I stayed away from my church for almost a year after Prissy orchestrated what can only be described as an Amish-style shunning.
She enlisted the help of my narcissist’s flying monkeys to carry out the attack and make me feel purposefully unwanted and unwelcomed at church.
The experience brought back memories of my time in San Antonio, Texas, years ago, when I was in the Army and one of my soldiers got entangled in a religious fundamentalist cult. In that group, if a woman defied the patriarchy, the other women would shun her—which was exactly what this felt like.
My unforgivable sin was being the victim of the church’s beloved President’s violence.
Prissy—his first wife and the mother of his children—was determined to portray him as the victim and me as the villain. In hindsight, I can hardly blame her. She had isolated herself so thoroughly that, apart from the church, she had few friends or connections, and her life was miserable for countless reasons, some self-inflicted and others outside of her control.
I plan to write more posts to unpack the dynamics of triangulation and to explore my relationship with Prissy in greater detail. But suffice it to say, for now, Prissy did not like me and, in all honesty, I did not like her much due to her uncontrolled jealousy that permeated every aspect of my already stressful relationship with my narcissist.
To be fair, my reasons for staying away from church were layered.
First and foremost, there was the smear campaign.
Over the next two years, I learned the extent of what Prissy and my narcissist had said and done through friends and community members who shared stories and screenshots of texts and Facebook messages with me which I shared in this blog:
They had even recruited additional flying monkeys at the church to extend the reach of their campaign. My narcissist had formed a men’s group, which, I was told, he used as a platform to defame me. This suspicion was reinforced when two members—both of whom I had always treated kindly—became distant and borderline cold toward me after the group formed. However, one member had the integrity to share with my lawyer some of the falsehoods my narcissist was spreading.
At the time, dealing with injuries from the abuse and the upheaval of my family, this betrayal hurt deeply. But in hindsight, it might have been a blessing in disguise. It allowed my children to leave the church, which is often viewed by our small-town community as a gathering of “misfits.” Ironically, being ostracized by the church came with fringe benefits: in some circles, it made my children more accepted. There’s always a silver lining, I suppose.
When I moved in with—and later married—my narcissist, I quasi-joined his social circle, though I never felt comfortable among them. I always found his friends untrustworthy, a suspicion that, in hindsight, was spot-on. Being part of that group had cost me a lot, including opportunities for my children in our small town. Finally, with the smear campaign pushing us out of the church, my children and I were free from the strange stigma that came with being part of that group.
Secondly, I was seeking a new social circle—one that was more positive and forward-looking.
My narcissist’s friends were cliquey and pessimistic, largely comprised of burned-out mid-career professors at a failing state university. Their conversations revolved around workplace drama and political grievances, an endless cycle of entitlement and negativity.
I’ve since realized that you become the amalgamation of the five closest people to you.
Now, my friends are optimistic, ambitious, and full of life. They embrace challenges, celebrate their successes, and constantly seek to grow. Most importantly, they have interests and objectives outside of themselves - they want to create a better world instead of just gripe and act offended by everything. Being around them is refreshing and inspiring—a stark contrast to the constant melancholy and hypersensitivity I endured in my narcissist’s circle. For the first time in years, I could relax, be myself, and feel genuinely appreciated.
Finally—and perhaps most importantly—I was still fearful of my narcissist and wanted to avoid him entirely.
By then, I was living my best life. I had met a wonderful man who loved and supported me in ways I had never experienced before. With his care and commitment, I transformed from a broken shell into a confident, secure version of myself. His steadfast love helped me overcome my anxious attachment style and replace insecurity with self-assurance.
Yet, despite all the benefits of leaving, I still missed aspects of the church.
Many members, aside from those connected to my narcissist, were kind and genuine. The church’s principles, rooted in diverse faith traditions and the belief in an interconnected web of existence, resonated deeply with me. No other church in the area shared this worldview, and I longed for the connection and camaraderie I once found there.
Things began to shift during my year away. A close friend of mine became church President and another dear friend joined the board. Both were unwavering in their support of me and played crucial roles in helping me rebuild my sense of self-worth after my narcissist’s relentless campaign.
At a Friendsgiving I hosted in November 2023, my friends shared that Fanny was planning to nominate my narcissist to the Board of Directors—just a year after his second arrest for assaulting me. While Fanny claimed she no longer trusted him, she admitted she valued his alignment with her financial goals. Her priorities were clear: money over ethics.
My friends were outraged and formed a small coalition to oppose the nomination.
One friend sent a professional, level-headed email to the Board, highlighting the potential damage to the church’s reputation if they elected someone with a well-documented history of domestic abuse. Instead of gratitude, however, one of my narcissist’s flying monkeys, Amara, responded with an email filled with lies that denied the abuse and defamed me further. An emergency meeting was called, and, despite tears and drama from my narcissist’s supporters, the board decided not to nominate him.
While this unfolded, I was celebrating my 42nd birthday in Cleveland with my partner.
(read more about birthdays and special occasions in: Narcissus' -vs- Ekho's Birthdays)
Church members contacted me, asking if I would share my experiences, including how Prissy and her allies had treated me after the assault. Initially hesitant, I eventually agreed, knowing it was the right thing to do. Walking away from the church had brought personal relief, but deep down, I felt it was a coward’s response. Standing up and speaking my truth was an act of reclaiming my dignity.
From Cleveland, I wrote several emails detailing my experiences to the board and the new minister. What happened next was predictable (if you understand narcissistic abuse) yet nonetheless shocking: my narcissist and his flying monkeys attempted to have me formally removed from the church. No, this is not a joke. They wanted me to be removed - for speaking out against my narcissist and his abuse
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That was the breaking point. I refused to let them continue defaming me and weaponizing the church against me.
It was time to return, face them, and speak my truth. Enough was enough.
