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.

Holidays

We usually managed to go to the seaside for a week each Summer when I was growing up. Usually Western Super Mare and once or twice to Llandudno or Rhyl.

It was always a big palaver. There was no internet browsing so brochures for tourist boards were ordered and poured over.

It always had to be a self catering apartment because of Mothers dietary needs and the fact that making it down to breakfast before lunch time would be beyond her. The car was loaded up as if we were a family of 10 not 3 and she would have a complete new wardrobe to go with. On arrival she would do an appraisal and if things weren't to her liking Father would be for it and there would be the start of the holiday row. It was pretty boring, I took a selection of books to read and as I got older I was allowed to go for a stroll about and explore the shops which I enjoyed but mostly we sat about waiting for her to appear around midday, drink tea, doll herself up, change outfits a few times until we finally made it to a country pub for a very late lunch. Then there would be the obligatory afternoon nap and then an evening stroll along the front with drinks in a seafront hotel were we all had to play along with the charade of what a wonderful time we were having, all beaming smiles and her actress voice at full volume. Holidays were a perfect time to strike up conversations with unwitting strangers and present herself as charming and gracious, exaggerating and boasting and holding them captive whilst my Father fetched her Martinis and nodded obediently to her storytelling.
 I remember one time we arrived at a little holiday flat and to her absolute horror the room with the double bed in was quite small and dark whereas my room which had two singles in was very light and airy and was decorated in florals and lace and had pretty dolls sitting on a window seat. She was so jealous I had ended up with the best room and tried to get my Father to agree to swap which for some reason he wouldn`t so she was particularly snappy with me all week while I danced about the beautiful room imaging it was mine forever. 

We would only go places where you could drive your car onto the beach as she didn`t want to walk or carry anything. Father would then set up a selection of chairs for her and arrange and rearrange the windbreaker under her close instruction. She would read and nap and eat ice-creams and as soon as she was bored it would be time to pack up and head back to the apartment. I don`t thing we were ever there more than a couple of hours.  It was never really my or my Fathers holiday we were more just part of her travelling entourage. We could only ever briefly relax when everything was arranged to her liking. On the last day there would be a postmortem of where all the money had gone with Father tentatively mentioning the car would need filling up with fuel for the journey home. Depending on her mood the holiday spirit may linger with her wanting more evenings out when we got home so she could get a good wear out of her new Summer wardrobe. If her mood dipped we would drive home in a depressing silence and she would need a few days in bed the following week as she was worn out.

When we were first married we had the offer of a chalet near the sea for free and when we told them about it Mother was very keen for them to come too as my Father could no longer drive that far himself so they had not holidayed for a while.

When we got there though we had a shock as it was in a terrible state and you can imagine my Mothers reaction. We complained to the owner of the place who said it wasn't her responsibility but she did have a much better chalet of her own that was vacant. Our funds were very limited and we suggested going home but Mother leapt on the chance to flash the cash and stumped up for the cost. Naturally though it put us all in her debt and she made good use of that power over the weekend we were there. She stayed in bed until lunchtime while we all waited about for her and then controlled and complained about everything we suggested doing. She was only interested in going out for dinner and drinks so there was hardly any point in coming away really.  And the fact she bailed us all out was of course dragged up regularly whenever she went off on one of her rages.  

As we drove through the countryside on the way to that ill fated `free chalet` weekend, my Father and my Husband enjoyed the passing scenery while I took a turn in the drivers seat. They chatted about crops in the rolling fields, the beauty of the English countryside, quaint cottages and farmhouses, wildlife in the hedgerows and tried to guess the age of huge old oak trees standing majestically in the middle of some field as we passed by. I glanced in my rear view and noticed my Mother engrossed in some tawdry tale in her magazine. Remember this was the woman who asked so pitifully if there would be room for her and Father as it had been so very long since she had had a change of scene and a little holiday.  `Isn`t the scenery beautiful Mom` I asked quite loudly. She looked up sharply and glanced about bewildered for a moment and then realising she needed to feign some sort of interest waved her magazine vaguely in the direction of an abandoned barn and exclaimed "Oh Yes !! Just look at that !!" before returning to the riveting article. I smiled to myself and shook my head. She was as empty headed and oblivious to anything of beauty and value as always.

In later years she always wanted to know all the details if I ever went on holiday, her face becoming pinched with envy. I was careful to play it down in case she got triggered though when we returned invariably she would have been ill or there had been some other drama to rake over rather than hear about my holiday. I love the seaside but always feel a little melancholy when I`m by the sea, it was never a carefree place to visit, just a home from home minefield to navigate as usual. 

 In the years when I had endless miscarriages we were always too afraid to book a holiday never knowing how things would be with the pregnancy so when we at last had children it was magical to go on holiday with them.

 After my Father died she became even more intrusive over every move we made and when she found out we were going on holiday one Summer she pestered me for all the details interrupting with a sad pout that she hadn`t been away for ages and she didn`t know how she would ever manage it on her own unless she asked the home help to go with her. Long expectant pause.....

I had already been warned by Husband that there was no way she was tagging along to ruin the holiday for the children, not that I needed warning, I had already thought it through. "Well" I said, gathering myself "There wouldnt be much room in the car for us all, or the boot with the pushchair in and I doubt you`ll want to spend all day on the beach or do much walking and we won`t be out late at restaurants or pubs with the children in tow either"....she screws her face up, wrinkles her nose and smacks her lips in distaste. "Ohhh no, that wouldn`t suit me at all" she says, her voice now a completely different tone, realising with the children to now consider they had upstaged her in order of priority so it could not be all about her. Had she been a different type of Mother then naturally we could of all rubbed along together and had a lovely time, but that would never have happened with her. I could imagine her needing to be driven home mid week over some instant illness if the itinerary was not to her liking.