The Doll

Several years ago, not long after I discovered all about Narcissistic Mothers, I came across  an on line forum dedicated to the topic. I joined it and began to write many of my stories, if in a somewhat simplistic way, along with reading many similar ones posted by other ACON`s. That forum is long gone, and, it emerged later had dubious reasons for existing, being a thinly disguised marketing tool for so called `tapping therapy`, that is by the by though. At the time I was vexed all my writing had disappeared though I was early in my processing and naively assumed just the discovery of what my Mother was was enough. I had much more re-remembering to do and there was my Fathers role to yet be deciphered. Whilst wondering if I had at last come to the end of my recording my story on this Blog, I remembered the other day, this particular tale, one which I had struggled to explain when writing about first on the the forum. It is uncomfortable to recall and quite difficult to describe but I know I must try.  

This memory happens in our terraced house so I was at the very least 6 years old, I think this habit lasted for 2 or 3 years, maybe until I was about 8 or 9. I often had trouble sleeping at that age. As my work load of chores got more strenuous as I grew, there were times I was asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow, that was great as it meant I was spared lying awake listening to and trying to judge the tone of her droning voice if it could be heard. But as a lot of the days were spent being forever on my guard I was often alert and wide awake when I got into bed. I generally took myself up to bed. On the few occasions she was play acting being Mother she would tuck me in with hospital like precision, sometimes commenting this was how they did it in the hospital. I was practically pinned to the bed as if in a straight jacket and would listen until I heard the living room door click shut and then yank the covers free with all my might. I cannot remember ever having a teddy bear. There was a toy monkey I hated with a passion. She thought it so jolly to tell how terrified I had been to wake up to find the monkey in my cot and how she told me it would not hurt me and made sure to leave it there so I got used to it. I did have 2 or 3 dolls though and it was with one of these dolls I would play or perhaps I should say act out a rather odd game. I wanted to cuddle the doll and snuggle down with it and yet I often went through this ritual first.

As a young child my imagination set the scene on the the covers of my bed, counterpane land as the rhyme says. I imagined it was a wild and windy night or blowing a blizzard of snow. I would then get my doll and give her quite a beating, I would use phrases said to me by my Mother, I would whack her and slap her and twist her legs and arms into all sorts of angles. I got no pleasure or fun from this, in fact it would make me shed tears of anger but still I continued. I would then send my doll off down the bed, moving my legs about so she fell this way and that as I imagined her out in the wild weather, battling to survive. I would tell her to go away, she was not wanted and evil and nobody cared about her. All the time feeling upset I was doing this. And then would come a reversal of my role. I than changed into rescuer and would battle through the elements to reach poor dolly who was now laying still and injured in the wilderness. I would scoop her up tenderly and race back to my warm safe haven of a home where I would tend to her wounds with the gentlest of touch and whisper my love and reassurance to her. She would be fed and cared for until we at last settled down together, with her wrapped up warmly in some scrunched up bed covers. And so I would fall to sleep. Softly sobbing.

Her Special Things

Because my Mother viewed herself as different from everyone else, special and more important, she liked to have things that were just for her use. She didn`t like using things that my Father and I used for all manner of contrived reasons, her favorite was that she was delicate and prone to catching germs and somehow managed to infer that my Father and me were not as particular as she was. 

She had separate soap which she kept in a plastic box in the bathroom cabinet so no one else used it. She even had a separate bottle of denture cleaner from my Fathers too. She had her own towels, pretty pastel florals just for her. I was to use the blue, brown and green striped ones with my Father. She had her own pillow cases, different from my Fathers, it did not matter they were mismatched. Most things in our home clashed garishly, both patterns and colours, as she was never in the same mood twice when she shopped I suppose. She had her special chair in the lounge which no one would ever dream of using, complete with her cushions.
 The kitchen though was where things got serious. She had a particular fork that was hers and hers alone. The same with her dinner plate, tea cups and a couple of mugs. She had a separate butter dish from mine and my Fathers, this was because she was a Celiac and there may be a rogue breadcrumb in the dish, even though she would risk a normal biscuit or cake from time to time....a breadcrumb however may be fatal !! She would bake herself little fairy cakes with her own flour though I hardly ever remember her baking cakes for Father or me. She would occasionally bake one to take to visit her generous and indulgent brothers, partly as a prompt to receive a bit of pocket money in return as she would call it, often a wade of notes so hardly pocket money, handed out after she had explained how very short we were. She had her own sugar bowl and spoon and liked her tea stirred with that particular spoon. Looking at an old photo recently I noticed there were two salt pots on the table which reminded me that she didn`t like the salt grinder as she found it too difficult to use and so had her own salt pot which we were then discouraged from using as our hands may be greasy and she did not want it making all sticky ! 
 There were also food items bought because she liked them. Cottage cheese for instance was bought for her to eat, I liked it but was only allowed a little very occasionally because that was hers.

Naturally she had gluten free bread and biscuits on prescription but anything that she could have, like pink wafer biscuits for instant were bought but no one else was allowed them, why two packets were not purchased, one for the biscuit tin {often empty} and one for her, I don`t know. She had the best of everything, the leanest ham, the firmest tomatoes, she cherry picked over everything first for herself. When we had fish and chips, the fishes were compared and she had the biggest, thickest one for herself, declaring she could not eat the batter because of the flour so it was only fair. I rarely was allowed a fish and usually had a fishcake or sausage but if I did have a fish I was expected to give her half in exchange for some of her batter. I loved a pickled onion from the chip shop but if I asked I got "Oh Amanda you don`t want one of those stinky things" because she didn`t like them. Frequently I was told I didn`t want something as a way of saying I couldn`t have it. Crisps were another controlled food. She hated the smell of cheese and onion so they were strictly prohibited. I was allowed plain or roast chicken. She like plain or salt and vinegar, the latter I thought smelled just as strong as cheese and onion and I didn`t like them, despite this she often tried to press me to have that flavor because she liked it, a classic example of a narcissist seeing everyone as an extension of themselves. I`m greedy with cheese and onion crisps to this day as I was always denied them. My Father often bought himself some scratching`s but when she found out I loved them too she banned me having any with the excuse I had fragile teeth. The same teeth she never encouraged me to brush. Because she herself could not eat pastry, meat pies and pasties were never bought, another thing I longed for and have been greedy with in later life.

Which brings me on to Pork Pies, another strictly rationed favorite of mine. We were at a wake with my Father`s family one time and as appreciative comments were being made about the lovely cold spread laid on, my Father noted the pork pie was very good. "Of course I can`t eat the pastry" came the whiney voice of my Mother "So at home I have the meat and Geoff has the pastry"....stunned silence. Then my cousins wife, utterly astonished, snorted with laughter, she clearly did not get the rules of play with my Narcissistic Mother, and declared loudly "Oh that`s hardly fair". Completely caught out and shamed my Mother wrung her hands and scowled like a scolded child, her expression darkening with every passing minute. She seethed all the way home, repeating several times she`d "Never liked that nasty little Madam ". I on the other had was secretly delighted that Mother had got a taste of her own medicine for once !

Sweets and chocolates were never readily available in our house. I bought a small amount with my limited pocket money and made them last as long as I could. She on the other hand always had her stash. She hid them away or kept them beside her bed to enjoy while she read her library books before a nap or bedtime. She also had a supply in her handbag. She favoured Mint Imperials, Murray Mints, Toffees, Rowntress Fruit Pastels and my favorite Jamesons Ruffles. I stole one in a sweet shop once and when we got outside she saw it in my hand. I was marched back into the shop where I was made to give it back and say sorry with her in full actress mode, full of graciously earnest apologies in a posh voice and declarations of how appalled she is as I had been bought up so much better than that. When we left she was glowing from the supply it had given her and the buzz she got from her performance, so much so that she never even thought to scold me about it. 

As previously mentioned she would sometimes trawl the bottom of her bag to give me a few old and escaped sweets. When I was younger I wondered why the wrappers were so hard to get off and why the softer ones were very hard or the boiled sweets were tacky and soft, she would smile at me, watching intently while I struggled to peel away the stuck wrapper. I felt something wasn`t right but as this was how things always were I failed to see she was relishing me being thankful for some scraps she no longer wanted for herself. On the very rare occasions I was offered one from a new packet she would make out she was being kind and giving me a treat but as I took it she would snap coldly "Only one, thats enough or I`ll av none left".

After her death, when I was given her personal possessions I recall there being a handful of stale, cheap boiled sweets at the bottom of her handbag. I held them in my hand and gazed at them, I felt quite sad she had ended her days with this pitiful selection, even if years ago she would of gladly given them to me when they reached a point were they were deemed too stale for she herself to eat.

Day after Day

In the posts I have made on this Blog I have mostly written about particular incidents or time spans in my childhood and moving into adulthood about how things were for me with my Parents. How things were for an only child with a Malignant, Personality disordered Narcissist for a Mother, a woman who had been taking Valium and sleeping tablets regularly for years, who had a history of mental health issues and was chronically histrionic, who had uppers and downers as if Bi Polar, a woman who had had a troubled childhood and was at times both disturbed and disconnected from reality.

My Father was her enabler, he was a coward when it came to ever standing up to her, no matter how extreme her behaviour, a bully whenever she bade him to be, distant emotionally and lacking in empathy, preferring to look the other way whenever I needed his support or protection. Many incidents have been easy to recall and record as they are etched in my memory as are the emotions I felt as the years passed and I grew through the stages of my life and her behaviour changed and adapted to remain a looming and ominous presence, all thinly veiled under a fake smile and declarations of only ever meaning well despite every move she made regarding me proving the exact opposite. What is harder to document is the day to day existence and the myriad of emotions I processed as the lonely hours passed by. 
  I can say I was always on edge to various degrees. Whatever I was doing I forever had a heightened sense of awareness of all that went on about me. In fact I still do. If I was on my own, in my room perhaps, I would be listening out for voices, footsteps, a door opening, my name being called, or any loud noise. Along with the sounds there was sometimes the silence to contend with also.
 Perhaps even more so in the silences there was an expectant tension, wondering what would shatter the silence.....her wandering mind suddenly becoming agitated and some wild unprovoked accusation being spat at me, heralding the beginning of some drama ? Or me making a noise that may startle or wake her and light the touch paper of her temper ? Or perhaps worst of all her lowered voice as she gave my Father chapter and verse of some misbehaviour, it would drift through the house and would go on and on, peppered with my Fathers brief responses, slowly becoming louder and more insistent until she in turn got mad at him too if he wasn`t too bothered to be enraged on her behalf.

Those times it was just a matter of waiting for him to come and find me, either for a telling off or for a good hiding, this either depended on how much appeasing he felt she needed or how tired and inpatient he was feeling. Giving me a few good slaps and raising his voice to convince her I had been punished to her satisfaction would hopefully mean he was off the hook and in his mind that was all that mattered. Occasionally he would begin with a question and I learned pretty early on that a truthful answer and as I grew older, a logical explanation of the crime in question, complete with me pointing out the inconsistencies of Mothers version, would do nothing to save me, in fact it often got me in more trouble as me being in the right wasn`t allowed and proving it came under the heading of `being cheeky and full of myself` and children, even adult children should always defer to the insanity and untruths of their Parents, well my Parents certainly. As I write it occurs to me that my Father hardly ever had any reason to tell me off over anything, it always came from something my Mother had a problem with. I think that goes to show I wasn`t the errant, wilful girl my Mother constantly painted me as. I instinctively strived to stay out of trouble and not provoke her and when I was naughty it was pretty minor compared to most children who`s upbringing was far healthier than my own.

And so on a daily basis I began to develop survival skills from quite an early age. There was an unspoken code of conduct I adhered to. In my 20`s I worked as a waitress for a while and utilised a childhood skill, just as good waiting staff make themselves invisible while people are eating and suddenly appear when something is required of them, such was my strategy at home with Mother. It was best to keep out of the way and as quiet as possible when she was lost in thought, napping, reading or watching TV, anything in fact that did not require another to assist her. The rest of the time I was expected to be within earshot of her summoning me and be available in an instant for running an errand or doing a chore. The more skilful I was at adhering to the code of conduct the more she beamed her approval at me, using phrases like "You ain`t much trouble am ya Mand" or "You`re a good little elp to me you am". Anything that had to be provided for me was carefully controlled by her. Here the code was that I should never feel free to request whatever I wanted whenever I felt like it. I was to wait to be offered. If I should dare to ask for something it was usually `we`ll see`, which meant that I would have to pay for it in some way, be especially compliant and helpful until I had earned it, or as she was eternally just one wrong word by anyone away from a narcissistic injury, a request by me could create all sorts of unpleasant possibilities if it was ill timed. The code of conduct also included playing along with the false face both she and my Father presented to the world. She was either the tearful victim of some injustice, the frail invalid battling yet another health crisis or the despairing, well intentioned Mother. Father had a supporting role where he hovered by her side and nodded agreement to her distorted truths and I was conditioned to accept that any attempt to share an accurate picture of the reality of my life at home would be challenged with a fury. It was against the code of conduct for me to ever have a voice, ever be heard or ever speak my truth.

I tried hard to read her emotions and in the process developed the unhealthy trait of choosing to ignore my own. I was watchful of her and should I see she was withdrawing into a depressive state I tried extra hard to be both entertaining and helpful, useful whilst at the same time no trouble at all to her which was the expected code of conduct when she was on a downer. I also dreaded my Father getting home because without warning she may flip and her low mood would all be down to some misdemeanour of mine and then I would have to fend off my fathers anger because I had "Upset ya Mother again" and he knew her state of mind would be hard work for him to deal with. Everything was always my fault. And so day to day I rose, listening for sounds, was she up and agitated, up and calling me to tell me there would be no school today as she needed help in the house or with a food shop or was she still sleeping, which meant I could get ready in peace and get off to school without waking her. If it was a none school day I could take some time for myself but also try to get ahead with any chores I knew I had or better still spot something before she did and when she mentioned it I could proudly tell her it was already done, even that could go either way if she had it in for me. If it was in her mind that I was for it then whatever I had done would be done to her dissatisfaction for some bizarre reason. She was well tuned to those who tried to manage her wrath and if she felt her anger was being repressed before she had had the pleasure of venting it then the wilder she would get.

Throughout the day I would be continually aware of Mothers tone of voice and behaviour, I was forever tense, on edge, Fight or Flight mode was my default state of being. Ironically though I had nowhere to actually take flight to and fighting back against two adults, neither of who cared much for me, well that would of been unthinkable. I obediently did as I was told, trying hard to please to avoid her sudden wrath and if I`m honest, forever in hope I would master the skill of being good enough and therefore maybe, just maybe, be worthy of a little warmth and love, just enough to shake off the feeling I was not worthy of either. I took any chance I had to retreat to my room, to read, daydream, listen to music {quietly} and listen for them and my being summonsed. I navigated the highs and lows of her mood swings like a sailor out at sea. I strived to survive the storms and stay afloat somehow, I watched the clouds and gauged the winds ready to adjust my sails and though at times I drifted through still waters and enjoyed a brief respite I knew it would not last long.... somehow safe harbour was forever out of reach. And this state of affairs doubled as my childhood. So it was, day to day, day after day.....
           

A Photo in a Frame

Sometime after my Father passed away, I put my favorite photo of him in a frame and found the ideal spot to display it. The photo perfectly captured his facial expression when he was happy, with a sparkle in his blue eyes and the warmest of smiles. It was taken standing in my kitchen on one of their `Royal visits` when they had been invited to tea. I would clean the house from top to bottom and make sure I had all their favorite things in ready supply. Wiltshire ham and pork pie for him and maybe a Victoria sandwich, salmon and pavlova for her, a traditional spread complete with wine and too much food, food all carefully prepared to meet all her expectations and do them proud.

We were only ever asked over for tea once by them and that was because they had an ulterior motive. He looked so happy in the photo, I treasured it for a long time. That was a time when I was still running never ending rings in the hamster wheel. And his smile.....on the surface it may have been mistaken for a Father`s smile expressing happiness at an afternoon spent at his Daughter`s home, enjoying time together and making happy memories. And for a few years I told myself that exact lie, burying deep inside the truth. That truth being that his smile was merely rooted in the satisfaction that I was `making your Mother happy` as he would of put it. On that day Mother was on an upper and ready to play `Happy Families` with her well trained puppet of a daughter who readily over looked their insidious abuse and cruelty over the years in the never ending hope that finally she was good enough and was making them proud. And look, here was the proof, here I was in my lovely home, with a feast prepared, fussing would they like more of this and that, another glass of wine, cup of tea perhaps while she glowed with glee at the effort I had gone to and he beamed his approval that it was making her happy and he could therefore enjoy a few hours of respite from keeping her appeased. And so he smiled happily at the camera, for all the wrong reasons. And so rare and precious were those moments when it seemed I had at last come up to scratch that I chose to play along, not just on that day but for years afterwards, even after his death, when I would gaze at the photo taking pride of place and return his smile, allowing myself to believe that it was for me rather that only for what I was providing.

Time always seems to alter how we view things. Sometimes as we mellow we wish we had been kinder, at other times as we grow older and wiser we wish we had been stronger. And so it was with me, time allowed me to peel the layers back, clear the fog and see things through fresh eyes. There was the discovery of Narcissism, personality disorders, the revelation that my Father was an Enabler and the slow realisation that I was the victim of abuse, at the hands of both of them, working together, as a team, to ensure I was utterly convinced I deserved everything I got because everything was my own fault and if I only tried a little harder we all could all be so happy.......if I could only be good enough. I was, on that day, when I took his photo. On that day, just for those few hours I was good enough because she was happy and so he smiled, he smiled at me because she was happy. 
After their deaths, as time passed and as I gained so much knowledge and could see with great clarity how very wrong things had been throughout my childhood and particularly as my own children grew and I began to fully understand how wicked they had been......well....I simply could not bear to look at him, so I took the photo down. As the hurt and anger festered in me I begrudged it it`s frame so I removed that too. That photo is lost in the house somewhere now, at the bottom of a box tucked away in some forgotten place. But his smile is still clear in my memory. A fleeting smile which was borrowed for an afternoon and then taken back the very moment she had found me wanting in some way and he had to support her disapproval. I so wanted that smile to be for me, I so wanted him to love me....but then she never allowed me keep anything nice for very long.