I dated a narcissist for 5 years: These are the red flags I’ll never overlook again

Quick caveat: only a professional can diagnose narcissistic personality disorder.

What follows is my story—patterns I lived, ignored, explained away, and finally learned to name. If a few of these ring uncomfortably true for you, take that as information, not a verdict.

I didn’t meet him in some cinematic way. It was a group hike. He handed me a granola bar and said, “You look like the kind of person who always has a plan.”

By the time we reached the summit, he’d already asked about my favorite books, childhood pet, and the exact street I grew up on. “I want to know everything,” he said. At the time it felt like oxygen after a long winter. I didn’t realize I was giving him a map.

Here are the red flags I’ll never overlook again.

1) Love-bombing disguised as destiny

On date three, he told me he’d never felt such a “rare, fated connection.” He made a playlist with our initials in the title. He sent flowers to my office “just because,” then framed it as mutual, inevitable speed: “Why pretend we’re not special?” In the moment, it felt flattering. Only later did I notice the choreography—excessive praise, constant contact, future talk before we knew each other’s middle names. Pace equals pressure. When someone rushes intimacy, it’s often about control, not closeness.

What I watch for now: warmth that respects timing. Interest that doesn’t need a stage.

2) Early boundary tests that seem “cute”

Two weeks in, I mentioned I go offline after 10 p.m. That night, three texts rolled in at 10:30: “Miss your face.” “Are you mad?” “Hello??” The next morning I laughed it off. He smiled and said, “You sleep like a baby. I worry like an adult.” It took me a year to realize that was the template: he’d press, I’d yield, then we’d rename my boundary as “cute” and his as “reasonable.” Boundaries don’t need to be dramatic to matter. Mine were a series of tiny doors; he learned which ones opened with a push.

What I watch for now: small no’s honored on the first pass.

3) A public angel, a private critic

Friends adored him. He poured wine, remembered birthdays, hung fairy lights for a last-minute party. But in the car home he’d pick at me: “You interrupted me twice,” “That story was long,” “You looked bored when Evan spoke.” Compliments arrived with sand in them. If I flinched, he’d say, “I’m just helping you shine.” In public he was benevolent; in private he was an editor with a red pen. The split kept me confused—and grateful to be chosen by someone everyone liked.

What I watch for now: alignment between public charm and private care. If it doesn’t match, I believe the private.

4) Conversations that boomerang back to him

He asked great questions—until my answers got real. When I talked about my job, he’d pivot to a story about a client he’d “rescued.” When I shared a worry, he’d say, “That reminds me of when I…” and start a new paragraph. It wasn’t that he never listened; it was that all roads eventually led to his triumphs or hurts. I felt like a character in his memoir. Healthy attention feels like a two-lane road. With him, it was a cul-de-sac with his name on the street sign.

What I watch for now: curiosity that circles back on its own later—“How did your meeting go?” without a prompt.

5) Triangulation as entertainment

He’d tell me that a mutual friend “didn’t vibe” with my energy, then add, “Don’t worry, I defended you.” He’d keep old flings in the orbit and mention their texts: “She still wants me. So messy.” I mistook his “honesty” for transparency. It was actually a way to keep me slightly off-balance and strangely grateful. He positioned himself as the prize and the interpreter—who liked me, who didn’t, what I should do about it. When people get turned into chess pieces, someone’s playing a game.

What I watch for now: direct conversations over cryptic quotes and “some people say” whispers.

6) Weaponized vulnerability

He cried on our fourth date about a childhood betrayal. He told me a detailed story about an ex who “ruined his faith in people.” My heart cracked open. Later, whenever I raised a concern, he’d sigh, “This is exactly why I don’t open up,” as if my request for a plan or an apology threatened his survival. Vulnerability can be a bridge; it can also be a leash. I learned the hard way that tears don’t equal accountability.

What I watch for now: sharing that leads to shared problem-solving, not one more reason I should carry the weight.

7) “Jokes” that cut—and the gaslight after

The first time he joked about my laugh—“Like a goose with a kazoo”—everyone roared. I laughed too. In the car I said, lightly, “Hey, not my favorite.” He rolled his eyes. “Relax, Avery. You dish it, you take it.” Weeks later, when I asked him not to mock my sister’s job, he called me “overly sensitive.” The pattern was simple: sting, deny the sting, blame me for bleeding. Humor that requires a target will eventually choose you.

What I watch for now: partners who can apologize without the counterpunch.

8) Silent treatments and resurrection arcs

When he was displeased, he didn’t shout. He vanished. Hours, days. No reply to texts. No answer at the door. Then he’d return with a flourish: “I needed space to protect our love.” I’d scramble to prove I was safe to come back to. The cycle trained me to read micro-shifts like weather reports, to keep the temperature warm so the storm wouldn’t roll in. Disappearing isn’t maturity; it’s control in a tuxedo.

What I watch for now: conflict handled in the light—messy, imperfect, but present.

9) Envy dressed as concern

When I got a promotion, he hugged me and said, “Proud of you,” then immediately asked if the stress would “change our priorities.” When I booked a solo trip, he warned that traveling alone was “unsafe and selfish.” His “concern” always pulled toward smaller, closer, quieter—for my sake, of course. It took a friend to say, “He doesn’t celebrate you. He calibrates you.” That sentence cracked the spell.

What I watch for now: partners who add wind to my sails, not weights to my ankles.

10) Apologies that fix nothing

“I’m sorry you feel that way.”
“I didn’t intend that.”
“Let’s move on.”
These were his favorites. He apologized to clear the air, not to clean it. Nothing changed, because the point of the apology wasn’t repair; it was reputation. I learned to ask, “How will you do this differently next time?” The answers were slippery. My gut got steadier.

What I watch for now: plain ownership + specific change. If it isn’t there, neither am I.

11) Rewriting history

When he began pulling away, he started revising the past. Traditions he’d once loved were “performative.” Friends he’d championed were “users.” Stories we’d lived together got edited until I couldn’t recognize them. The new script cast him as weary, me as demanding, and our joyful years as naïve. Revisions allowed him to leave the relationship while pretending the relationship had already left him.

What I watch for now: partners who can hold both truths—good times and hard ones—without turning yesterday into a lie.

12) My world got smaller—and I called it love

This is the red flag I ignored most: the slow shrink. I stopped seeing certain friends because “they don’t get us.” I swapped my hobbies for our hobbies. I checked my phone at dinner, just in case he texted. The space I used to fill with my own life became a waiting room. By the end, I was a version of myself optimized for him—predictable, available, gracious, and tired.

What I watch for now: love that expands my radius. If my world contracts, a “we” is costing me my “me.”

How I finally left (and what I do differently now)

I didn’t stage a dramatic exit. I started keeping a private calendar of moments that hurt—just bullet points, neutral language. I stopped defending my boundaries and simply held them: “Not tonight.” “I’m not discussing that over text.” He escalated, vanished, returned, promised, blamed. The list grew. When I told him I was done, he said, “This is a phase. You’ll be back.” I wasn’t.

Here’s what changed my life afterward:

• I believed patterns, not paragraphs. If the behavior keeps repeating, the explanation doesn’t matter.

• I practiced tiny no’s. Declining a small ask is a rehearsal for leaving a big hurt.

• I rebuilt my social spine. I told friends the truth and let them sit with me in the messy middle.

• I made space for boredom. Without the adrenaline of highs and lows, the first months felt flat. Then they felt peaceful.

• I wrote a new pledge to myself: “No euphoria without respect. No apology without change. No more shrinking to fit.”

If you’re reading this with a knot in your stomach, here’s the gentlest thing I can say: you don’t have to prove someone is a narcissist to walk away. You’re allowed to leave rooms where you’re praised in public and criticized in private, adored on Tuesday and ignored on Thursday, told you’re too much and then begged to be everything. You can simply say, “This doesn’t feel like love to me,” and go.

Five years taught me these flags. They also taught me this: healthy love is a little boring in the best way. It returns your calls. It keeps plans. It apologizes like it means it. It celebrates your light without needing to dim it. It doesn’t need a stage. It doesn’t need an audience. It needs two people who can tell the truth and stay.

That’s the life I’m building now. And if that’s where you’re headed too, I’m cheering for you—quietly, consistently, with the kind of love that doesn’t rewrite the story afterward.