Writing this now I would not have believed it a year ago, when I met her face online. Tough times throughout the time I got to know her, and we fought daily. Turns out, and it took me about 10 months to realize it, never having encountered such a personality type before, but I met, what psychology terms, a full-blown narcissist. And she had all the top ten signs too: lack of empathy, miserly in her spending, over-punctilious for being on time, creating lists for the smallest of tasks, her subtle insults and digs, her delusional nature, her constant need for appreciation, her endless antagonism.
She had me spending money, and then losing it nary a refund, sometimes all in the same week. I remember giving her an engagement ring in mid-March, right around her birthday, and the following week, she’d text to say she doesn’t understand my sense of humor, and maybe I’m not the one for her, and that she’s decided to return the engagement ring I bought her. This little episode came 7 days after spending $385 on a proposal dinner.
After that, the relationship became more and more of an emotional rollercoaster, relying on her sad, turmoiled life from childhood and dumping on me every chance she could, she would heap insult upon insult at me. At first I’d laugh it off because I’m good-natured, but then I began to see her behavior as weaponizing. Then came the lies. She took back the engagement ring given to me, but refused to admit it, and then blamed me for stealing it. That was a whopper. I should have kicked her ass to the curb then, but she persisted, always calling, texting, always crying, always coming up with a sob story. Then the “love bombs.” Psychologists have a known name for this, I never realized it myself, but the narcissist will “love bomb” to the point you can’t remember why you were mad at them in the first place.
“I love you! Love doesn’t end, I’m here because I love you, you’re the one for me, I know God brought us together! Oh, I love you so much!”
And then, within a matter of a few days, the repertoire of challenge would begin again.
“You’re a big girl, you have 75 lbs. on me, why don’t you see that? When we live together, you’re going to take off some poundage.
Why do you leave so much water in the sink? You should wipe the sink down.
Please wear socks in the kitchen. Your feet sweat and I don’t want marks on my floor. Please keep your hands off the wall.
Do not lay on the couch, you can sit on the couch but don’t lay down. I don’t want you laying down on the couch.”
These are the highlights, because the amount of horrible, unfathomable, disgusting, and other behavioral shit she put me through, would be hard for any normal person to imagine.
Her ‘Pull me closer-Push me away’ behavior went on like clockwork, and almost every Friday, when I was about to start the weekend, she would start a fight for no reason at all, or, in her mind, the reasons were significant. To me, it was something over my not calling at 6 p.m., or getting off the phone because I wanted to read, or call a friend. A fight would always ensue. It took me a while to see it because I didn’t want to see it. I wanted to believe in her, believe that I had a shred of hope in whatever relationship I was building with her, afterall, we were both 66 and both waiting to find love nearly twenty years.
We would have a few good days, but there weren’t many. Her friends didn’t help matters.
Having met me only briefly, her friends would criticize me to her, and, after a while, she would believe them. Whatever they said, it didn’t matter – she would think about the plausibility, the possibility. But the worst part was when she would ask me to justify my behavior to prove a point to her friends that I really did love and care about her. Still, I don’t think she ever believed me. Her friends, like the Wizard of Oz flying monkeys, went out searching to undo any ounce of happiness she may have felt for me.
And then one month right after New Years day, she called to ask me about some money she was missing. “I hate to ask you this, but I have to.”
She sounded upset, and I couldn’t imagine what the issue could be coming off the joy of the holidays. She would call me by my given name when the matter was serious.
“Theresa, I am missing money. It was in the cabinet.”
“Yeah? Well, how much?” I asked.
“It was $180 three times, so $540. It was Mannie’s money, the money she gives me to take care of her bills, I saved it and put it in the cabinet. You didn’t take it, did you?”
My eyes popped, my tongue went flaccid, and my heart dropped. “No, Leah, I wouldn’t steal your money. How could you think that of me?”
I had never known such manipulation, but it was thrust upon me. Maybe that lack of oxygen was getting to her head.
The girl couldn’t breathe, think maybe I didn’t mention it, but it’s worth mentioning now. Yep. She had full-blown COPD, and on oxygen 24/7. You would think she would be more humble, sincere, engaging, maybe even a little kind. Nope. She wasn’t. Not at all.
We would go out to dinner, and there was her sense of entitlement for the whole world to see. Constantly bothering, badgering, and putting the waitstaff through the hoops.
“What is your name? Tyler? Well, Tyler, this is not what I ordered. I asked for medium and you brought me out well-done.” Or, another time, “Excuse me, excuse me!” now yelling through the other quiet tables, “Can you fill this up with ice? I like a lot of ice! What is your name? Okay, thank you, Miles.”
And recently, having an afternoon lunch, and being just seated only moments before, “I want the shade dropped; the sun is in my eyes!” I told her, “Please don’t do this” as she was standing to adjust the shade, “just wait until the waiter comes over, and ask him to roll down the shade.” But of course she didn’t.
“Excuse me, excuse me! Can you roll this shade down, it’s too bright, the sun is in my eyes!”
Oh God. There I was, once again, bowing my head, turning my face to the glass of the restaurant window in embarrassment.
A few days later, after her last visit, I went through a blue period, and tried telling her. “I’m just going through a minor depression, just a few blue days in a row, that’s all. It’ll pass.”
“Well, what do you mean,” she expressed petulance and indignation, like this was a helluva an inconvenience.
“It’s fine! I’ll be fine in a few days,” I told her, “just give me some time.”
“How often do you get like this? Theresa. I need to know. Does your cousin know? I’m worried about you; I’m worried about you! I will call the suicide hot-line! I’m worried about you; I don’t want to hear you talk like this! I will call your boss!”
Oh. My. God. I’m thinking, She has lost her fucking mind, and her response to my being blue is being so overblown, this is not normal fucking behavior! It’s like she’s fucking upset because I am taking time away from her, and her needs!
And so, it was.
I had to cheer up quickly, let me tell you, because she had zero empathy. Any other normal person would have responded, Ah, I get days like that, it’ll pass, don’t worry. Wanna’ talk about it?
But histrionics were the norm on so many days, so many crazy days with her, so many arguments, so much wasted time, that when I think back now, part of me is broken and scarred, another part of me has lost hope, and yet another part of me thinks she’ll have to find new dumping grounds for her unresolved childhood bullshit. I’m glad I escaped, but I didn’t leave unscathed.
Copyright Terry Rachel 2022
A Hardscrabble Daughter 