and even have sex. If I remember right, and admittedly I have blocked a lot of it out, the players would jump under the covers of the bed and it would shake with hearts popping everywhere. Honestly, while writing this, I went ahead and looked. Turns out my memory isn’t too bad (see screenshot #2). Eventually, I couldn’t take the whiplash anymore… how different he’d act on Sims vs IRL with me. I stopped playing with him, which meant he’d never ask me to play a game with him ever again.

The fear of upsetting a person who routinely hurts you is damn near paralyzing. You never forget the things you did that made them explode with anger. Everyone around me saw how I was being treated (except for my family???) and how much of me was being consumed by him. One weekend, I introduced him to my best friend group from school. After he left, my friend Erica asked me, “How on earth do you deal with the crap that guy dishes out at you? He’s like really mean to you. I don’t know how you’ve handled this for so long.” One afternoon, after Brandon and I had finished swimming, I challenged him. I said, “You wouldn’t hurt me.” He said, “You don’t think so?” I said, “No way.” He smacked me, hard, right across my face. I grabbed my cheek, and stormed off into the house with tears in my eyes. He said, “Don’t even act like I did something wrong. You are the one who said I wouldn’t do something. So you can’t be mad when I do that thing and show you. You’re being childish.”

I’m leaving a lot out. This would be an extremely long, graphic article if I wrote about every awful, inappropriate, mean thing Brandon did to me. This one, though, I’m ready to talk about. He was the first guy to do things to my body. I didn’t know how things should feel, exactly. I had never even explored my own self before. It didn’t feel good or bad, just weird. He took that as a very personal attack, and he never let it go. I couldn’t help how it felt to my body, but it made me an enemy in his eyes. Things he was doing resulted in me bleeding, and I feel nauseous writing that. He told me something was wrong with me; that my body was “weird.” He said, “That’s not normal. You should get that checked out.” I got a referral to OBGYN and a female physician examined me. She told me I was just fine, and that he was the problem. He wasn’t exploring me, he was abusing me… and I feel nauseous writing that, too. When I told him what my doctor said, he said my doctor was stupid. He laughed at me for even going to one, as he frequently thought my inexperience was funny.

A boy close to my heart, who was like a little brother to me, committed suicide. It was very unexpected, and shook our school to the core. I had just talked to him at lunch that day in the cafeteria. I was in disbelief. Brandon was there for me, and actually very sweet. As I was walking into my friend’s wake, I sent a text telling Brandon how nervous I was. He responded “It’ll be alright babe.” He had never called me babe before. I thought it meant something. If you know anything about me, you know I’m a romantic, and I hate it with a burning passion the way pet names are used so loosely nowadays. It breaks my heart. Anyway, we got into a huge fight at the funeral. He replied, “It doesn’t mean anything. It’s a term of endearment. I call other girls babe.”

I still thought some part of him had feelings for me. I remember thinking to myself, What guy would drive TWO HOURS to see me and TWO HOURS back home all the time if he didn’t?! Two hours is pretty far for a fling. Talking every second of every day is pretty excessive for just a friend. He said he would “never be with me,” yet he was my prom date. He said he “could not stand me,” yet surprised me by showing up for my Open House when I finally graduated high school. He said we “weren’t right for each other” and he “could never date me” because he “hated too much about me.” That we could never be intimate because I’d “get too attached,” and that he should probably just hook up with his exes because then his number wouldn’t go up. Yet we’d lay under the stars at night on the roof, go to the movies, go on dates, go on motorcycle rides, and did things couples do.

For his birthday, I painted him a self portrait as a character in some movie per his request. (His brother told me it still hangs on his wall today like some trophy of me.) Then, eventually, he invited me over to meet his family. Does that shock you? It definitely didn’t make any sense. Again, I thought it meant something. I met his dad and three brothers. Brandon finally got to make me his homemade lasagna, a recipe he’d bragged about for a long time. We all played basketball until the food was done. I adored his family. His youngest brother, who I believe was 11 at the time, asked me if he could take me on a date when he turned 18. I said, “Absolutely, little man.”

After four days of silence, I called his phone. It was off. It was never off. Ever. I panicked, but there was nothing I could do, so I went to bed. I woke up the next morning and called it. Still off. I immediately realized something bad may have happened. I had a friend get ahold of his oldest brother, and his brother said he was fine. I messaged him on Facebook and told him to call me because I had some news, and inquired about his phone being off. I refreshed the page, and it said he read it. I refreshed it again, and he’d blocked me. That was the moment I realized what was happening. That he was leaving for good. “Poof, gone” as he put it — AKA ghosting. He always told me he’d “poof, gone” on me one day, and I didn’t believe him because of the way I had to be in his life every day at all times, whether we were talking, gaming, or hanging out.

My stomach dropped. I went pale. I couldn’t feel my legs. I tried to stand and walk, but fell to the ground. I laid there, and entered a complete state of shock, disoriented. I really want you to firmly grasp that this man had gained complete control over me as a teenager. He conditioned me, changed everything about me, and abused me when I showed signs of the “old” me. Someone who made every decision about me, whose rules I had to follow, and who made me 100% attentive to his presence to avoid punishment, was just gone. I didn’t even know who I was at that point. I couldn’t remember the things I liked. I couldn’t remember my life before him. I didn’t know what I liked to do with my free time. Suddenly, silence became loud.

The last time I ever saw Brandon was when I “returned his things.” Notes he wrote me, and other memorabilia. I don’t remember what all I gave him — but I do remember that it was just an excuse because I wasn’t going to allow him to ghost me. I was going to make him face me one last time, and I asked Mary to accompany me. We arrived after dark. She stayed in the car. I went through the first door, and knocked on the second door. He opened it. I said, “Wanted to give you this stuff back. I don’t want it.” His face twisted into rage, and he screamed, “GET THE FUCK OUT!!!” His anger startled me. I dropped the stuff to the ground and he slammed the door in my face. When I got back to the car, I was in shambles. I didn’t have expectations, but that level of fury frightened me sick. Mary asked if I wanted her to drive, and I said yes. For the next two hours, I laid in the back seat. Sometimes crying silently, other times asleep. Mary had to pull over once or twice so I could throw up. I wasn’t car sick, just deeply disturbed and upset and heartbroken.

“I’m stuck like this. In this world you made me create. Until something brings me back.” That’s something I wrote while I was mourning his loss. “Abandon Brandon” was his new contact name in my phone. I lost 14 lbs over the course of a month. I was 110 lbs in total. My hip bones began to stick out. I remember one day my mom hugged me, choking back tears, and said, “Please, PLEASE, gain some weight.” I had no desire to live, let alone nourish my body with food. I cried until I was dehydrated. My family told me to “get over it.” To “move on.” I know that sounds harsh, but they didn’t know what he’d done when no one was around. No one did. I didn’t even know I was a victim of anything.

After things had been over a while, Brandon’s older brother and I started texting. Not like that. He was into me, but I just wanted information. I told him how his brother treated me when no one was watching. He sincerely apologized to me. He also told me that Brandon’s last relationship, the girl right before me, had ended badly. I asked how. He told me they’d gotten into a fight, and Brandon shoved her through a glass table. He denied it and told people she fell. Those closest to him, like his brothers, had seen his anger though, and could tell when he was lying. Part of me was upset that no one had warned me, but the other part knew I wouldn’t have listened. This man was a trap I was destined to fall into because I was vulnerable and had no one protecting me.

To be continued… oh, what, you didn’t think there’d be a part three?? You thought that was the end of Brandon? I can see how you might have thought that considering the way he screamed in my face. You might also think that ghosts rarely return. Which is true. But don’t forget what he is: a narcissist. Once you’re part of a narcissist’s supply chain, there’s always a risk of return when they need to refuel.