Eating with My Narcissist: Dinner and a Show

Meals with my narcissist were rarely dull. They ran the gamut from frightening to elegant. Of course, where it appeared on the spectrum depended entirely on how my narcissist felt that life was treating him.

When I lived at home, my family ate only dinner together most of the week. Since both my mother and my father worked outside of the home, and had a 45 minute commute, dinner was rather late and rushed. My narcissist despised waiting. He wanted, and expected, the things he wanted instantly. Think of an anal-retentive efficiency expert after drinking four pots of coffee. We were taught to anticipate, to not need words, but to be able to read what someone wanted and do/get it NOW. The no words part was especially important because dinner was made during the nightly local news.

Dinner was eaten during the nightly national news. Dinner was eaten listening to the nightly national news. Here at the table, no words was important, too, as was the placement of the furniture. The television HAD to be viewable from my father's seat at the dinner table. Talking was strictly forbidden except commercials, and then only if my narcissist didn't want to talk himself. We used hand signals to indicate if we wanted something passed to us. If one spoke during the news, then my narcissist would hiss through gritted teeth to be quiet, and then turn up the volume on the television. Sometimes the volume was increased because of the noise of lids or glasses being set down, or silverware clinking together too loudly. This brings me to another requirement of the furniture: the television had to be close enough to my narcissist's chair that he could quickly and easily reach over and turn up the volume (for this was loooong before remote controls). Often the television was painfully loud, but asking to have it turned down was a sure way to have it turned up instead.

My narcissist liked to eat at nice restaurants. Thankfully, usually nice restaurants care what their patrons want and bend over backwards to give it to them. My narcissist very much liked this treatment. On these occasions, I could sit quietly (as was expected) and read or do puzzles. If, however, there was some trouble with my narcissist's order or the service, look out. Only on very rare occasions would he handle it politely. Usually it involved loud voice, gritted teeth, and rudeness. At less fancy restaurants, food throwing was even a possibility. Embarrassment at its worst. I was thankful when my narcissist would get so upset that he insisted we leave. At least then all we had to worry about was him throwing a violent temper tantrum in the car. This was also a good time to be completely quiet. Drawing attention to one's self only invited a verbal attack.

Perhaps this explains why I enjoy eating in a restaurant alone. I'm used to being quiet while I eat, and this way, I can do so without worrying about some sort of angry outburst if I use my tableware too loudly.

Guilt

Guilt and I are Siamese twins, joined at the hip since birth. I feel normal taking the blame for nearly anything. My spouse trips over the coffee table? It's my fault because I could have put it somewhere else. Can't find the television remote? Even though I wasn't the last one to use it, I should make sure it's in plain sight. Child drops a cup of milk? I should have reminded him to be careful. There's always a reason why it's my fault. The worst part of it all is that I do it to myself. I apologize for everything. I feel guilty for everything. It always seems that I could have, and should have, done something to make the situation better. I should have anticipated better.

Anticipation. What a word. It was the best thing to be good at when I was a kid.

Perhaps that's why I fight not to feel guilty when my mother calls and tells me all about getting in a car accident in sparsely populated west Texas. She tells me about being all alone and having no one to help her. She had to walk everywhere she needed to go, even to find the bus station to get a ticket home. I had to struggle to apologize for all her troubles, for saying how I should have been there for her. But the truth is, I do feel guilty that I wasn't there for her. Of course, she didn't call, so I had no way of knowing. I didn't even know she was traveling. And truthfully, as badly as I feel admitting it, I don't want her to call. She travels around and gets herself in strange situations, wandering with odd people. I don't want to be the cavalry, riding in to rescue her from her latest bad decision. I don't want to be responsible for her. That sounds terrible.

Since I was a kid, there has always been some reason that my mother was fragile. Physical problems, stress, there was always something. We had to take care of mother. It was a standard refrain. When I had a bad day at school, she didn't want to hear about it because she'd had a bad day at work. So, I'd listen about her bad day at work and bring home the straight A report cards and all was fine.

When my father knew he was dying, he moved nearer to me. More specifically, he moved my mother nearer to me. It was always clear that I was to take care of her. She had been mine to take care of as a child and now she was still mine to care for. It was something I'd dreaded for years. Once my father was gone, I was it. It was like a sentence to return to childhood all over again.