A Slow Burn

Growing up with a narcissistic mother can leave untold damage. Especially when you don’t realize the trauma that has been a constant burden until you’ve reached forty-four years old, thriving in life. Or so you thought.

When you look back at childhood and teenage memories or what memories you can remember because repression was your best friend, the signs of narcissism are evident (and still are). She manipulates your emotions. She exploits you. She is never wrong. She destroys your relationships. She lets everyone know which child is her favorite. She lies, lies, lies. And she violates every boundary imaginable. The most frustrating part of it all is that everyone else believes her to be the perfect person, wife, and mother by outward appearances. It’s demeaning.

It should have come as no surprise when I found the little black book—a diary of sorts. Entry upon entry written about a man whose name is a mystery, which seems odd. I have no doubt it’s a mistake; she has left it in a place I find. I know better than to question her about its contents, but it’s tempting. Let sleeping dogs lie, or so they say. The best advice always goes unheeded. So, I do the unthinkable…

“Mom,” I cautiously begin. “Who is Dick?”

“Where did you hear that name?” She seems startled by my knowledge.

“Does it matter?” I ask.

And so, the lurid story of their affair of years begins. And ends with the devastating knowledge no soap opera writer could fathom…

“He’s your biological father,” she states in an almost cheerful voice.

It sickens and twists my heart like a knife. I hate her. I hate him. And to add insult to injury, he’s nearly twenty years her senior. Ancient. Shriveled. And a complete – DICK.

I feel like I cried for days, weeks, months even. I couldn’t drag myself out of bed. I asked for proof because I didn’t believe it. She wasn’t lying this time. It was impossible to argue with a DNA report.

When I eventually crawled from the depths of darkness, I had an epiphany. My mother was a narcissist. And no one else seemed to see the writing on the wall. I wanted no one to know the truth about me, so I felt like the crazy one. But that’s what she has been able to do my entire life. Project the crap onto me.

Coping through life with the knowledge so selfishly given is miserable most days. I long for a peace that never comes.

She calls me sobbing on a warm, beautiful day in April.

“Dick died early this morning.”

I remain silent on the phone. What am I supposed to say? I’m sorry? Finally? I’m honest to a fault, and that probably is the wrong sentiment to convey.

“Aren’t you going to say anything?” she asks.

“No,” I respond. It’s the only thing I can get out of my head and mouth.

There was a reading of the will. I refused to be there. She was furious, of course. I didn’t care. The only thing I could think about was the small amount of relief knowing he would never again spew hatred and filth from his lips.

The lawyer contacted me a few days later. I had been “gifted” with the little black book and twenty thousand dollars. He would send them via courier in the next day or two.

When the small package arrived, I didn’t even want to touch the tainted contents. I knew what I had to do, though. I went to the bank and cashed the check—twenty thousand dollars in small bills.

At the back of the yard was a small burn barrel for paper and cardboard. I took a single match, the twenty thousand dollars, and the little black book. I knew I could never look at “the inheritance” as anything other than blood money. I threw the money and book into the barrel, struck the match, and I watched them burn into ribbons of thin paper and eventually a pile of ash.