I wrote extensively about my Aunt Iris in the post The Nanny. I covered how she was part of my early life and how I put her up on a pedestal, she had so many qualities I admired and was so many things I hoped to be. And yet because of her lecherous husband, nothing less than a dirty old man with an eye for underage girls, I was unable to stay in close contact with her and so lost someone who was so valued by me, I recognised this at the time in my very early teens and through the following years. The incident of abuse was the catalyst that drove us apart and then my being forced from my home at the tender age of just 18, when all of my focus was on simply getting by, alone and of course I am certain my Mother had a hand in keeping the estrangement going in later years. She was always quite jealous of the bond between my Aunt and myself.
She would of spun a tale or two and would not want my Aunt and I to compare notes and find her version and reality to be greatly different. But just like Uncle Jack I mourned her absence from my life. It was never at the forefront of my mind until I had my own family. My Husband came from a large family, not emotionally close or supportive, other than his Parents, but in contact at least, whereas I just had my two toxic Parents. I was so thrilled to be a Mom and so longed to share my children with some part of my own family. After that day when I called my Father, begging to be picked up to go home, I did not see my Aunt for about 4 years, until I was 16. Even the fact I told my Mother about what happened is not prevalent in my memory of those years. It was swept under the carpet and never mentioned. I can remember being very nervous about visiting again and yet longing to see my Aunt. Thankfully he, Uncle X, had made himself scarce. I had grown and changed a lot since my Aunt had seen me last, I had started work and looked far more grown up. She was never affectionate in a hugs and kisses way but I clearly remember her suddenly reaching out and touching my face, exclaiming how different I looked and her expression was full of affection for me, I could tell she had missed me though she did not say the words. And that was the last time I saw her I`m pretty sure.
I cannot remember a time after that. I do remember me being reluctant to get my hair styled when I was about 15, Mother ridiculed the way it looked and hung over my face and spitefully told me that on discussing it, Aunt Iris had told her that I liked to hide behind it. She informed me of that with pure delight and savoured my obvious embarrassment and hurt over her choice of words. As an adult I would ask them both who they imagined I was hiding from....wouldn`t that of been interesting to hear their replies ! Then came the years where I grew and carved a life for myself, my Fathers health and employment capabilities both declined and my Mother grew to a new level of evil in her resentment of me as she absorbed that her high life days were behind her now and mine were just beginning. She slyly demanded I leave my home as I made the house unhappy and when that demand was secretly enforced and I had no choice but to do just that, she then orchestrated a false united front with my Enabling spineless Father that they were shocked to the core and distraught about my departure. What lies she spun Aunt Iris about all this I dread to imagine.
In a feeble attempt to connect with her I sent an odd Christmas card though never received one back, unless they went to my Parents house in which case its entirely probable that my toxic Mother threw them away rather than pass them to me. And as I write it also occurs to me she may well have told my Aunt she had given them to me, in fact who knows if my Aunt had written a line or two for me in them. She must of slandered me to my Aunt though because I remember one time in my 20`s I called in and she was buzzing with manic energy and all smiles as she rode a high.The phone rang and it was my Aunt Iris. Mother giddily announced that I was there and did she want to say Hello to me ? As I was standing nearby I clearly over heard my Aunt snap loudly "NO, I do NOT!", Mother, in the voice of a scolded, sulky child replied "Ohhh...well alright then". The call then came abruptly to an end with Mother struggling to make eye contact with me and her mood nose diving fast. She often forgot the nasty things she said of people when she was later in a more upbeat mood and was then taken aback when she found someone still with the mindset she had previously manipulated them into. In my 30`s when I had my 5th miscarriage I remember my Mother giving me a card from Aunt Iris. Why it had to reach me through her rather than Mother just giving her my address I could say I don`t know but naturally I do, it would be a sly way of triangulating and controlling our interaction.The card simply said `Thinking Of You` and was signed Aunt iris X. And it meant a lot to me, though it was a little tainted when I proudly showed my sister-in-law to which she replied sneeringly "Er`s put a lot in it ain`t er?!" I still told Mother to thank her very much for it. I later asked if she had passed on my thanks and she gave the familiar fast nod of the head with a very quiet Yes. Just as she did when I asked about giving the photo to Uncle Jack and if she`d told my Father of the abuse. Oh how I wish I had taken matters into my own hands and responded directly to my Aunt.
But I was grieving, striving to carry a child, hold on to my errant, alcoholic, emotionally unavailable Husband, hold down a demanding job despite losing time after each miscarriage, helping to pay a mortgage and still continue to deal with my Narcissistic Mother and Enabling treacherous Father all whilst being oblivious to and uneducated in the ways of the utterly toxic people closest to me and still striving to meet their expectations of me, as a Daughter, Wife and a `unable to carry` Mom.... It`s so very easy to see what we should of done with hindsight isn`t it ?
And so the chance to reconnect with my Aunt slipped away from me, as did my pregnancies, happiness and any self respect I had. And next I had my baby boy who died, nothing from my Aunt reached me during that time, who knows if something was intercepted by my Mother, given her rage at his funeral.....
My Mother was born in 1927 and so would be 93 and Aunt Iris was at least 5 or so years older so I imagine that she too is passed. I wonder if we could of navigated contact without ever broaching the subject of what her Husband did and if we might have been able to rekindle the closeness of the early years. She never had children of her own. In fact I had even wondered if she was my Mother given the inconsistencies and uncertainties regarding my birth. Though deep down I don`t think so. For a long time I thought I lost her because of her Husband and because of my Mother, both are true. Yet I suppose I also lost her because she could not face that she married a man who could do that. I had wondered if she believed me but she had witnessed him telling me I had come to bed eyes when I was only 12. It was never discussed that she had even been told of what happened but I`m certain she would of been, if only as a tool by Mother to get the upper hand in some disagreement. Perhaps she feared her standing in the community would be tarnished, she was well known and respected in the village where she lived. Perhaps my Mother would of falsely had her believe, that she thought I was out to rack it all up again when I got upset about her trying to elicit sympathy from me for Uncle X`s poor health, and so maybe she felt I was best kept at arms length. I imagine she would of been quite wealthy when she passed away. So lets be crass for a moment and ponder money. I, unlike my Mother did, do not have a longing for money, I simply am glad for well stocked cupboards and my bills being paid. But it has crossed my mind that my children may have also suffered from my Mothers meddling ways.
My Aunt was the main beneficiary when her two bachelor brothers passed and so would, I think, have left a healthy estate. I suppose it went to my cousins in Australia and to the woman she was Nanny to as a child, I heard they maintained a close bond over the years, and she was naturally from a monied family herself. So had she seen fit to bequeath me a little something it in turn would of been passed onto my children, for I would have had no wish to squander it as my Mother would have. But thanks to my Mother and a series of unfortunate events it seems I was not considered. It does not bother me in the least, my only regret is I lost my Aunt, because of wickedness and family secrets. I have to smile and shake my head when I remember how my Mother forever had her hand out for a handout even when it was not even needed and yet she managed to rob me and my children of so very much more than money in so many ways. As the saying goes, having a Narcissistic Mother is the gift that keeps on giving !
I will be forever fond of my Aunt, remembering her thick dark hair, deep red lipstick, perfect diction and her easy air of confidence and kindness. I think we were both alike in settling for less in a Husband than we deserved, perhaps both tainted by our childhoods and never seeing our true self worth. One day when we meet again in a better place I would like to sit beside the river on a Summers day once again and eat ice cream and chatter about anything and everything..... just like we used to do.
With my Love X
My Mother was the 6th of 7 children. The youngest of the brood went by the nick name Jack`y. I will call him Uncle Jack for the sake of privacy, though that was not his birth name. My Mother was very fond of him, he was one of the few people that I never heard her say a bad word about, any issues she had with their relationship were blamed on his wife, who I always quite liked. As previously covered their childhood was a hard one, she and Jack`y were the two youngest and close in age and I think they found comfort in each others company. Uncle Jack was courting his wife-to-be around the time my Mother was courting my Father and I believe they both married around the same time too.
He doted on his wife who I will call Aunt Jill. My Mother did not like her but managed to hide it well, probably as she did not want to alienate her brother. She would spin the tale that she, her brother and their respective spouses were all good pals and enjoyed regular drives out to the country for drinks, that was at least until my Mother became pregnant with me. It seemed that Jack and Jill had no plans for any children and things cooled considerably after my parents announcement that I was on the way. My Mother would say how she was sure Jack`y would of loved children and how he would love to make a fuss over me until Jill arrived and then he would keep his distance. Bearing in mind my Mothers Narcissism, that all sounds like projection on her part, mirroring how she subtly bade my Father to both keep his distance and limit his affection for me. I could never quite work out what was at the root of their odd relationship over the years. For as long as I could remember, a few days before Christmas, Uncle Jack would call round, always on his own. He would stay for exactly one hour and in that time they would fill each in other in on the years events. My Mother doing most of the talking with detailed updates on all her ailments and also asking an odd probing question to find out any family gossip which were met with gentle but brief replies from her Brother. With both him and his wife working and without the expense of raising children they were very comfortable financially as my Mother would put it.
He would bring a couple of bottles of spirits for my Parents and a nice gift for me, I remember they bought me my first real perfume, a bottle of Miss Dior which I absolutely treasured. And my Mother would usually later beam and whisper that he had given her some money. She loved money and was in the habit of often dropping hints to her brothers about being a bit short. The money was mostly squandered on unneeded and soon forgotten clothes or Bingo trips. Until I was in my teens we were also invited over for New Year. They had a lovely house in a good area and there was a generous buffet laid on and a fair amount of alcohol drunk though that did not stop my Father from driving us home in the early hours. I liked to go. Aunt Jill was good fun and had an infectious laugh which my Mother always sneeringly referred to as `er saft squealing`. Other peoples laughter always seemed to grate on her. There was a warmth about them both, though my Uncles was understated, I suppose he was a classic introvert. He was a smallish man and had a shock of dark hair, a thick moustache and dark twinkly eyes. I remember he seemed besotted with Jill. They had many interests and hobbies but it was clearly a case of `if Jill was happy then Jack as happy`. He was devoted to her and attended to her every need. There was a lot of love there and she in turn was totally at ease with the roll of being adored. It appeared to be the perfect partnership. I was drawn to the kindness and care my Uncle exuded and always had the urge to run into his arms in the hope there may be a little love left over for me too and that he would scoop me up and spin me around, though I never did.
But the annual New year invitation stopped for some reason which was never really clear. The unspoken rule was that contact between our Jack`y and his sister was always on a strict `once or twice over the festive period only` arrangement. On an odd occasion when she was in a depressive state or histrionic and in need of attention she tried to ring Uncle Jack but was disappointed in his lack of response to her attention seeking. She never was able to get him to be at her beck and call. I think he knew her well enough to realise if he ever began reacting to her hysteria he would never be free of her. She then always laid the blame for his lack of response firmly on Jill, saying that he wasn`t allowed to be close to anyone but her. More projection I think. As an adult I saw neither Uncle or Aunt and was just informed each Christmas that Jack`y had called in and given her a bit of money. Other than one time, when driven by my remembered affection for my Uncle I knocked on their door with a Christmas card and a boyfriend in tow. The front door was barely opened, the card accepted but it was clear we were not going to be asked in, in spite of him being just as pleasant with me as he always had been. I think by then my Mother had been bad mouthing me for some time. Which leads me on to my Mothers sly way of slandering me, not being honest about how I readily stepped up to the role of dutiful daughter and I believe she managed to isolate me from the little family I had. Family which I always longed for a relationship with, needing some normality and connection.
Forever hopeful of being good enough I catered to my Parents on high days and holidays for years. Especially after my Fathers death my Mother always came to me on any holiday and was treated like a queen just as she demanded to be. And so a few years before she died she told me our Jack`y had been as usual before Christmas and relayed this conversation. Mother: I was showing him the photos of the Grand children and I told him what a lovely Christmas dinner you cook. And he asked `Oh do you go round to Amanda`s for Christmas then ? {She relays the question in the very surprised tone he used} Of course I do she replies, ya don`t think I stop ere all by meself do ya ? She then glances quickly at me and changes the subject. I pondered this later. And slowly began to deduce that Uncle Jack had obviously been kept in the dark about how involved and supportive I was in my Mothers life, to the point where he was shocked that I would even bother to invite my Mother over on Christmas day being of the impression I would be quite OK with her spending it alone in her bungalow. Briefly she reacted and replied as if that very suggestion, that she was so undervalued and overlooked that she would be forgotten about, had offended her narcissistic self, hence her quite affronted response. She realised she revealed to me his understanding of our relationship and the treatment of her by me....that is of course the false impression of it she had fostered and spun him, not the truth of how she had me dancing to her every whim. It was classic gaslighting by my Mother.
Painting a very different tale from the truth, giving everyone a poor opinion of me and occasionally slipping up, allowing me to work out what she was up to. Though it was no real surprise. I also left a small photo of my daughter with her to give my Uncle when he called. It was a gorgeous photo, she was about 2 and had the most beautiful smile {she still does !} I harboured a hope that it may trigger a little interest from him. When asking if she had passed it to him she replied simply `Yes`, What did he say I asked ? Well... she said, he took it but said they weren't much for photos in his house. I have remembered his reply often. I am still torn between it being his way of keeping his distance from her and therefore me or that she didn`t give it him and wanted to pass over the topic. I would rather believe the first but truly I doubt she did actually pass it to him. Both are sad possibilities really, both examples of fractured relationships I was ever in hope of repairing. And so upon her death I had the first direct contact with Uncle Jack `our Jack`y` for years. I sat on my Fathers old chair beside the phone in her living room, gazing around at the scattered remnants of her life frozen in time from months ago when she had last been home.
I went through her phone book, I found no number for my Aunt Iris, her sister, but Uncle Jacks was there. I gathered myself knowing it was difficult news to hear over the phone and from a Niece he had not spoken to for many years. On hearing his voice as he answered the call I was taken right back to when I was a little girl and liked him so much. I spoke as kindly and softly as I could and broke the news, he was surprised but not shocked, commenting that with her health it`s amazing she had lived to 79 really {an opinion formed from her endless moaning rather the truth of the full life she always managed to lead}. I told him I had no number for Aunt Iris and he assured me he would let her know. Wondering to myself if she would be able to come to the funeral I then asked if Uncle X, my abuser, was still alive, Uncle Jack faltered and mumbled `As far as he knew`, which in it`s self was an odd response.
I must insert here that a year after my Mother`s death, a friend of mine who had access to public records through her job, did a little research for me during a time when we were both discussing our histories of abuse and she surprising informed me that Uncle X had been dead for a while at the time I asked my Uncle. As he was in touch with Aunt Iris I am certain he would of known of the death and yet answered me with `As far as he knew`...
I told him I would make all the arrangements and call in a few days and let him know the funeral details. When I hung up I was relieved it had been so easy to speak with him and I harboured a faint hope that we may now grow a little closer....perhaps it would be me who he would call on once a year, I would of been quite delighted with that and would not of expected nor accepted a bit a money either ! And then an odd thing happened. As I was able to make an appointment to arrange her funeral the very next day, as soon as I was home I decided to call there and then and give Uncle Jack the details, I suppose I was eager to continue the re-connection. There was no answer so I waited an hour or so and called again, still no reply.
Perhaps they were out for the day I thought. I called again at around tea time and again early evening, still no reply. I double checked I had the right number which I did. And finally when I tried one last time around 8ish in the evening I got a continuous tone, as if the number was disconnected or....the phone had been unplugged. I was bewildered by it given the ease with which we had spoken just yesterday. And, newly bereaved, anxious and a worrier by nature, I was so concerned I could not reach him that I sat down and wrote a letter, explaining I had been unable to get through on the phone and gave him all the funeral details he needed. I rewrote it as I did not think my handwriting was very neat ....forever striving to be good enough, even for someone who chose not to answer the phone. I went straight out and posted it there and then. The next day, still with my head whirling with everything that was going on, I made one last attempt to call him. He answered almost immediately. I explained my being unable to reach him by phone and then apologised for writing a letter as I assumed the phone was out of order, which I was afraid I had already posted, he offered no reason as to why they hadn`t taken my call and though polite we were brief as he seemed not to want to make any unnecessary conversation. After hanging up I ruminated if I had done anything wrong, handled things clumsily or even made a nuisance of myself. But honestly, I knew I could not have been more gracious to him, you see I was earnestly trying to let him see I was a decent person and undo any poison my Mother had spread about me.
And so the funeral came around. I did not even have a chance to speak to him and Aunt Jill until we made our way outside to view the flowers. Aunt Jill was warm and friendly and complimented me on the eulogy to my Mother that had been read. Uncle Jack though stayed a good few yards away from us and though as I chatted I glanced back and forth between them, hoping to engage him, he would not look my way. I commented on the beautiful flowers they had sent. And they really were beautiful, a huge double ended spread of all red roses, the type you would see at a Hollywood stars funeral. They seemed to make a statement. As if he wanted her to have the very best....acknowledging in some way all that they had to go without in their childhood, a childhood endured together. There were just 6 of us at the funeral, me and my Husband, my cousin, Uncle Jack and Aunt Jill and a neighbour of my Mothers. Her two closest neighbours, who she had behaved badly with for years, did not turn up. And because it was such a small group I had not arranged a wake of any sort which I explained to them. Uncle Jack quickly said they were off to the vets with their cat now anyway and with that they left. He barely said goodbye to me and I was choked as I saw him walking quickly off....`take care` I called after him, still struggling to make some connection. He neither answered or looked back. I have thought of him often over the years. How I would of loved to maintain contact with him, no matter how limited. I so wanted him to know my two children, I so wanted them to know someone from my family but I never plucked up the courage to reach out to him again. I had to accept that in every way he had made it clear it was not something he wanted. And it hurt me. It still does. For a few years, each Christmas I would wish he would come to visit, even if only for the hour he spared my Mother, an hour would of been better than nothing.
I would pause at the window sometimes, imagining him pulling up and the children running to greet him, showing him drawings and toys and we would have a cup of tea and laugh and chat and in those moments I would have family. Of course it was just make believe. He never called and and I never dared to either, another rejection would of been too hard to bear. I just had to accept that as always I had not been good enough. I imagine that he has passed away now, if so I was never told.
Why it was this way...well there are several possibilities I have toyed with in my mind over the years.
Was he just a true introvert that had no need for anyone in his life other than his adored wife?
Was Aunt Jill possessive over him as my Mother always said....but she always seemed so warm and friendly even if she understandably never fostered a friendship with my Mother.
Had my Mother been truly successful in painting me in a horrific light and I was considered toxic and someone to be avoided at all costs ? Without a doubt she would of torn me to shreds whenever I was not dancing to her tune and fallen out of favour but then would her own brother not know her well enough to realise there was far more to it than the edited version of her story ? Given she had let slip that she always spent Christmas with me ?
OR, had she shared my truthful accusation of Uncle X`s abuse and flipped my ordeal to use against me and make out I was a trouble maker and wanting to dredge up the past and get revenge ? And he therefore was determined not to be dragged into it.
Or perhaps my Uncle`s childhood had damaged him so that he was unable to be close to people, perhaps he worried I would enquire about their early life, ask questions that would trigger terrible memories and he wanted the past to never be bought up ?
Who knows the real truth, it may even be a mixture of all of the above to varying degrees. Whatever the reason I still acknowledge a sense of loss over his absence in my life and as usual a feeling of rejection and unworthiness too.
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.
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.
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.....
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.
After many miscarriages and the death of my first born Son, my 7th pregnancy thankfully ended with the birth of a healthy baby boy. Like most new Mothers I was determined to be the best Mom I could, I had waited so long for this and so often lost all hope in ever having a child. Given my own childhood experiences and conditioning naturally I was caught up in trying to do a good enough job of caring for my little lad. I loved him beyond measure, beyond any description in mere words. I paid close attention to every detail and he was my first priority, my world. I was desperate to give him a very different upbringing than than one I had endured.
And so, I was now back in touch with my parents, despite their appalling behaviour both at and after the funeral of my first born Son, in the misguided hope they deserved a chance at being Grand Parents. I made sure they had the opportunity to see their Grand Son every week or so even if they did not always take the offer up. He was about 2 or 3 months old when on a warm sunny Summers day I took them for a stroll around a local garden centre. At the time I was using a pram/pushchair passed to me by my Sister In Law. It was positioned in the pram mode which enabled my little lad to lay flat until he got a little older. The day was warm and got warmer as we went along. My Son was dressed in a lovely short legged all in one outfit and he was enjoying laying there, gazing up and looking about at things as we passed, his little legs kicking freely, gurgling happily, until he nodded off to sleep. In the heat he was just comfortably cool without any cover on. I was constantly holding the pram and did not leave him for a moment. A few people looked in at him and with admiring smiles and Ohhs and Ahhs they commented how comfortable and contented he looked on this sunny, warm day. I exchanged a few words with people as we went, enjoying my child being noticed as any Mom would. At the time I was not aware of my Narcissistic Mothers reaction to this as I believed she was busy pursuing her favorite hobby of shopping though given what happened later I imagine she was well within earshot and the attention both myself and my child were receiving were triggering the usual reaction deep inside a malignant narcissist. I`ll add that my Father was smiling happily as we made our way around, enjoying being out and about with his Grand Son. Unaware of anything brewing with my Mother the day came to a close and I dropped them home.
The next time I called in I immediately sensed an atmosphere. My Mother seemed oddly on edge and almost excited whereas my Father was stern and straight faced. My stomach twisted with the old familiar tension, I knew there was something coming but I was completely unprepared for the warning and admonishment I was about to receive.
I made small talk for a moment or two but no response was made by either. My Father was sitting in his chair, bolt upright and my Mother stood across from him fiddling with her hands, too agitated to sit it would seem. She was wide eyed and attentive and there was an odd gleam in her eyes, both goading and gloating at the same time. Anyone who has had dealings with a Narcissist will I`m sure know exactly what I am trying to describe.
My Father began, his tone sharp and with no warmth at all. "Amanda, we`re very worried about the safety of our Grand Son, we think he should be strapped down when he`s laying in that pram thing" Mother nods frantically, fidgeting about in anticipation of the supply she will receive when her Enabler has completed his mission. "HE`s going to get SNATCHED by someone if you don`t look out" He raised his voice to aid the delivery of his vile tirade whilst my Mother positively glowed with delight. I stood silent, stunned, blindsided and at a loss to know what to say. My mind raced, instantly questioning myself, my face feeling warm as I blushed with shame and searched my memory of our `pleasant stroll` around the Garden centre, trying to remember some detail, unseen by me but spotted by them, which meant my beautiful precious child had been at risk and I had been too remiss to notice.
I could find none and yet as ever, faced with these two working together to annihilate me and spin any fantasy into a reality where I am blamed and shamed while they are judge and jury, I stood there, bewildered and defenceless of a crime that never happened. My heart was racing as he added more and more with my Mother chiming in and agreeing with him which encouraged him further as he knew he was obeying her orders satisfactorily. I was told they had both witnessed strangers `eyeing him up` and it`s a wonder no one had just picked him up and made off with him and he was `just laying there` waiting to be taken. I need to take more care as a Mother etc.... My mind was racing as I tried to offer that I had not felt he was at risk and I was with him all the time and it was a very warm day so covering him up and tucking him in would of made him too hot and there were no straps to use in the pram position as he would be unable to fall out and was still so tiny but I was talked over every time with them both becoming more adamant that I just did not realise the risk, as if I was a complete fool. Beaten down and triggered into feeling like I had failed as a Mom, I found myself standing silently as my Father wound down and my Mother raked it all over and over, re hashing `snatched children` stories to bolster the issue, revelling in stretching out my clear confusion, guilt and distress. I left shortly after, not wanting to stay in a frosty atmosphere where I was being made to feel guilty over something which never happened. And I remember feeling grateful I was an adult now and could do just that, leave, get away from them, the way I never could have done as a child and I reprocessed the awful twisting fear I would of experienced years ago, wondering how long this telling off would last for and where it would end. I drove home hardly concentrating on the road, trembling inside and feeling attacked and shamed. I can remember spending hours afterwards, worrying I was a bad Mom, wondering if it was all too good to be true and this child would be taken from me too, I played our afternoon trip over and over in my mind, not finding one tiny suggestion that my little Son had for one moment been at risk. And as I slowly calmed down my anger began to rise. If there had been such clear and present danger then why had my Father not once commented on it, or warned me of it. Why had he strolled with me happily smiling away and beaming when my Son was admired. And why did I not have more confidence to say it was all a load of contrived rubbish.....well I know why obviously ! But I should of had more faith in myself, I was a rather possessive Mom and was not the type to allow my lad to be passed about to all and sundry for cuddles, I was particular over who picked him up and was always watchful, therefore if there had been the merest hint of someone unusually close or interested in him I would of been on it straight away.
And the longer I thought the clearer it became. It was all rooted in my Mother, her witnessing my moments of pride and joy in the happiness of Motherhood and receiving the admiration of passersby who so often coo a little over a beautiful baby. She could not stand it no doubt. And as the jealousy coursed through her she came up with an angle to attack me with and remove any pleasure I had been enjoying. And my hopeless, hapless Enabling Father had been turned to her side in an instance I`m sure. Had I been quicker that day I could of remarked why he had chosen to say nothing about this danger at the time. I imagine he would of raged along side her, furious at being caught out and challenged and probably `having a funny turn` all bought on by his argumentative daughter who had no care for their feelings or her own Son, Oh I`m sure they would of milked it for all it was worth to anyone who would listen. They were both manipulative when faced with any clear evidence they were spinning a yarn.
The seed was successfully sown though and I forever harboured a deep down fear afterwards that this may be a way I would lose another child. They really did begrudge me every moment of happiness and after so many years of utter heartache I really do feel I absolutely deserved to enjoy every moment of my children's childhood just as my children did too.
