Baby Sitting

When my father had been in the nursing home for quite a while it seemed she had began to miss his company. I was calling in a couple of times a week so she could see her Grand Son and at times she actually appeared glad to have a visitor. She mentioned several times she would like to look after him for a little while if there was anything I needed to get done or somewhere I needed to go. I was unsure if she was lonely, competing for the award for best Grand Ma with her neighbour Ruby or, to give her the benefit of the doubt in her old age, she actually genuinely was taken with my little lad and wanted to spend some time with him. I doubted it was out of concern for me being a busy Mom in need of a break.

I watched her closely as they interacted. She liked to chop some fruit for him, she talked to him and watched TV with him, coloured and drew with him and particularly liked to read to him so we usually took a selection of books and she bought him a few herself too. He was a very gentle, easy little soul, not a tear away and happy to do sitting down activities and loved puzzles and building toys. I discussed it with my Husband and said maybe we should give her a chance. I was still forever waiting for the thing that would trigger her to be normal and harboured a hope that having a Grandchild maybe it. So one Saturday visit, when she had surprisingly stopped her regular afternoon bingo trip of late, we needed to go to the DIY store and she was eager to take my lad while we went. So we left him with her for about 1 1/2 hours. I called to check all was well and she had strict instructions to call us if there was any problem. We arrived back to find her quite excited about what a lovely time they had had, my lad chatting happily to her and the room with an array of books and toys and puzzles scattered about. So all was well then. In a call the next day she expressed how she had enjoyed having him and she had a lovely nap afterwards.

She wanted him again next Saturday too. The next week she was all smiles as we dropped him off, he was excited too. We went home for a while and did a few jobs and when I picked him up she was cheerful but commented she was going to have a rest now as she was not as young as she was. Fair enough. I never asked her to take him, I always left her to offer, that way I could not be accused of taking advantage of her for baby sitting. The following week she eyed me up and down to see if I was dressed to go somewhere nice, we were going grocery shopping I told her. She seemed pleasant but the level of interest had definitely dipped. We were not much more than an hour and arrived to find a few books out and my lad watching TV with a selection of snacks, she also had her knitting and a library book out by her chair. She prompted us to go soon after as she hadn`t slept well the night before and was very tired. On asking, my Son told me they had read books for a while and then he had watched telly while Grand Ma did her knitting and read her own books. The novelty of baby sitting seemed to be wearing off. Next call I was asked was I bringing him on Saturday, not would I. I asked did she want me to and I got a cool "Yes OK". So we dropped him off and she was noticeably less thrilled to have him, saying she had already put the TV on the channel he liked. Alarm bells ringing I was away barely 45 mins and she opened the door looking agitated, he apparently wasn`t bothered about watching TV and she told me he was bored with the toys I had packed for him.

Next phone call I was immediately informed how worn out she was after having him and children were hard work for someone of her age. I did not mention her having him again however the following week she called to say she was ill and not to bring him. Shall I pop over to see you I suggested, a little mischievously as I was convinced she was lying. That would not be necessary I was informed as she was taking to her bed to rest. She`ll be off to Bingo... my Husband surmised... the novelty has worn off, surely you knew it wouldn`t last long. I nodded my agreement but to satisfy myself I called her, several times in fact, during the time I knew she was usually out at Bingo. No answer. Not until later that evening when she answered very cheerily and said she felt so much better now she was `well rested`. Neither of us ever mentioned Saturday afternoon babysitting again. Though for a few weeks, just to satisfy my suspicions, I called her every Saturday afternoon, there was never any answer. 

On Parade

My Mother had a neighbour who she was fr-enemies with, as the saying goes. They were either thick as thieves and gossiping and not speaking and giving each other daggers.  It was the same neighbour who she enlisted to help her announce to my father he was to go into a home.

When they first moved there she had a go at telling her my Fathers faults, at the same time spinning it as if she was the long suffering, down trodden wife, the neighbour who we will call Ruby swallowed it at first. She collared me more than once expressing concern for my Mothers treatment both by my Father and me myself. I diplomatically suggested there was far more to it than anything my Mother had fed her. A year or so later, after many a falling out and my Mother blowing hot and cold on her a few times, she quietly told me she now understood the problem was my Mother. I wasn`t her biggest fan, she was a busybody, pushy and loud but when you got past that she had a good heart and helped Mother out despite her often having cut her dead for a month or two previously. 
 Ruby had a Grand Son who she doted on and she cooked and cared for him regularly, as I say, she had a good heart. Ruby also boasted about all she did for him and his family to my Mother, perhaps enjoying that it rubbed her up the wrong way as she could not trump her on that score. When my lad arrived she would often call Ruby to see him, glowing with pride as any Grand Mother would be, save the fact that her beaming smile dimmed somewhat when she had done boasting. She announced to me, when he was now a toddler, that she wanted to take him for a stroll up and down the road. Now I asked...."oh No, not now, I ain`t ad me air done". She decided my pushchair was too bulky for her to manoeuvre so we bought a smaller, more light weight one, which was handy to leave in the car as a spare. She was quite put out one visit when I told her it wasn`t in the boot that day as we had been taking some things to the tip. She was sullen all visit and I noticed she was dressed up with a full face of makeup and her hair done. 

So next time I called the front door swung open before I could ring the bell. Without even saying Hello or glancing at my lad she barked "Av ya remembered the pushchair". She is smartly dressed and looks like she is going out to dinner rather than a stroll with a little one in a buggy. I ask where she intends going and she says just up and down the road, she won`t be too long. She wants to go by herself so I stay with Father. Its not a long road and I`m expecting them back in 10 or 15 mins but after 45 mins there is still no sign of them. I`m worried now and am just about to go and look for them when she rings the bell. My lad has fallen asleep, not that she has noticed. She`s giddy with all the attention shes garnered. Rather than a stroll enjoying time with her Grand Son she has actually been knocking on all the neighbours doors to show them my lad and show her new outfit and hair do and play the doting Grand Mother and milk the charade for all it was worth. Anything Ruby can do she can do better !! No wonder she was so long, so long in fact the little lad fell asleep while she was chewing somebody`s ear off.

It wasn`t long before she wanted to take him for a stroll again except things did not quite go to plan second time around. She was back quite quickly with my lad wide awake, clearly not in the mood to conventionally take a nap this time. She is straight faced and tells me he`s been restless and before long she is suggesting I take him home as he`s tired. Naturally as he wouldn`t accommodate Grand ma`s plans he is to be dismissed.

The novelty of taking her Grand Son for a stroll wore off soon after.

Say Cheese

I don`t have a great many photos of myself from childhood. I was born in the mid 60`s so taking and having photos developed took a little bit of effort and cost money, unlike today`s instant pics and digital storage. And anything that required a little effort and wasn`t about my Mother was usually not on the cards. The ones I do have are what I have heard referred to as trophy photos. When challenged about the way they treated me one time they defended themselves by saying they had a tin of photos proving they had always cared for me !

Narcissistic Mothers love a good selection of trophy photos. Photos were taken on holiday or if we were dressed up for some reason, there were a handful of studio taken ones and maybe 4 or 5 school ones and I think just one from Christmas at home where I was ordered to pretend to carve the turkey because that would just look so Christmassy right ? 
The camera was never picked up to savour those `of the moment` memories. They were always posed and never natural, we were always on parade as it were and the picture was then kept as a kind of proof that we were a happy family who lived a wonderful life, well dressed, well cared for, laughing and joking and having fun. Nothing could be further from the truth. Usually tense and wary I tended to smile with my mouth closed rather than a very wide toothy grin ready to break into laughter. Mother didn`t like that, Show ya teeth Amanda she would bark. 
I never liked having my photo taken as many people don`t. Not only was I self-conscious but I always found fault with myself and feeling not good enough I naturally felt I never looked good enough either. 
 Looking through the very sparse selection to see what I can post I noticed in the ones of me took by my Mother I had just about made it into the corner of the shot. That`s just where she liked me to be, almost out of the picture, on the sidelines. 

Taken in the garden of my Aunt`s cottage

Western Super Mare~1960`s

Our car, Mother`s chair, carefully positioned by the windbreaker and Dear Little Amanda, well half of her I suppose ! I was proudly showing the sandcastle I had made, not that you would know !

I was allowed a rare treat of a pony ride on one holiday. I had a passion for horses and begged for a photo to be taken. When they were developed there were two, one with half a pony and one with me decapitated. Oh how she laughed.

At my Aunt`s Cottage

`Sit up properly Amanda.....oh, you weren`t showin ya teeth` I never knew why showing my teeth was so important other than proof they hadn`t been punched down my throat.

 I had the most gorgeous photo taken of my daughter at her toddler group. I was thrilled with it and told my Mother how beautiful she looked. When I delightedly showed her the photo the broad smile fell of her face as she exclaimed with bitter disappointment..."oh..er ain`t showin er teeth". I could of bloody throttled her. My own fault really, running to Mother with something to show her you were thrilled about only ever ended one way....she produced a nice sharp pin to burst your bubble with.

She would have her photo taken with the children if she was dolled up but otherwise she would protest and say she didn`t look very good. As a narcissist it never registered the photo was about a happy snapshot with the Grand children not about her perfect image.

Any photos of the children I had developed would be rifled through, the perfectly posed ones she would help herself to and I often noticed them stuffed behind something when the novelty and bragging was over, often creased or marked in someway. I got wise to this and began only showing her the ones I was happy for her loose or damage.

My wedding photo went up and down off the wall like a yoyo depending on if I was in favour or not. When she died I found it at the bottom of a draw.

This one which has been cut around was from my dear Uncles house after he died. He had cut it so it would slip into the edge of a frame holding a photo of his other niece and nephew, I thought that was so nice. What she had tried to do to my hair I have no idea.

I`ll leave you all my Money

When my Husband was still my boyfriend and we were renting a flat before we bought our house, my Father was taken into hospital after a particularly nasty chest infection. This left my Mother alone at home for probably the first time ever at the age of 63.

Early in our relationship and quite happy at this time as well as enjoying our first home together and all the fun that brings, my Mother had been quiet and watchful of late. Looking on as her daughter had a decent home for once and seemed happy and settled was not something that would gladden the heart of a Narcissistic Mother. We both worked at the same place and were happily doing overtime to buy things for our flat and naturally I was thrilled to be `nest feathering` and took a pride making it as comfortable as possible.
 Realising my Father was quite poorly she immediately began to play on her nerves, being agitated and fretful and worrying my Father with her endless `what if this happens`. She was never ever one to try and cope come what may to avoid burdening others. And so Father went into hospital. We went to visit him, took him what he needed and also visited her, making sure she had all she needed too. She did not visit him as she `wasn`t up to it`. She withdrew into herself and I struggled to get any sense out of her when I called, she was increasingly in her night clothes, did no household chores and was eating snack meals. I cleaned and cooked her something and became increasingly worried about her. I called her several times each day as well as calling in each evening after work, my boyfriend visiting my Father on occasion to help spread meeting our obligations as well as both working long days. 

Its hard to say how much of my Mothers mental health issues were real. I do believe the thought of being without my Father and having to be at home alone, other than my frequent visits, was a shock and she was maybe thinking ahead with dread that he would no longer be up to butler duties. But its a certainty she also would make out she was far worse to ensure my ready attendance in dancing to her every whim and added to that she got to keep me away from playing house in my lovely home which she was clearly jealous of. I was genuinely concerned though my other half was less convinced as she became more and more shut down. She began calling us at work, 4 or 5 times one day. When I assured her I would be over as soon as I could she threw a tantrum and said she needed us now, both of us for some reason I cannot remember now. Her parting shot was to say sharply "I`ll leave you all my money"....as if this wild bribe would make it fine for us both to abandon our jobs to be enslaved to her until my father was well again. Work was sympathetic and allowed us both to take a few of our holiday days to be at her beck and call. Not an ideal use of precious days off but at least we would still get paid though we would miss out on valuable overtime. My biggest fear was she may cut her wrists again. When I asked her some basic questions, like who was Queen, what month was it and the name of a soap character she loved, she was either unable to answer or chose not to so I decided to ask her Dr`s advice.

He told me she was on max medication and I got the impression he had a `here we go again` view of the situation. He did seem quite sympathetic to my concerns about her being on her own whilst I was at work though. He then said quite an odd but insightful thing. He said he would visit her and if she acted like she was detached and distressed he would most likely have her admitted to the local hospital psych ward and commented and I quote "When she gets in there and sees what it`s like and the condition of the other patients she will most likely realise shes not as bad as she thinks she is and I`m betting we will see a marked improvement pretty quickly". I rang off and thought long and hard about his statement. It seemed he was saying `let`s give her what she wants and see how she likes it`. Looking back I think he had the measure of my Mother.
 I then had the job of visiting my Father and telling him all this, at the same time trying not to distress and worry him too much. My main fear was that he would think I had shipped her out asap as I didn`t want to care for her, after all everything was usually my fault and I was bound to be accused of not doing enough, the other side of that being if I had left her at home and something dreadful had happened I would then be accused of not realising how in need of help she was. As ever I simply could not win. I explained the situation as gently as I could to him and he seemed to understand and agreed it was probably the best thing to do. 

I took her in and she brightened up considerably on getting attention from the staff, she seemed more then happy as I left her. I visited both of them regularly, telling my Father how my Mother was doing and my Mother telling me all about the excellent care and attention she was getting, for a while at least. There was then some issue over her indigestion meds and she was back to her old venomous self when I next visited, telling me how nasty a nurse was to her and had made her wait until the drugs trolley came around like everyone else had to. The novelty of being admitted had worn off and she was anxious to know when Father was going home as she wanted to see him and if she was there she could make sure he was alright !!!..... She really did beggar belief at times. This sudden change in her only served as evidence to my other half that it really was put on all along and there were a few heated words between us about wasted holidays and lost overtime money.
 Somehow she convinced the medical team that she was greatly improved and as my Father was coming home she just wanted them both to be together.....what a charming tale of mutual devotion she spun...and how far from the truth.  
 With them both back at home together I continued to visit and attend to their wants and needs for a week or so until I was quite abruptly told they could now manage quite well by themselves thank you. Not long after that I received a nasty call from my Father informing me that I could not wait to get my Mother in hospital and off my hands and how she had hated it there and had been longing for the day when he could go home and she would then be allowed to be discharged. It sounded as if she had spun him a tale of having to go in as no one would look after her {meaning me} . I tried to reason with him and defend myself but he knew he was on a mission and seeing my side of the story as not part of the brief. 
 I remember feeling such a fool and as if all my care, concern and worrying counted for nothing, not to mention the tension in my relationship it had caused. I was then quite ill myself with a horrible cold followed by a chest infection, which I went to work with and battled through as I dare not lose any more time or money.

An Epiphany

I discovered there was such a thing as Narcissistic Personality Disorder some time after my Mothers death. Rather than raw grief when she passed away instead there was a period of adjustment. I was in shock to be honest. I almost didn`t know what to do with myself.

The slow realisation that in some ways I was free from her, in as much as there would be no new drama, took a while to sink in. And then there was the further realisation that even after her death she was still able to cast a shadow over me. With her gone I grew even closer to my Aunt, my Fathers sister and we had long telephone conversations were we both opened up and shared our experiences of her. I learned a lot in that time. It all only served to underline all I knew of her. She passed in April and in September the same year my youngest started school.  She was the youngest child in her class as she was an August birthday so no sooner she turned 4 she was at school 3 weeks later. I can say selfishly I really resented having to give her up as I saw it. After so much loss my children were extremely precious to me and the melancholy soul that I am recognised how fleeting the early years are. I missed her dreadfully and felt quite lost. With both my children now at school I had more time on my hands to reflect and remember so many things about my Mother, little of it was positive. I was restless about it all, there was a sense of anticlimax. Deep inside there had always been a hope that one day I would understand why she was the way she was, maybe a revelation of some sort to make it all fit into place, or a confession, an apology even. I daydreamed that if this happened I would at least know why and perhaps she would then be totally different and we could at last have the Mother/Daughter relationship I had always longed for. But now she was gone and none of those things had occurred. All I was left with were unanswered questions and dashed hopes. I brooded constantly.

And from time to time I searched the web for answers. And one day after typing in many different phrases I searched Evil Mother and Bingo ! A text book description came up. It was an epiphany ! My impression of a Narcissist was simply a very vain individual who was constantly checking their appearance and perhaps talked about themselves too much. Which was a bit like comparing all the regional homemade pasta dishes in Italy with a tin of spaghetti hoops. I remember feeling almost drunk with excitement and validation, what a revelation it was. I sat frantically skimming all the articles whilst grinning like a Cheshire cat and with tears streaming down my face simultaneously.  Yes, yes YES !!! That`s her, that`s exactly her....but how could it be so accurate....it was like every micro second of my life had been recorded secretly and analysed and finally the truth was out. I was almost giddy with delight. And so I spent endless hours reading and rereading, digesting, making notes, remembering and re-remembering, I read until I had a constant headache, I neglected many things, I fell into a unhealthy, obsessive routine and yet I could not stop researching. It was like a drug. I had hoped all my life for some understanding and validation, little had come my way and never from the main players in my life.

Fate and circumstance, the secretive and insidious abusive ways of both my Mother and enabling Father had denied me any validation whatsoever and yet here it was at last. It was always me who was at fault, never him, never ever her. But no longer. Why there was even a name for my Fathers behaviour. It was like nothing I had ever experienced before. And then came the unsettling information that it often carries on from Mother to Daughter. That was quite a blow to take. Again I will write about that in another post but will say that after extensive, ongoing self education on the wonderful topic of Narcissism and continual self analysis, I am fairly certain that I have taken the role of codependency. Children who are raised by narcissists usually follow one of the two roads. Life was never the same after my discovery. All my life I had studied the same thing from the same angle in poor lighting but now I had a 360 degree floodlit perspective. I ruminated how very differently I would of handled things if I had had this new knowledge far earlier.

Other than setting firm boundaries and going into grey rock mode the general message from all my reading was that this condition is life long and incurable so No Contact was the only positive action to take. I gave myself credit for taking that decision without knowing it had a actual name and was a recommend action when dealing with a Personality Disordered Narcissist. Personality Disorder, that phrase still has some weight no matter how many times I say it or read it. It is a mental illness. My Mother had a serious mental illness and one which made her damage pretty much everyone who came into contact with her in one way or another. And Dear Little Amanda had spent her life trying to be good enough, trying to forever adjust and adapt to whatever my mentally ill Mother wanted of me in that moment. What an impossible task that was and sadly all I ever knew was that I had to keep trying or else.....The Plasticine dream had been my reality. 

Footnote: In the course of writing this post I have just discovered PNSD-Post Narcissistic Stress Disorder and it seems I tick many boxes. One epiphany has led to another.

Guilt

It`s almost December and so the supermarkets are launching their Christmas adverts and brochures with all the seasonal products. Like many people I love to browse and see all the delicious things they have for the festive table, the must have gifts and the beautiful homeware items. The other day I was doing just that and I was struck by an old familiar feeling. Its so difficult to describe. It was a mixture of shame, guilt and foreboding. It`s not an overwhelming feeling that I stop everything I am doing and have to allow it to take centre stage and focus solely on it. Instead it is a nagging, niggling feeling, at the back of my mind, casting just enough shade that it takes the pleasure out of the moment. 

 Growing up with a Narcissistic Mother leaves it`s mark. After being raised from a baby in such a toxic, unhealthy environment and having been drip fed the clandestine message she is more important than everyone, she must always be everyone`s first priority and therefore you have no importance or value, and that she is jealous of and resents any pleasure or happiness that comes your way and further more, you know, through endless bitter experience, that she will, in the not too distant future, have some sort of revenge in return for your moment of happiness. After years and years of that behaviour pattern being on a loop, it is only natural that the brain remembers all the lessons it was taught by the Narcissistic Mother and so decades later, the smallest morsel of enjoyment found in the simplest thing is still tinged with a certain sadness. From extensive reading I now understand, albeit in a very simplistic way, that I have some pretty screwed up `core beliefs`, two of which are that I am not worthy of happiness and I deserve to be punished if I ever experience it.

For as long as I can remember I have had these feelings. I was always aware of them but it took a very long time to pluck up the courage to acknowledge them as they just felt part of me and it wasn`t obvious how untrue and distorted they were. They were, they are, just the effects of the lies of a Narcissist who would have me believe them to ensure her own sick sense of self importance was kept intact. I know this to be true and yet what my head understands my heart will not believe and deep inside there is still the conditioned inner child who remains shrouded in the cloud of toxicity that was my upbringing, still afraid to experience happiness, still guilty she is taking something she is forbidden, still sure she does not deserve it, still worrying there will be a price to pay for getting above herself.
This sense of shame, guilt and foreboding shows itself in too many ways to count. Here are just a few scenarios...

There was a time when if I had deep cleaned my bedroom, and it was immaculate with not a thing out of place and the bed had been freshly made up that I would dread getting in it at night time. I will confess that once or twice I slept on the sofa as the unworthiness was overpowering. Other times as I slipped under the covers I would feel shame, dirty, as if I was spoiling the room, I would lay very still unable to relax, like it was not my right to be there. I was aware of how resentful she would be to see me in the beautiful room. I sometimes let it get in a state just because I felt more at ease.

I have trouble buying new clothes and when I do buy them it takes me months to wear them, I often never do. I only wear about 10% of my wardrobe and it has become a habit to buy something I love only to sell it on ebay a year or two later. I have favorite `old` things that are well past their best but make me feel safe and comfortable when worn and I practically live in these. 

I collect Emma Bridgewater pottery. Its expensive but I shop carefully in the sale or buy seconds and when the parcel arrives it often sits unopened for a day or two until the uncomfortable feeling fades a little. I am more relaxed about buying things for the home as they are to be used and enjoyed by my family rather than just me.

I am neglectful of my self-care which I will make a separate post about. I have some lovely branded lotions and potions and yet struggle to use them, many are unopened. I buy them and subconsciously coach myself that they will be beneficial to me and I will use them and yet when it comes down to it I struggle.

There were even times when I would settle down to watch a favorite programme and I would feel the sting of guilt and shame. Nothing that is enjoyable seems to come without that familiar uncomfortable feeling. 

After several years living in a half built kitchen extension with holes in the walls, bashed off tiles, uneven floor, a broken cooker and make do fridge, managing as a single parent while my other half worked away with the lads, drinking heavily each night, we, he, finally got his act together and finished the revamp we had talked of and planned for years. It was at last a beautiful kitchen and I was thrilled with it. I began accessorising it with all the bits and bobs I had been buying for so very long and storing away. Then every time I walked into it and felt pride and enjoyment I was chewed up with the certain knowledge of how jealous and vengeful she would of been if she had seen it {she had been dead about 4 years then} I remember having a sense of impending sorrow and turmoil, it was almost prophetic in its powerlessness and sure enough I had a knee injury which rendered me disabled just two years later followed by a cancer diagnosis. And I thought how that would of made her smile.

The Day I Ran Away

I was a sad little girl. I lived in my head most of the time. I was a shy loner. At my non uniform primary school I can still remember the unused doorway tucked into the corner of some buildings far away from the play ground and playing field.

It was there I would hurry to stand during play breaks, listening to the distance shouts and squeals of the other children. I don`t remember ever being seen more than once or twice by another child and on being questioned as to why I was there I replied I was waiting for a friend and that we were playing a game and so I was left alone again. I always felt safer alone. I daydreamed a lot about another life. There was always the feeling I was unwanted and unwelcome at home, a burden whose care was begrudged. It occurred to me many times that perhaps I did not belong to my parents, I could never come up with tangible proof that this was true and yet given their constant lack of empathy for me, the fact I was viewed as either a naughty nuisance, a disappointment and wanting in most departments and my only worth seemed to be in my housekeeping services and errand running, it seemed extremely plausible. I coped with my life at home as best I could because I had no choice. Once, when things were particularly unbearable I told my Aunt Iris about some of the things that went on at home, she seemed quite shocked and when I described some of my Mothers antics, such as her orchestrating my finding condoms under my Fathers pillow, she exclaimed she was a silly bugger. She then must of challenged my Mother about some of the things I had told her and of course My Mother, no doubt backed up ferociously by my enabling Father, twisted everything I had said until I was painted as telling lies. One example being that I was truanting and they had trouble getting me to go to school, in response to my telling my Aunt about my days kept off school to do the washing or to go grocery shopping with my Mother to help carry the bags. My Aunt had fallen into the habit of calling me some evenings when they were out at bingo and I enjoyed our chats, that is until after speaking out, I answered the phone to her one evening and my stomach flipped as I heard a stark change in her tone of voice. She told me sternly, in no uncertain terms, that she was not going to be made a fool of.

And so things were never quite the same between us after that and the evening chats were no more. My Mother always won. One time I was in such silent despair and desperation that I thought about running away. There had been the usual terrible row and I was waiting for my Father to get home and give my yet another good hiding. On a whim I decided to take our dog for a walk. I walked and walked alongside the duel carriage way we lived next to. It went all the way to Birmingham, miles and miles. I few tears rolled down my face as I walked. I felt utterly alone and the thought of endless days being at the mercy of her mood swings and rages, of his temper or detachment, well it just about broke my young spirit. The lorries thundered past and I recall noticing how very high their wheels were, roughly the same height as me. My heartbeat fast and I contemplated running into the road, it was very tempting and seemed more enticing than having to go home. I walked and walked and it began to grow dark. But I just could not pluck up the courage to go into the traffic, I worried about our dog too as I would have to let go of the lead and remembered what happened to Prince.

When I came to a phone-box I went in to get out of the cold and there was the Childline number there. I had some change in my pocket and I called the number. Trouble was I didn`t know what to say or how to explain it. I knew it was my word against my parents and whoever would believe me ? They were both foreboding, frightening figures in my life and if I caused trouble and was sent back to them God knows what they would do to me, for a moment the lorry wheels seemed a possible alternative again. Looking back I can wonder how I carried on, as an adult I know how it was difficult to get across how things were with them when she was in full actress mode and he was being a mild mannered gentleman, what chance did a child have, it was always my word against theirs and they put on such a polished performance of concerned though struggling parents, struggling with this wilful girl, me. I stuttered and muttered and eventually rang off and faced the long, cold walk home, our dog no longer pulling on the lead but plodding along looking sorry for himself and drinking at an occasional puddle. I felt guilty about him and so more tears rolled down my cheeks. 
 When I at last tuned away from the busy, dark road and went through the little gap in the railings into our cul-de-sac I saw my Mother hanging out of the window bellowing..."Where av YOU been AMANDA" she was livid. I glanced back at the traffic whizzing by and for a fleeting moment I thought about running towards it but again I could not find the courage. I don`t remember going in the house, I do remember them making a huge fuss of the dog though, saying how exhausted he looked and that he was panting, they gave him water and fed him, he wolfed it down while they preached what a wicked cruel girl I was keeping him out walking for so long.

I was not once asked if anything bad had happened to me or if I was alright, not even by the burly, rosy cheeked, red curly haired policeman who turned up shortly afterwards. He sat at our kitchen table, he was a huge man and barely fit on the chair. My Mother sat opposite and relished relaying a long list of my wilfulness, her eyes blazing with delight while my father stood nearby struggling to get a murmur of agreement heard. I know I said I had been walking but I don`t remember daring to say I was trying to run away. The policeman soon showed signs of being ready to leave, no doubt sensing he would be captive to my Mothers never ending sermon on naughty girls and the trials of parenting them if he didn`t. He did at one point though ask why I had walked so far and been gone so long but I faltered and Mother cut in with something about how she was sure I wouldn`t do it again and my Father began thanking him and apologising for calling him out. I sensed that they wanted to shut the episode down in case my tongue got loosened and he may just of been inclined to give me the benefit of the doubt. 
There was no good hiding afterwards, it was very quiet and I felt like I was being watched with suspicion. Clearly they knew deep down that their parenting was poor, neglectful, emotionally and physically abusive as they were always eager to paint the very opposite picture of how things truly were to the outside world. My Father I am sure understood that my Mother was unstable but also realised he was her willing accomplice. They were conspiratorial and there seemed an atmosphere of them and me more than ever before. 
 No one ever seems inclined to believe a child against two adults, in fact people generally tend to question any suggestion parents are anything less than well meaning. We used to have an elderly widowed neighbour. We were friendly and often chatted. She was telling me stories of her childhood one time, many stories of her and her siblings and the things they got up to. I commented how miserable my own childhood had been and without thinking said my parents had been quite wicked. Without knowing any details, despite us being close and my never having ever said anything that seemed unlikely to be true before, she immediately said "Oh I`m sure they weren`t that bad", so dismissively. It stung so much. Even though I felt I had her respect she still never stopped for a moment to think it may be true. Is it any wonder children struggle to tell someone when they are being abused.
  I also once tried to tell my English teacher how unhappy I was at home, I felt I could trust him as he seemed to have a soft spot for me as I was his star pupil English being my best subject. He listened to me but didn`t offer any real help other than to say he did hope I wouldn`t go out and deliberately get myself pregnant to secure a flat and get away from them. Oh the 1970`s !

My Father`s Temper

My Father had a temper. Whether he had always had a temper I couldn`t say. But after years of coping with my Narcissistic Mother his temper could be vicious. My Aunt, his older sister who I got on well with had a soft spot for him. There was a 10 year age gap and with my Nan working to support the family it often fell to her to take care of him and help out, so her bond with him was both sisterly and maternal I would say. If you had met him you would of considered him a gentle soul, polite, well mannered, he came across as intelligent and thoughtful, with an open interest in many things and a good conversationalist when free of my Mothers influence. He would not seem like a wife beater or child beater for that matter either. In fact the charming man he portrayed to his family bore no resemblance to the hard, angry man who readily gave me a savage good hiding, hit my Mother on occasion and often threatened me with a damn good slap until I was well into my 20`s. I would watch him sometimes when we were in company, he seemed unrecognisable to me, knowing his darker side.  

His sister had a good deal of sympathy for him, having to cope with life with my Mother. She clearly had fond memories of the friendly, easy going lad he used to be and sadly, over the years had watched that person slowly fade away until he was nothing more than a marionette who`s strings were firmly controlled by my Mother. The spark of happiness faded from his blue eyes and he often looked quite expressionless and lost in thought, a faint glower increasingly present as he grew older. He lived, as did I, under a great strain, constantly on edge, waiting for my Mother`s next mood swing. Caught up in the impossible and never ending task of keeping my Mother happy, or keeping the peace as he sometimes called it. To cope with the stress he smoked heavily. He was often short tempered and snappy and he too could turn on me in an instant if it meant quickly appeasing my Mother to stop some minor gripe becoming cause for her to rant and rage at him, better I be in the line of fire than him, I was regularly `thrown under the bus` is it were, with him eager to swap places with me as the guilty party, leaving him to form allegiance with her and therefore absolving himself. He really was a spineless coward in so many ways. I can say that honestly now as I look back, but as a child I just thought it was because I was bad, unlovable and therefore he did not, could not love me. Oh the damage Enabling fathers do.

My Mother could be relentless and savage in her rages. And if her main focus was on my Father`s short coming`s she would goad and bait him mercilessly for hours. In truth all he had to do was remove himself from the situation. He could of got in his car and gone for a drive, called in on his Mother for an hour or so, anything just to take control, he could of told her he was going out for a while until she had calmed down and they could talk things over later. But with Mother being Mother that would be unthinkable. If he had dared to assert himself and take control than I can well imagine what she may have been capable of. She may have launched herself at him like a banshee, ran screaming into the road chasing the car, thrown herself at the car, or down the stairs, cut her wrists again...who knows. But she would of never have let him win. And so after hours of her venom he would snap and hit her. I remember her nose looking swollen and out of place the next day one time and I have a hazy memory of her face being bruised once or twice too. And then she would be quiet. Almost satisfied, as if this had been her aim all along, that sounds twisted but surely if she knew what he was capable of she would never have pushed him to the limit and yet she did, time and time again and he in turn eventually let his temper get the better of him.

I was witness to this from maybe 8 or 9 years old. Somehow it did not shock me. I was used to violence and blazing rows, I was used to both my parents being quite unable to control their tempers and I was used to them playing all this matrimonial drama out in front of me. There were never really any real boundaries in our house. And it was useful for my Mother to have a witness, she would want me to bear testament when weeping to her her sister, my Aunt Iris, about her cruel husband. In the weeks after his violence they play acted that all was well and all was forgotten and then it would all begin again. She would bring up how he had hit her when ranting about something. It was a way of having some sort of hold over him, emotional blackmail in case she told someone other than her sister. And of course each time I saw him lash out at her it made me more afraid when he would set about me on her instruction. Despite forever longing for my Fathers love, attention and approval and also, despite enjoying his company and distant friendship in fleeting moments I have to finally be honest with myself and admit that I was afraid of him most of my life. He was a turncoat and always eager to win her affections at any cost and lashing out at me, verbally or physically, was an assured way to achieve this.  He was at his very core, like every other bully, a coward. And because I never experienced loyalty from him as a child I therefore never recognised its frequent absence in unhealthy relationships as an adult.  

My Endless Colds

As a child I had constant colds. That`s no exaggeration. They were awful colds, they lasted for at least 2 weeks, sometimes 3. I was quite thin, I remember my meals being very measured, I was often served different things than my parents, if it was steak for them it would be sausage for me. And quite often I had soup and toast instead of their meal. She rarely bought anything she could not eat herself as a Celiac in the way of treats and so there were few biscuits and cakes. If I was in trouble and had been sent to my room I sometimes missed tea and would be called down for a begrudged sandwich or at times missed a meal completely. She herself went without as a child and looking back she was quite controlling about food with me. I just had what I was given and if she asked had I had enough my response depended on her tone when asking. If it was asked in a warning way to prompt me to know she thought I should be satisfied then I would answer yes whether I was hungry or not. If she was on a high and too giddy and distracted to care what I was having then I could say no and maybe get something extra. Whether that had a bearing on my immune system who knows, it probably was a factor as was the constant state of alertness and tension, forever in flight or fight mode, as well as the long walk to school and back in all weathers, 2 hours a day and then often sitting in class with damp clothes. Some children harden up in those circumstances but others suffer internally and it takes its toll.

Whatever the reason I was very prone to heavy head colds. I would start with a raw, sore throat and then I would stream for a few days, it was like water dripping from a tap and repetitive sneezing which hurt my throat even more until I could barely speak. I would have a raging temperature and then I would have so much mucus I could not breath through either nostril for days, I would get so stuffed up and my sinuses so blocked that my eyes would half close and puff up, leaking thick discharge from the corners. And I usually threw up a fair bit because of all the crap I kept swallowing down.  Sounds delightful doesn`t it ! 

As I grew into an adult I don`t think I have ever known anyone to have colds as heavy and as frequent as mine were. Just as the hacking cough tailed away and I could at last breath easily I would feel the telltale soreness in my throat and it would begin all over again. I suffered with regular colds into my 20`s and 30`s, I would have one 2 out of 3 Christmases until I no longer looked forward to Christmas as I knew I would almost certainly be ill. I became known for it and it was a running joke, commented on with some sympathy I must add.

It`s now widely acknowledged that constant stress can cause physical illness. I do believe it to some extent though I really think its partly luck of the draw, after all some people never seem to get ill at all no matter what they have to cope with. Interesting though I was diagnosed with Lymphoma at 49, which effects the lymph glands which control the immune system. Anyhow this is not a pity party post, I`m giving the back story because my being ill as a child was a huge problem to my Narcissistic Mother.
 Now I have to note that she did have mild Asthma and when she caught a cold, which didn`t happen that often, it usually caused a chest infection and she would need antibiotics. So you can imagine the rage and resentment her endlessly ill child caused her. My illness meant she may catch it too and it also meant I was crossed off the chore list and worse still would need a degree of care myself.  I would try to hide my symptoms from her at first, knowing she would be mad. All her life if anyone sneezed near her she would snap "I hope you ain`t goin to give me the bloody Flu". So when I began sneezing she would eye me suspiciously and say "I ope to God you ain`t got another bloody cold", she would glower and send me to my room and tell me to stay out of the way.

My Father would be dispatched to assess my symptoms when he got back from work and as I got worse I would have to be kept off school. I had to remain in my room, sometimes for a week or more so as not to come in contact with her. I would hear her ranting to my Father about me deliberately getting soaked in the rain or not buttoning my coat, infrequent hand washing, any small thing she could use as proof I had caught this streaming cold through being thoughtless and putting her at risk.
The amount of hankies I needed was raged about and Father had the job of collecting them and washing them. I discovered though that when they were dripping wet with water from my nose at the beginning that I could dry them on my little radiator I was allowed to have on low, I was so pleased when I leaned this trick as I didn`t have to keep using the sopping wet ones.
I didn`t eat during the day in case I was sick at first and would wait for him to bring me a tray up with some soup and toast when he was back from work, if he was feeling sympathetic I may get some Lucozade too. I remember too that the toast was always dry and never buttered because she thought it would be too greasy for me while I was ill. She had some crazy ideas. 

In the second week Mother had the problem of not letting me starve all day against keeping me at arms length and so she would put me a sandwich on a tray, feed the tray through the banister as she stood half way up the stairs and then use a broom stick {not the one she flew on} to push the tray up to my door, she then called me to hop out of bed and collect it as she hurried away. If she did catch my cold she would take to her bed as soon as I was up and about and I would then be kept off school for longer because you`re not out of the woods yet which actually meant I had to now wait on her hand and foot and catch up on my missed chores.

She would bang on the floor with a stick and shout orders to bring cups of tea, scrambled eggs on toast and I would be sent to the library for more books even if it was pouring down, my getting deliberately soaked to the skin in the first place conveniently forgotten. I would clean the house and prepare the veg for my Father to do dinner when he returned. He was always brighter when it was just the two of us about downstairs and we would chat happily while we ate together though careful to be fairly quiet so she didn`t get the idea we were having fun. I actually loved her being up there while I played house and listened to the radio, it was enjoyable after 10 days in my room. I always took great care of my children when they were ill and was never out of a good selection of cold and cough medicines, I liked everything I felt they needed in stock and I particularly hated to see them poorly. I cannot imagine sending them to their room all day alone.