The Funhouse: Carnival Ride or Narcissistic Nightmare?
I grew up in Southern Maryland — small-town enough that everyone knew your business (without the help of social media… gasp!). It was the kind of place where your parents always knew you were safe because, like it or not, somebody was always watching.
The highlight of the year? Piling into the station wagon — or the big ol’ family van — and heading east for the three-hour trek to Ocean City. If we were really lucky (and business was good), we got to make the trip twice. And let me tell you, that made us the envy of the neighborhood.
I remember it all so vividly — the scent of the ocean carried on the breeze long before we saw the first stretch of sand. There was nothing like rolling the windows all the way down and breathing in the mix of salty sea spray, cotton candy, and Thrasher’s fries (because if you haven’t had Thrasher’s fries, have you even lived?!). The sounds were just as intoxicating — the squawk of seagulls, the thrill of the roller coaster on its rickety track, the squeals and howls from riders braving the carnival rides.
And oh, the boardwalk — lined with kitschy little shops hawking their taffy and fudge, cheap T-shirts emblazoned with whatever summer trend was hot that year, glittering glass baubles, and, of course, hermit crabs. Everything a kid (or a too-cool teen) needed for the perfect summer.
The boardwalk was alive with rides, games, and flashing lights — a non-stop carnival where the energy buzzed so high, it felt like your heart had to race just to keep up. But of all the attractions, there’s one I keep coming back to, all these years later.
The Funhouse.
Back then, my friends and I would spend hours trying to outsmart the distorted mirrors and game the maze so we wouldn’t get lost inside. But no matter how many times we tried, those warped mirrors and tricky aisles tripped us up, keeping us trapped inside long after the “fun” had worn off. We’d start off laughing, but by the end? We were panicked — desperate to escape the disorienting, ever-changing maze that never let us see reality for what it was.
And if that isn’t a perfect metaphor for being trapped in a narcissistic relationship, I don’t know what is.
Because with a narcissist, nothing is as it seems. The truth you thought you knew — about the world, about yourself — gets twisted, warped, and distorted until it barely resembles a distant cousin of reality. You turn corner after corner, believing that this time you’ll find clarity, peace, or maybe even an apology. Instead, you’re met with more tricks, more pitfalls, more dead ends.
But here’s the thing — just like the Funhouse, you’re not actually trapped. It only feels that way while you’re inside. The key? Stop trying to make it make sense. Stop waiting for the walls to shift into something recognizable, something fair. The second you accept that the game is rigged, that the reflections will never be accurate, you can finally find your way out.
And once you’re on the other side? You’ll take that first deep breath — the real kind, the free kind. And maybe, just maybe, one day you’ll even laugh at how you once bought into the illusion.
Because the Funhouse? It was never fun to begin with.
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