My Narcissist's Code Words

When my mother would get angry with my father his typical reply, said with an annoyed voice, was "Oh Susan!". The translation: "Oh no, here you go being unreasonable *again*!". It was one of the family codes. The meaning was clear: there was no use trying to discuss it with him; he didn't believe your premise was even valid; you were over reacting and that's all there was to it. It was the perfect brush off. The words weren't offensive. If someone from outside the family heard them, they wouldn't think anything of it. Yet, it elicited the desired response.

It didn't take long before she was so overwhelmed with life with her narcissistic husband, that she crawled inside her own shell. By the time I was eight years-old, she was in self-preservation mode. This self-preservation quickly became self-absorption.

His brush off for me was different. It was a humorous phrase. People outside the family would likely smile if they heard it. It's sting was in the way it mocked my feelings. It made a joke of them. When I was young, even after hearing the phrase, I would still try to explain. He would only smile and repeat it, multiple times, if necessary. It was infuriating.

The phrase itself, I can't bring myself to say, or type, or even put the words together in my head. It's actually quite a clever saying and requires some thought to figure out, or at least it did when I was a child. In essence it says: you may or may not get over it, but either way it'll be a long time before it happens. In context it meant: your concern doesn't matter.

Some years later I wondered why I no longer told my parents about events in my life. It's only since I've learned about narcissism and NPD, that I see why sharing the events of my personal life with them was so distasteful. Even good events in my life were only worthy of notice if my father approved of them. By the time I was an adult, good events in my life were only worthy of his notice if they had some benefit for him.

There is at least some peace in knowing why I feel such apathy toward my parents. The peace, however, is tainted with sadness.

Outakes of Flywheel: My Narcissist's Cameo

It left me dumbstruck. In a part of the DVD that was supposed to be light-hearted and funny, There...He... Was. I wasn't ready for it. Perhaps that's why I can't get rid of the uneasy feeling it gave me.

Of course, it wasn't really, physically, my narcissist. But, it was him in spirit. A scene is cut. The director enters from off screen. A child, maybe seven to nine years-old, holds a boom microphone at least twice as long as she is tall. With obvious false severity, he "reprimands" the girl for her handling of the mic. Beyond being part of an outtake, it's clear that he's just goofing around and teasing the girl.

When I was that girl, it wasn't teasing. Curse words were involved. Gritted teeth were involved. And, I was afraid. It didn't happen on a movie set. It happened in our garage, or basement, or backyard, or barn, or kitchen, or somewhere private where only family was present. To me, the outtake wasn't funny. It was sad and scary.

It took me a few days to wrap my mind around the reason for my inability to shake thoughts about the scene. It was the first time I'd viewed such an incident from that angle, from the outside looking in. It was like watching myself. Not only did it leave me uncomfortable, it also left me with some hard questions, all of which boil down to: is that sort of behaviour wrong?

Had the director in the movie been serious, rather than goofing around, then I can easily say yes. Yet, I can't see the whole issue as that cut-and-dry. For whatever reason, it doesn't help to put some other child in my place. Because, let's face it, any situation is much more complicated than what's happening at the moment. There's a back story, a history. But that line of reasoning comes much too close to rationalization of bad behaviour, situational ethics, and "a certain moral flexibility"(1).

So, I find myself uncomfortable with either a 'yes', 'no', or even 'it depends'. I'm stuck. Ironically that's the same position in which I found myself as that little girl facing my narcissist's anger. It's disconcerting.



(1)Grosse Pointe Blank movie

Actions Speak Louder Than Words

This was one of my narcissist's favourite say when he was "disappointed" in me. It's the reason I hate it so, despite my belief that it's true. The saying, and an illustration of its application, ended the chapter of the latest book I'm reading. It struck a chord.

Oddly enough, or maybe not, "actions speak louder than words" is something I heard a lot, but never with respect to the actions of my narcissist. When I consider its application to my narcissist...it's quite, hmmm, I guess the word is educational or, perhaps, liberating. It turns the saying on its ear; something I *know* my narcissist wouldn't have liked at all. Having his actions scrutinized would not have been acceptable. I can just hear the justifications, rationalizations and topics to which he would change the subject. It's actually amusing. Of course, I'm sitting here in MY home, in MY recliner, and MY narcissist has been dead more than six years. Even now, it isn't always as amusing.

It's also a good reminder to listen to my own actions. I'd hate to be misquoted.

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.

I acknowledge that I obsess on the death of my n-father. Today is no different. It's made worse by the expected news that our beloved elderly cat will not live much longer.

I can't shake the thought that when she dies, I will be profoundly effected. She's been my dear friend for many years. She's given me immeasurable joy, happiness and unconditional love. Having her in my life has made my life so much better. I'm brought to tears just thinking of her dying. Yet, I have absolutely no problems with my feelings toward my feline friend dying.

Where I run into trouble, of course, is the feelings toward my dead n-father and the knowledge that some day my mother will die. I've never experienced sadness over my n-father's death. I'm not numb or in denial. My life is better without having to deal with him. At best, I feel ambivalent. Regarding my mother, I am not currently in contact with her. I have no plans to change that. I may never know when she dies and I'm OK with that. In a way I'd prefer not to know so I don't have to deal with the same feelings of ambivalence that I have with my n-father's death. Yet, I would be able to breathe more freely knowing that there would be no surprise telephone call or ring at the doorbell.

Simply put, I'm bothered that I grieve the death of a cat more than the death of my parents. There, I've said it. Yet, I can name the logical reasons: she's been my friend; her presence has made my life better; I will miss her; to my parents, at best, I was an appendage, and not always a convenient one. This "knowledge" doesn't help, though.

I don't know how to reconcile this. "Shoulds" don't help me any more than logic. I'm missing a piece to this puzzle. I think I'll go look under the pile of laundry on the laundry room floor. Maybe it's hiding under there.

The Dying Narcissist

One wet May morning the phone rang. It was him, my dying narcissist father. His first words were complaints about the terrible weather. It had rained for several days and he was unhappy about it.

I tried empathizing and then commenting that it had been so dry, farmers were likely glad to get the rain. No success. "April showers may bring May flowers, but May showers only bring MUD." I tried the beautiful, peaceful noise of falling rain. Nope. I tried the since-we-can't-change-it-we-might-as-well-try-to-find-something-good-about-it. No again. "There's nothing good about it." OK, so he wants to be unhappy. I listened to more of his complaints, but when I stopped trying to cheer him up he angrily ended the conversation.

One phone call I initiated ended in him angrily ranting about his civil rights being violated because a restaurant wasn't allowed to serve him beer on Father's Day. Actually, the call ended after my mother got on the phone and chided me for stirring up his anger when I wouldn't agree that his civil rights had been violated.

Then there was the first call I made with my cell phone. I resisted getting a cell phone for years, but relented when my father's end was near. I called him to give him my number when he went into his routine of angrily telling me what I should stand for in my life and what I should value. It ended with him mocking me after I tried to turn the conversation away from his rant.

When the end was near, I investigated hospices. I found one that was nice; one where if I was terminally ill, I would chose for myself. He would hear nothing of it. He didn't trust me. He *knew* what those places are like. I was shocked (and obviously naive). How could he believe I would put him in some awful place? It's just....not me. But, looking back, it was perhaps quite telling. When my father's mother (my grandmother) needed extra care, she refused to even live in an apartment complex that catered to senior citizens. It frustrated him to no end. It made me wonder, would he have put her in some awful place if he thought he could get away with it?

The last conversation I had with him, was so very typical. I visited him at home. He complained about how he felt. He lectured me on what I should stand for. He gritted his teeth and hissed angry, hurtful words at my mother when she didn't supply what he wanted immediately when he wanted it. Ever the enabler, my mother explained that it was the cancer; it had moved to his brain. But his behaviour was nothing new. He'd been like that for as long as I could remember. And, so had she.

The Narcissist's Only Child

As I read the title, it's unintended irony gives me a chuckle. Since in a narcissist's world there are no other people, just people-tools to be manipulated for the narcissist's pleasure, the narcissist is his/her only child. But that isn't what I meant.

Several times now, I've read comments from other adult children of narcissists (ACONs) about how being the only child of a narcissist would be an added challenge. Without siblings with whom to relate, compare, commiserate or whatever, a big chunk of perspective is missing. The thought was new to me. I very often felt alone as a child, and in a very real way, I was. Yet, there are many good examples of ACONs with siblings who were also very alone because their sibling was The Golden Child and/or narcissistic themselves.

I don't know how it works for other only children raised by narcissists. In my childhood family, I played many different roles, sometimes simultaneously. I was The Golden Child, a source of pride and honor to my parents because I excelled academically. I was The Scapegoat, the lowest rung on the ladder to which the responsibility for every bad thing fell. I was The Therapist, the one who would listen and empathize. And, all this seemed normal. Even today it's impossible for me to conceptualize that it could have been any other way.

Would having a sibling or two have changed my situation for the better? That can't be known, but it does make me wonder: was part of the reason I so desperately hated being an only child because, as the child of a narcissist, I was so alone?

The Narcissist and His Money

For my Favourite Narcissist, money was King of The Trifecta: money, fame and power. Money was the one he could most easily use to manipulate those around him. Starting with his kids. Money and it's cousin, stuff, were the measure of love. When I made the impertinent decision to become Christian, the natural result was for money and stuff to be withheld and, of course, their will to be rewritten.

Money was used to keep me in the narcissist's world. When I decided to get a job the summer after I turned 16, you'd thought I had abandoned them in their hour of deepest need. The truth of the matter was by controlling my purse strings, the narcissist exercised control over me. My narcissist had no problems giving money, and he knew all too well the power it gave him.

Correspondingly, the strings attached to the money were many. Anytime my narcissistic father felt the need to work, I had to work. For him, there was always more work to be done. Sitting, resting, or doing anything but working while he worked was shameful and certain to elicit at least one comment about being lazy. In the unfortunate event that I was watching television, the comments were more ugly and likely to be combined with the television being turned off or the channel changed. Of course, he'd do this just for fun, too.

Money played a big role in guilt, too. The chorus of "after all the things I've done for you..." often involved the spending of money for something. The message was clear: I gave you these things, now you must do fill-in-the-blank.

Another function of money was to enhance my narcissist's image or gained power. If my narcissist could be seen owning or spending money on something good, by people whose respect he sought, then nearly the sky was the limit. Of course, money could be spent for the narcissist's pleasure alone, but there were always opportunities for the narcissist to let it slip that he was at The Very Post Restaurant last Friday, or that he saw World-class Performer at the symphony/opera/theatre.

Even as I became older, money and expensive gifts were the elastic that kept the family together. In a truly odd way, I was paid to be the child my parents wanted me to be. A paid acting job, if you will. (Hey, I wonder how I work that into my resume?) It likely would have worked for years longer, too, had it not been for befriending someone whose family did not operate the same way mine did.

And, speaking of gifts, with the narcissist involved, gift giving occasions were a painful chore. Literally anything he wanted, he had. With gifts, it was never the thought that counted, either. If he didn't like it he simply looked at it, grunted, and set it down. Gift giving occasions are so much more fun now that the pressure is gone to find something interesting, unique, functional, impressive and not ridiculously expensive that he doesn't already have.

In the end, literally, the narcissist's focus on money was likely one of his biggest disappointments. No amount of his money, or prestige, or power could do one thing to cure or comfort him. He'd worked years to make money to get what he wanted, gain power, prestige and a retirement in which to spend them all-- a retirement he never lived to see. King Money, it turned out, was the wrong master to serve.

Birth of A Self in Adulthood, by Dorothea S. McArthur

I found an old hardcover of the 1988 edition. It's dated (but then again, so am I), yet it's been an interesting read. I have lots and lots of comments on it, and not a few down-right disagreements, but I can't be bothered to blog any of them right now. Any brave soul who decides to read my copy after I'm through with it will have to contend with the multitude of comments I've scrawled in the margins. Although an ample amount of it applies to me, other parts much better describe my (late) narcissistic father. It's a thoroughly uncomfortable combination.

Singing A New Song: But, but...now it's ME!

Listening to talking heads discuss the future of drug research and development in the USA brought to mind a sudden change in my narcissistic father. He worked in the R&D department in a major pharmaceutical company.

He described the years it took teams of scientists to do the necessary work to discover, test and develop a drug before it could even be considered for presentation to the USA's Food and Drug Administration. He described the problem of the US patent being granted years before the drug was even approved for use in the USA, making each year of additional research necessary to get the drug to market raise the cost of the drug just to recover the costs put into research. It was all so logical to him.

Until he got sick. Then, out came hatred for the horrible greedy pharmaceuticals who didn't put enough money into curing the terrible disease he had. Didn't they understand that he was dying? How dare they consider anything but that he needed.

This change in him was one of the most eye-opening. Before he became ill, he was adamant that pharmaceutical R&D was doing exactly what was best by concentrating on those things that could help the most amount of people and had the best probability of success. When the shoe was on the other foot....well, then the system was obviously a horrible one because it wasn't helping him.

The father who had always prided himself on his thinking and reasoning abilities, suddenly did a 180 degree turn because it benefited him. Cool logic went out the window when it was him dying, not some other slob.

This was long before the initials 'NPD' carried any meaning for me. Still, it was obvious listening to his vicious, and sometimes violent, rants there was some serious self-absorption going on. It was a turning point for me. And with that, it's time for me to go take my allergy medication.

Resurrecting The Dead

For me, part of being raised by a narcissist was learning that in all things my narcissistic father is Right. His choice of music is Right. His choice of television programs is Right. His philosophy of life is Right. His opinion of me, his child, is Right. As a kid who was I to question that? So I learned it, lived it, trained myself to love it.

Part of becoming an adult was the realization that I had nothing that was mine. The things I liked, believed, etc. were his. I had learned them, rote, much like my multiplication tables. Behind them was only the passion of knowing that I was taught they were Right. As it is taught, so let it be done. *gong*

When I was 16, I discovered that spiritually I believed something different than my parents. This caused me to be rejected by my self-absorbed, self-righteous parents. In making my own spiritual decision I had, unknowingly, committed the unforgivable sin against a narcissist: I had made up my mind for myself. I was flabbergasted when the swift slap of renunciation seemingly came out of nowhere. At that time I was truly naïve. The thought that there was something amiss with my parents child-rearing philosophy never crossed my mind.

Now, I find myself on a life journey to think for myself. At age 43 I have come to the startling discovery that I don't know what I like. It's been a difficult exercise to discover those things which are my own passions. It's meant digging back into my childhood and find things that I very much wanted, but for whatever reason were deemed unacceptable. It's meant finding those things that I didn't even dare acknowledge to myself that I liked for fear that simply in liking something I was trespassing the unwritten rule that Daddy is Right.

This self discovery closely ties into goals. I must know what I like to set goals and I must know ways to reward myself for achievement. It's something that's been sorely lacking in my life. It's certainly played a part in my recent stagnation. When I have no idea where I'm going, I have no idea when I've arrived and the journey becomes meaningless.

Fear Cultivated

There's an image burned in my mind. It's of my n-father lying on the floor, just sort-of staring straight ahead, out into space. My mother had tried to help him to the bathroom and they'd fallen. Beyond my father being much larger than my mother, she also had a bad back. Expecting her to help him get around was, at best, fooling, at worst horribly selfish. Such is the stuff of narcissists.

It was the beginning of the last 24 hours of his life. By that time, the cancer had aggressively spread into his brain. He'd insisted at staying at home and forcing my mother to care for him. He was adamantly against hospice, even though I'd spent quite a bit of time researching facilities to find one that was well-run. But that's the stuff of another entry.

As I stood in my parent's home, looking at my collapsed father, the oddest thing happened: I kept my distance. That sounds terrible, even to me, but it's the truth. It's also entirely inconsistent with who I am.

I'm not an outgoing person, yet I'm a person who willingly goes to hospitals to visit people. It's a God thing. Visiting or just sitting with people who are even seriously ill doesn't bother me. It's something to which I'm naturally drawn. I'm also a person who gladly goes along with people to the hospital to visit sick friends and family, or to wait in the dreaded surgery waiting room. It's not that I enjoy those places, but I am comfortable there. As I said, it's a God thing.

Despite this, I was repulsed by the situation. It's hard for me to fathom, since if I think about it being anyone else, I'm right there next to the person doing what I can to reassure them and help them be more comfortable. But not with him.

I've done some reflecting on this. The nearest I can come is that my father was not like other people. Had he been able to respond or communicate at all, even by only changing facial muscles, his reaction would almost certainly been one of anger. Nothing I could have done would have been right or sufficient or quickly enough. No matter what I did for him, it would have been wrong. He'd been on his way to the bathroom. If he could understand that, then he'd expect me to get him there, never mind I simply didn't have the capabilities to do so. Had he not been able to wait, he'd be angry that no one had gotten him where he needed to go in time -- it would be someone else's fault; the result would have been rage. He was already angry that he was dying and that no one could/would do anything to save him. From the moment he knew for certain that cancer would soon take his life, anger and unhappiness were his defining traits.

For years I've felt guilty about how I reacted. I didn't understand it until I started looking at it in depth. It was fear. My father cultivated fear in his family. It worked quite well to control us. The only way to quell his rages were to give him what he wanted ,or if that wasn't possible, to keep one's distance. My response was the response I'd been taught. When things weren't going dad's way, the safest course of action was to be far away.

Father's Day and Tim Russert

It's another one of those holidays. Father's Day. This one is especially weird for me because I was the golden child, a "daddy's girl". I now hate the association I have with that phrase, but it doesn't change what was.

Father's Day was always such a pain when my father was alive. Gifts were either a resounding success or a miserable failure. There was no inbetween. The success was difficult to achieve. The thought never counted. But none of that is new to anyone who's anyone who's had much contact with a narcissist.

Perhaps that's why much of the coverage of Tim Russert's death makes me so uncomfortable. I've never read his book "Big Russ and Me". Given the descriptions I've heard of it, I likely never will. Reading about someone's tribute to their father sounds too painful. Someone made a comment today about Tim Russert's father being his hero and followed it up with something like, "as I'm sure all our fathers are to us". Uh, no. It's not even close. I'm not sure people with narcissistic fathers can begin to comprehend the concept. I certainly can't.

As I near Father's Day, I'm relieved my father is not alive. Were it so, this holiday would become a sham. It's hard enough for me to comprehend how to teach my children about honor one's father without factoring being a hypocrite into it.

So, what does one for whom Father's Day makes as much sense as does Groundhog Day do to celebrate fathers? Beats me. It's much too far beyond my comprehension.

This is where, too, I get caught in the fifth commandment:

Honor your father and your mother, so that you may live long in the land the LORD your God is giving you.

Exodus 20:12

How does an ACON honor their n-parent? Do I honor them by cutting off contact? Does that change if I continue to pray for them? What about if I continue to teach my children about their good qualities and try to avoid why we don't ever see grandma and/or grandpa? Is continuing contact and doing my best to help them honoring them?

I don't claim to have any concrete answers. I'm flying blind in this. Some claim that honoring one's parents ends when their actions become/are seen as evil. I haven't yet found a way to reconcile the fact that we all sin -- we all commit evil acts. Even after we accept God's gift of salvation, we still sin. Christians are called to witness to the lost...how then can I justify cutting a parent out of my life? Right now, I can't.

Father's Day is full of things I don't understand. I'm thrilled for people for whom their father is their hero. It must be an incredible feeling.

I'm saddened for Tim Russert's family. Father's Day will likely never be the same for them. Yet, even in that, I hope that Big Russ and his grandson have memories of heroes, and honor and respect. Even in poverty, an ACON can rejoice in other's riches.

God Works in Mysterious Ways!

Today, one of the children decided to listen to Focus on the Family's audio production of Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol. I hadn't listened to it since I'd heard of NPD. It has new meaning to me now.

I understand that Dickens' wrote the story as an allegory. It tells the well known story of Scrooge ; it also tells the story of a culture losing the value of human life. It would be hard to argue that there's lots of narcissism involved in both stories. Is it safe to describe Scrooge as a narcissist?

At university, one of my literature professors made an interesting observation: in a good piece of literature, a character never does anything that is not in some way foreshadowed. In theatre one might say that the character would always behave "in character". I believe this is true in real life also. It's why some people can read others so well. People's behaviour should never really surprise us.

So what of Scrooge, the narcissist, making such a radical turn around with his life? Is it the remembrance of the loving kindness of his sister that ultimately softens him? Perhaps. Might it be remembering his first employer and the way he lived his life? Maybe. Could it be the knowledge that despite his nastiness, his employee and his nephew still loved him? Possibly. What of the people who so callously stole the dead man's possessions? I think not. The same Scrooge who wouldn't sign Marley's death certificate until after the close of business would think nothing of the living appropriating the material possessions of the dead.

So what's the point? While not ignoring the fact that Scrooge is fictional, what changed Scrooge's life with, of course, the help of the spirits, was love. It was love, even in the face of nastiness and cruelty. Now, to be sure, the people who purposefully engaged Scrooge the narcissist and treated him with love were people who had the ability to be secure in themselves with a support system to help anchor them. In the end, their relationships mattered.

As an ACON, I may not be in the position to engage a narcissist, but I'm glad there are people who can. I watched people like that engage my father. I have no idea how the Holy Spirit dealt with my father, but I'd like to think that the seeds planted and watered by those godly people who put themselves in the path of a narcissist could have bore fruit. I'm glad, too, that I can have the same hope for my culture.

A Tale of Two Deaths

It's an odd thing, the difference between how I felt when my n father died and when my father-in-law died. Neither man professed any real interested in their Creator, although my father often cursed God. I was there when both died, both of cancers.

My father-in-law died, with all his children, his adult grandchildren, and the spouses there. Out of town family members had stayed in contact daily with local family and drove through the night to be with him before he died. It wasn't a conflict-free time, but we all made our way through it, still caring for one another.

While sitting at the foot of my father-in-laws bed, listening to him struggle to breathe, I felt an amazing *need* to pray. It's not something I can easily describe. It was a deep, urgent, feeling that I must pray. So I did. I prayed in a way that day, pleading and praising like I never had before, or since. I could feel an amazing spiritual battle happening around me, but I had no idea how or why. It was only months later that I was told a family member there, who was taking a lead role in caring for my father-in-law, had been studying and practicing shamanic rituals. She'd been working with my father-in-law with special stones and other objects. I believe this was the reason my spirit felt so burdened to pray.

When he died, I was sitting next to his bed, holding his and my mother-in-law's hands, listening to her share loving family memories.

When my father died, my mother and I were there: she asleep after exhausting herself attempting to meet the demands of my n father, I by his bedside. I advocated for him, for pain management and other comfort issues. I watched and listened to him die.

The scene was so different from that of my father-in-law. There was no spirit of family, no shared comfort in a time of distress. It was just me, a sleeping mother and a dying father. And the machines.

I tried to talk to God, but there was nothing there, only a stagnancy that defies description. I was not without God presence, but there was no call to pray, no spiritual battle. My father's impregnable fortress of narcissism had held strong. I couldn't even muster a struggle to find sadness. He had made his choice.

My mother awoke just before his end came. As he struggled for breath, panic-stricken she urged him to keep breathing. Before long the time came that I needed to urge her to let him go. He died with his anxious wife and stoic daughter at his bedside.

Now, years later, after typing all this, I see that both deaths are a perfect summation of the lives that preceded them. My father-in-law knew he was far from perfect, but he had done his best to be a loving husband and father. He died surrounded by his imperfect family, doing its best to make it through a difficult time. My father was perfect in his own mind. He'd done all he could to make the world around him serve him. In his death he was surrounded by the anxiety and cold distance he had so well cultivated. The world provided its service to him one last time and then it was finished.

What's My Line?

I worked with a man who, along with his wife, had adopted eleven children from the foster care system. Each of the children had his or her own challenges. Some had been abused; some had learning disabilities; some had emotional problems. His wife had professional training in helping special needs children and they felt it was their calling to care for children who so badly needed a loving home. Theirs was a full and active house!

He would occasionally talk about the differences in his children's needs and the need to know how to handle each child individually. One that made a great deal of impact for me was how different children needed different kinds of discipline. For some children, "the look" was enough to communicate to them. For others, words or loss of privileges was needed.

I'd never seen human beings as that unique before. My world had been one-size fits all. With an egotistical, judgemental father, whatever he said was Right. Everything else was Wrong. Period. End of Story.

It's this need to cater to the specific needs of a child that has me puzzled when it comes to calling the way narcissistic parents treat their children abuse. It strikes me that perhaps what would be abusive for one child, is not for another. Yet, this idea of relativism bothers me, too. It's a slippery slope.

I'd like to think somewhere there's a pat answer, one that is reasonably concrete. I fear that I'm wrong.

Narcissist at the Movies

My kids and I watched Fiddler on the Roof yesterday. It's one of my favourites. I'll be humming and singing selections from it for days.

I don't remember when I first watched Fiddler on the Roof, but I do remember the first time I watched other movies. Like my first James Bond flick in a theatre. I was 7. Much of it frightened me. It wasn't until later Bond movies that other parts made me intensely uncomfortable.

It shouldn't be surprising that my n father would have no idea that it was inappropriate. Just like he had no idea that it was inappropriate to pose his then 5 year-old daughter nude with a Playboy magazine.

What about The Other Parent?

I'm not trying to rake anyone over coals, but how does the other parent stand by and put up with this sort of stuff? I know just how nasty the narcissist is, and just how extreme their rage and manipulation can be, but.....isn't there a line somewhere? Or is the ability of the narcissist to pour on the charm, or skillfully apply the invalidation just too much? Interacting with a narcissist can definitely be crazy-making.

What is it that allows the narcissist to get away with it?

Attracted to The Narcissist

One of the ugliest things I've learned about being raised by a narcissist is that I'm drawn to them. In all that is disgusting about narcissists, I find myself attracted to them.

Yeah, I know it's part of it.

Knowing helps some, but I really must figure out why, specifically, it is that I find myself drawn to them. I have no illusions about helping an n to change or to earn their love/respect/acknowledgement of my existence.

At least now that I know the attraction exists and know what that there's-something-about-this-person-that-doesn't-make-sense feeling is all about, I can steer clear.

I went looking for my "favourite" narcissist on-line today. I read recently a suggestion that when one looks at a narcissist to think of them as being two years-old inside. It helped immensely as I found photographs today. It gave me a good chuckle where there previously there was only discomfort. I remember a time when I came to that point with my narcissistic father. I watched him pitch a fit, a temper tantrum that every self-respecting toddler would have been proud to throw, and my eyes were opened. From that point on, his rages weren't nearly as scary. On the contrary, they were quite amusing. Imagine a grown man behaving like a naughty two year-old. If only I'd had a video camera....

I'm off to do a bit more searching for my favourite mentioned above. Hopefully the more chuckles I can get, and the more realistic comprehension that comes with it, I can become free of being haunted by people and places that remind me of this n.

My Replacement

The viewing had ended. Only my mother and I remained. She was collapsed in a chair emotionally and physically exhausted. I stood comfortably playing a familiar role: The Good Daughter/Hostess.

In walked My Replacement.

I'll call him Rick (you guessed it, not his real name). Rick was dressed in my father's prescribed uniform: well-tailored charcoal (grey) suit, white button-down collar shirt, red club tie, camel-colored trench coat and well-shined black shoes. He looked the perfect young executive. Rick also wore the look of a harried man, which wasn't part of my father's uniform although it was a result of being My Replacement.

I'm not sure whether it was when I "retired" at age 30, deciding instead to take some time off (with the full support of my spouse), or when I failed to attain the position and prestige he desired, but somewhere during that time my father gave up on me. I was a failure. The career he had invisioned for me, all the things he had repeatedly told me I should and needed to do, all his hopes for me had died. If I was a failure, then he needed a replacement to make in the image of himself. Enter Rick.

My father always spoke very highly of Rick. I have no doubt he followed my fathers instructions and leading. And really, who could blame him? His highly educated, successful, intelligent boss recognises his potential and takes a special interest in him. As his boss rises in the organization, so does he, adapting and learning as he goes.

Looking at Rick standing in the funeral home, I felt so sorry for the man. He was harried and hurried and running himself ragged. He'd lost his little boy and his lovely wife to divorce. His life was his work. He was obviously unhappy. Looking at Rick was like looking at what I could have been, what I escaped. I have never been as thankful as I was at that moment that I found my way out of my father's trap.

What's the Difference?

Now that our family gathering is over, I've been reflecting on the differences between a week with in-laws and a week with my parent(s). I'm having trouble putting my finger on it, but there *is* something there.

Maybe it's the lack of corporate anxiety and the notion that at any moment something may be said or done to cause spontaneous combustion. That would certainly be the case with get-togethers with my mother. If my father were there, the whole thing, of course, would be about him.

That brings me to an entirely different topic that I started with, but I feel like going with the flow, so whatever.

My final year at university I lived alone in a small house within walking distance of the campus. One night, I woke-up to what sounded like a mouse scratching or gnawing. I lifted my head in an attempt to get a fix on it, but it had stopped. It was a hot July night and I was buck naked, lying on top of all the covers. I had fallen asleep reading and all the lights were still on. I laid my head back down and started to fall back asleep, when I heard the noise again, only this time I could hear it wasn't a mouse, it was a human voice whispering just on the other side of the window over my bed. It said, "She's lying right in there." Enter Fear.

To make a long story short, I called the police who confirmed that there were men's footprints at and leading up to my bedroom window. I didn't sleep much that night. The next morning, I called my boyfriend, how husband, who came to stay with me.

I never considered calling my parents. It wasn't until recently that I had any idea why and that bothered me. You see, I believe it was wrong to have my boyfriend come and live with me; yet, I couldn't imagine doing anything differently. It seemed like my only possibility. I think I've finally figured out the reason I didn't call my parents. Had I done so, my father would have sprang into action, taking charge and running the show. While that's not necessarily bad by itself, I would have become a minor player without any say in the matter. My needs and feelings would be immaterial. It would be all about Him and all the wonderful things He did to help His daughter. Whether I felt safe(r) after it was all over wouldn't even enter the equation.

So, what does this have to do with my in-laws visit?

I have a medical problem right now, and many days I need to nap. One day during the visit, while my spouse was at work, I needed a nap. One of my sisters-in-law volunteered to watch my kids so I could rest. She cared for them, fed them, but didn't make A Big Deal about it. She didn't draw everyone's attention to it or bring it up in conversation multiple times afterwards. She didn't announce all the troubles she'd had with them, or how she'd had to sacrifice to look after them. In fact, I don't remember her mentioning it at all except to tell me that she'd fed them pizza. It was all so......low key. It was all so foreign.

I'm not sure how to put it into words, but that's the difference.