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

I hate the word healing. Nothing about it feels strong or manly. It makes me feel like that guy in the suburbs who panic-bought a handgun during the pandemic.

I know I am cycling through the different stages of betrayal trauma, grief, and abuse. It’s one thing to tell a client they are going to bounce in and out of the different stages of Kübler-Ross; it’s another thing to fucking feel it yourself (Kübler-Ross & Kessler, 2005).

I am totally out of denial — and it’s not a river in Egypt. I want to say I am out of bargaining. I have no problem admitting I sent correspondence saying “I am done” and “stay away,” but maybe I was still in denial because I offered an opportunity for support.

Anger sits between denial and bargaining. That one I can’t stand—but I like it better than depression. Anger is at least an energy source. I can redirect it to the gym, physical activity — fuck, I’d take a burst just to start cleaning.

Depression? It sucks. When I first felt it, I almost appreciated it — one step closer to acceptance. It’s not that anxious depression where if I get moving I’ll stop worrying and get curious again.

This one is the real one — the “looking back that stunts tomorrow” depression.

Depression kicks in when you’ve accepted enough truth to hurt. I accept that I was probably used. I’ve accepted the confusion — that I will never fully know what was real and what was façade. I can at least accept that I had value to this person. Yet I'm still resolving the same questions:

Why did you have to fuck Matt Warbet?

Why do you still surround yourself with toxic people who cheered your self-destruction before and during me?

Why lie about wanting help?

Why lie about therapy?

Why not use me — someone in your corner — to make positive change?

And here’s the kicker — I've lived this before. My cousin. He had it rough. Neglect. Abandonment. Emotional and physical abuse.

He tried — I’ll give him that. But he never resolved his past. Never learned accountability. Never learned responsibility. His narcissistic traits grew instead. Then came family, stress, and eventually drugs.

I firmly hypothesize narcissistic abuse is just an addiction cycle — the same reward circuitry lights up (Campbell & Foster, 2007; Sussman & Sussman, 2011). My clinical experience backs it. Research backs it.

My cousin went full opioid addict. Destroyed family, friendships, everything — with zero concern for his kids. Arrests. Court-ordered treatment. You’d think that would wake someone up.

For many people who abuse others, substances become the scapegoat — until they realize it was never the drug, it was always them. When you see real accountability click in a client, it’s dope as fuck.

He never got there. Not even after jumping off the Throgs Neck Bridge and surviving. If destroying your family and surviving death doesn’t wake you up... nothing will.

So I bounced. People said I “gave up.” But I wasn’t going to drown in someone else’s cycle again.

And here I am — living a similar emotional experience again. My primal brain wants to freeze. Hide. Shut down. Survival mode. I feel numb, heavy, lethargic.

I’m scared to be vulnerable. Scared to be who I am — genuine. But survival mode says, “Stay armored.”

Which is why I fucking hate the word healing. It sounds fragile. It was weaponized against me. “Healing” was used to shame, manipulate, and gaslight. Healing ≠ abuse.

What I want feels closer to warrior language — like Willis Reed limping into Game 7 and changing history through sheer force of will.

Across ancient and indigenous societies, men didn’t “heal.” They transformed. They endured trials that forged new identity. In the Basotho tradition of lebollo la banna, young men were isolated and challenged physically and emotionally before returning as “new men” entrusted with responsibility (Morrell, 2007; Lebollo la banna, n.d.). In Aboriginal Bora ceremonies, symbolic death and rebirth marked a boy’s transition into a man capable of holding knowledge and duty (Bora, n.d.).

Among the Mandan, the Okipa involved fasting, piercing, and endurance to achieve spiritual authority (Okipa, n.d.). Warriors didn't return to who they were — they were reborn.

Modern betrayal trauma literature echoes this: betrayal isn’t just emotional injury — it’s moral and relational identity damage (Freyd, 1996; Kaehler & Freyd, 2022). The task isn’t “healing.” It’s reclaiming agency. Reforging identity.

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

Just don’t call it healing.

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

Today, my version of “healing” — fuck that, reclaiming — is simple: sunlight, bare feet in grass, breath in my lungs.

I am embracing the process.

I just refuse to use the wrong word for it.

References:

Bora (Australian). (n.d.). Wikipedia. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bora_%28Australian%29

Campbell, W. K., & Foster, C. A. (2007). The narcissistic self: Background, extended agency model, and ongoing controversies. Self and Identity, 6(2-3), 219-223. https://doi.org/10.1080/15298860601115334

Freyd, J. J. (1996). Betrayal trauma: The logic of forgetting childhood abuse. Harvard University Press. https://psycnet.apa.org/record/1996-98806-000

Kaehler, L. A., & Freyd, J. J. (2022). Betrayal trauma theory: A framework for understanding trauma, trust, and memory. Psychological Trauma: Theory, Research, Practice, and Policy, 14(5), 879-886. https://doi.org/10.1037/tra0001180

Kübler-Ross, E., & Kessler, D. (2005). On grief and grieving: Finding the meaning of grief through the five stages of loss. Scribner. https://www.simonandschuster.com/books/On-Grief-and-Grieving/Elisabeth-Kubler-Ross/9781476775555

Lebollo la banna. (n.d.). Wikipedia. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lebollo_la_banna

Morrell, R. (2007). From boys to gentlemen: Masculinity and schooling in Victorian England. Routledge. https://www.routledge.com/

Okipa. (n.d.). Wikipedia. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Okipa

Sussman, S., & Sussman, A. N. (2011). Considering the definition of addiction. International Journal of Environmental Research and Public Health, 8(10), 4025-4038.