Wednesday, April 18, 2012

Walking the Green Mile

So many accounts of those that have a malignant narcissist for a parent, are about being subjected to violence. I read the most god awful stories of beatings and of being slapped around. There is little that can be said but to say how wrong it all is. Of all that I suffered at the hands of the Barbarian, the one thing I can say is that she never raised a hand to me in anger. Except once. But don't think she wouldn't. She was just to lazy. We lived in Texas and beating her kid would have wilted her.  It was hard enough to fend off that less than fresh feeling after screwing some guy all day, without the added exertion of beating a child.
Not long after she put her keys in the trunk of her car and sent me to slam it shut, she was asking me to do it again.  Of course it was my fault. An eight year old should have known his mother was dumb enough to put her keys inside the trunk and then ask him to close it and should have searched it. This time the keys were in the ignition where they belonged.

  We were living at my grandmother's while her murder charges were pending, and I was trying to blend in with the wallpaper.

If something was where they couldn't reach from their bed, I was mustered front and center. 
Mother in lily belle bloom. 
My delusional father checking to make sure no one disrespected his fine fine, sweet and fine lady. 

So the Barbarian initiates a ten minute harangue on turning the car off, taking the keys out, and slamming the trunk shut while holding the keys in my hand.
"Yea, I got it."
"Well you locked them in the trunk once before."
I was nine now and it never dawned on me to tell her if she wasn't such a dumb fuck, she wouldn't have left the keys in the trunk in the first place. Who does that? 
My mother is the queen of reiteration.  She repeats everything until your head spins.
She would harangue. I would confirm that I was reading her loud and clear. And then she would tell me that....well... I had locked the keys in the trunk once before. Then back where we started.
This went on for ten minutes. Over and over.  Until she had driven me to distraction.
So finally I walk out the door, across the porch, down the steps, up the walk and spun around and flipped her off with all the shaking of end stage Parkinson's.
Did I mention the part about my grandmother having a french door? As in one of those doors with  18, 8" by 10" panes of glass in it? About the time I was turning back towards the car, my mother opens the door and  says, "I saw that!"
Holy effing shit!
I had to continue walking calmly to the car. 
Turn the car off. 
Slam the trunk closed.
And walk back into the house knowing that the Barbarian was inside waiting.

It sort of felt like this.

It was too goddamn cold to cut and run.
It was winter and the farm was a couple of miles from the nearest house.
I would have looked like a fish stick after a year lost in the freezer.

So I had to go back and face the executioners song.
 I was going to catch it no matter what.

So I went in the house and she slapped me a few times and that was that. Not much worse than any whacking I got at school. This was in the days they would bust your ass at school and you made sure your parents didn't find out because you'd get it again at home. No news crew interviewing your mother about the legal action she would be taking to correct the heinous treatment of her child. Only a just wait until your father gets home. Except I was too smart to ever let them find out I got a beating at school.
I was talking to my mother about this during my seven month's in the hole and she swears it didn't happen. 
One more thing I think is funny, but casts her in a less than prefect light that gets discarded to make way for her ego.
So to all you NM's and F's. 
Suck it!


vicariousrising said...

My parents love to repeat every friggin little transgression too. Sometimes my dad would tell it as if they were charming little anecdotes, "ha ha, weren't you hilarious misbehaving and all that." But the real purpose was to put you in your place because we kids seldom found these recountings funny. It usually filled me with joint emotions of shame and rage.

Narcissists keep their scorecards on us. But god forbid anyone hold them accountable for their fuck ups.

Great Stephen King references. He's been my favorite author since I was about 9 years old.

q1605 said...

My mother STILL brings that up. The one and only time I EVER did that.
We were in Kansas City.
To live.
For months.
Brought only one set of keys.
Laid them in the trunk.
Told me to go close the trunk.
Then flipped the f out.
I was 8 years old.
f you

Adela Alba said...

They are masters of over reacting and hold grudges forever! Not only that, even the littlest accident is taken as a deliberate slight against them.

And then they go around telling US that WE'RE the over sensitive ones...

q1605 said...

My mother foams at the mouth because a florist who delivered flowers to a funeral home over ten years ago charged a small delivery fee several years later.