28/09/2025
Title: Story
By: Anonymous -- he/him -- Gay -- Utica NY.
Trigger warning: Narcissism, Abuse, Unaliving
**At first** in 2019, I was starting to recover from what I later learned was narcissistic abuse. For the first time in years, I felt safe enough to plan beyond the next two months. I took myself out for dinner, signed up for dance classes, planned a hot air balloon ride, and booked a meditation retreat. I was ready to expand into my healing and reclaim my life.
**And every day** I cultivated a practice of self-care—waking early, meditating, reading, and praying before work. I honored my body with rest and movement, keeping to a 9 pm bedtime, filling weekends with hikes, bike rides, and kayaking. I sought therapy, meditation groups, and community events. Even my Instagram feed became a sanctuary, carefully curated to show me supportive content. I felt grounded in community, connection, and compassion.
**Until one day** the world shut down. Shelter-in-place was declared. In one moment, all my external supports vanished. My tools for regulation collapsed. I gasped at the loss of human contact and felt an empty breath where connection used to be.
**And because of that** I turned my attention online, shaping my algorithm toward nature, healing, and self-discovery. That's when I stumbled upon CabinFruit's Instagram. His tagline struck like lightning: "I moved to the woods to rebuild a cabin and heal." He's living the life I wanted to live. To have the space to work through hard things. To grow in authenticity and peace. His journey mirrored mine in unexpected ways—a creative soul hurt by those they trusted most, seeking refuge in rebuilding, designing, and innovating. His story filled my desperate need for representation and identification, proof that resilience and creativity could emerge from trauma.
**And because of that** he became a steady presence in my feed. I saw vivid similarities between us: both gay, both from small towns. He rebuilt a cabin to heal, while I rebuilt my inner foundation through journaling and storytelling. He curated a safe place in the woods; I curated supportive communities, daily rituals, and even my algorithm. In his rebuilding, I saw my own reflection.
While neither of us knew it then, we were both living with complex PTSD after narcissistic abuse. His fears, his honesty, and his stories became what I needed in isolation—the brother I never had to share what really happened. Buddhism teaches that pain is shared, that what feels unbearable alone is carried by countless others. Watching CabinFruit, I finally understood: my pain was not mine alone. His story reflected back to me.
**And because of that** when he lost his dog, Myles, I grieved alongside him. His heartbreak cut deeply because I knew what it meant to lose the one being you could count on. His sorrow moved me to tears. I wept for him as if he were family. Over time he took breaks from social media, and eventually other feeds took over. I couldn't even remember how long it had been since I'd seen him.
**Until one day** I stumbled back onto his profile after months of absence. His final post—January 2025—read: "I'm back with Myles. Together again. I'm sorry, everyone." I choked up, knowing what it meant yet not wanting to believe it. I later learned it was a narcissistic, abusive partner who pushed him to this end. The reality of his final message shattered me. He didn't make it—and I couldn't stop wondering how many times I had asked myself the same question: how long could I make it? When does the safety blanket of escape become the reality of no longer existing?
**And ever since then**, I have carried a grief with no community to share it. Witnessing someone else lost to the same abuse I endured feels like losing a brother, a confidant, a twin flame—alone, trapped in the same gaslighting, self-doubt, and anxiety I have worked so hard to see clearly through.
My mourning has been confined to comments on his last post, but the loss is so profound it shakes the arc of my own life story. His story has always been inside of me—he gave me a mirror to see it clearly.
**And every day going forward** I live this question: how will this grief unfold? I weep now, realizing the full extent of what surviving means. Narcissistic abuse typically remains unseen—people don't know or share about it. We don't see what it means to survive this, and only through loss and heartbreak do we realize how precious we genuinely are.
Let me write my own ending by not forgetting him. By calling out patterns of narcissistic abuse, I honor him. By sharing what I've learned more clearly, by showing compassion to those who were abused and giving a name to the torment and isolation we feel, I continue the work that he originally showed me.
CabinFruit's content is like old VHS tapes now—preserving both joy and sorrow, his healing and his hurt. A life documented is a story worth telling. In honoring his journey and his pain, I find my own voice.
Cabin Fruit
https://www.instagram.com/reel/DCP89njuzEJ/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link&igsh=MzRlODBiNWFlZA==
