I Hate the Word Healing: A Male Therapist on Processing Narcissistic Abuse

I Hate the Word “Healing”

I hate the word healing. Nothing about it feels strong. Nothing about it feels masculine. It sounds passive, soft, and externally imposed — like something that happens to you rather than something you claim for yourself.

It makes me feel like the guy in the suburbs who panic-bought a handgun during the pandemic and called it preparedness.

I know I’m cycling through the familiar terrain of betrayal trauma, grief, and relational harm. It’s one thing to explain to a client that they’ll move in and out of the stages described by Kübler-Ross. It’s another thing to live it in your own nervous system — viscerally, unpredictably, without a script (Kübler-Ross & Kessler, 2005).

I’m out of denial — and yes, not the river in Egypt. I want to say I’m done bargaining too. I sent the messages. I said “I’m done.” I said “stay away.” And still, part of me left the door cracked, offering support. That’s how these stages blur. Insight doesn’t arrive cleanly.

Anger lives somewhere between denial and bargaining. I don’t love it — but I respect it more than depression. Anger has energy. You can redirect it. Lift something heavy. Move your body. Clean your apartment just to feel momentum again.

Depression is different. When it hit, I almost welcomed it — a signal that acceptance might be approaching. But this isn’t anxious depression that loosens once you get moving. This one is heavier. The kind that pulls your eyes backward instead of forward.

Depression shows up when you’ve accepted enough truth to feel the weight of it.

I’ve accepted that I was likely valued conditionally. I’ve accepted that I may never fully untangle what was authentic from what was performance. I’ve accepted that confusion itself can be damaging. And still, certain questions linger — not as accusations, but as unresolved grief:

Why were there choices that fractured trust instead of repaired it?Why remain surrounded by people who normalized chaos?Why speak about change without following through?Why reject support that was genuinely offered?

I’ve lived a version of this before.

Growing up, I watched someone I loved struggle under the weight of unresolved trauma. Neglect. Abandonment. Harm layered on harm. They tried at times — I’ll give them that — but accountability never took root. Over time, stress compounded, responsibility eroded, and substances entered the picture.

In my professional and personal understanding, cycles of relational harm often mirror addiction cycles. The same reward circuitry can be activated — relief followed by damage, followed by denial (Campbell & Foster, 2007; Sussman & Sussman, 2011).

That’s not a diagnosis. It’s a framework that helps explain repetition without change.

Some people eventually confront the cost of their behavior. When accountability genuinely clicks — when someone stops externalizing and starts owning — it’s powerful to witness. Not everyone gets there.

I learned early that I wasn’t willing to drown inside someone else’s cycle again. Walking away wasn’t quitting. It was choosing not to repeat history.

And here I am — experiencing a similar internal landscape now. My body wants to freeze. Shut down. Go numb. Survival mode strips things down to the basics: conserve energy, avoid threat, stay armored.

Vulnerability feels risky. Being genuine feels dangerous. Survival says, don’t expose your center.

That’s why I hate the word healing. It was weaponized against me. Used to shame. Used to deflect. Used to blur responsibility. Healing was invoked while harm continued.

Healing ≠ endurance of mistreatment.

What I want aligns more with warrior language.

Not fragility — fortification.

I think of Willis Reed limping onto the court in Game 7 — not healed, not whole, but decisive. Presence alone changed the field.

Across cultures, men didn’t “heal.” They transformed.

In Basotho initiation rites, young men were isolated, tested, and returned bearing responsibility (Morrell, 2007). In Aboriginal Bora ceremonies, symbolic death and rebirth marked the transition into knowledge and duty. Among the Mandan, endurance rituals weren’t about recovery — they were about reconstitution.

You didn’t go back to who you were. You became someone else.

Modern betrayal trauma research echoes this reality. Betrayal isn’t only emotional injury — it disrupts moral orientation and relational identity (Freyd, 1996; Kaehler & Freyd, 2022). The task isn’t “healing.” It’s agency. It’s authorship. It’s reclamation.

So call it reprogramming.Call it initiation.Call it reclamation.

Just don’t call it healing.

Words matter. Power matters. Vulnerability is strength — but only when it’s chosen, not coerced.

Today, my version of reclaiming is simple: sunlight on my skin, bare feet in grass, breath moving fully through my chest.

I’m embracing the process.

I just refuse to use the wrong word for it.

Author’s Disclaimer & Professional Boundary Statement

This blog contains personal reflections and first-person accounts of my own experiences, perceptions, and emotional responses. It is not intended to assert objective facts about any specific individual, nor to diagnose, evaluate, or characterize the mental health, motives, or intent of any person.

Although I am a licensed clinician, this writing is not clinical work, therapy, assessment, or professional opinion, and no therapeutic relationship is implied. I am not acting in a professional or evaluative capacity in this forum.

Descriptions of behaviors, dynamics, or patterns are shared solely from my subjective perspective and lived experience, for reflective and educational purposes. Others may experience or interpret the same events differently.

Identifying details have been altered or omitted to protect privacy. Any resemblance to specific individuals, organizations, or circumstances is incidental and not intended to assert factual claims about any person.