Life With a Narcissist

As a long-time reader of People Magazine, I remember vividly when someone asked Christie Brinkley how she was doing during her divorce, and she responded, "Just google 'divorcing a narcissist.'" Oh, how I wish I'd done some Googling...before I got married.

I was halfway through a HIIT workout when my husband came downstairs. He mumbled something that I didn’t hear, so mid-way through an ab set, I grunted, “What?”

“What???? Gosh, you’re just so sweet and pleasant, Laura. I’m so glad I’m married to you.”

It almost sounded like a compliment, but for the tone of voice. He stalked out of the room, and my muscles gave out, my cheek coming to a rest on the rough wool rug.

I’d like to say things got better, and it seemed at first like they might. He complimented Caleb for helping make breakfast and praised Violet for using the potty. Then I took Violet with me to pick up the groceries, and left the boys at home. When I got back, he was still sitting in the same recliner, and the boys were itching to go outside. I can’t begin to describe the apocalypse that would have happened if I had been the one in my underwear in the recliner, but obviously rules are different for men. I told the boys they could stay in the driveway while I brought in the groceries, but Violet had to stay inside. Because she’s two, you know, and she needs someone to watch her at all times. She didn’t take that news well and the tears began to flow.

James came out to the garage and told her he’d stay out there while she played. I thought maybe he was going to play nice. I was dragging in the groceries, but I found the sunscreen and took it out to him. “Can you please put this on her?” I asked. He is the parent who is hysterical about sun exposure, to the point of fighting me about the pool membership because the kids would be in the sun too much.

“I don’t know how to do that,” he snarled. I was kind of surprised by the ferocity of his response. It seemed to come out of nowhere.

“Just spray it on her,” I responded, and I put the sunscreen bottle on the trunk of his car.

“DON’T PUT SHIT ON MY CAR!” he bellowed.

“But you’re the one who’s always worried about sun exposure and I have cold food that has to be put…”

“I SAID, DON’T PUT SHIT ON MY CAR!

I fled inside.

Moments later, Eli appeared, asking for a washcloth and soap. “I’m putting food away. Why do you need a washcloth?”

“Dad says my neck is dirty because you don’t wash me well enough. He says I need to wash it off.” I looked. His necked looked tan to me…not dirty. And Eli, at 7, showers by himself. I’ve coached him through the process a number of times and, well, he’s 7. Sometimes he does better than others. I wiped his neck with a wet paper towel.

“Looks fine to me,” I told him.

Eli disappeared outside, but moments later he was back. “Dad says it’s still dirty. I need a washcloth and soap.”

“Then go get one from the bathroom. You know where to find that stuff.”

James reappeared in the house, with the other two kids. He was furious. “He has dirt caked on his neck. You don’t bathe him well enough.”

He stormed upstairs after Eli, and moments later Eli reappeared with a bright red neck. Aside from the red, there was no difference in the skin, but he was certainly well-scoured. I can only imagine how that went down, since Eli is so ticklish that he falls apart when I put lotion on his neck and shoulders.

“You have to teach him how to bathe!” James bellowed.

“I did. And he…”

“No you didn’t. You just throw them in there and sit around and do nothing while they shower themselves.”

“I don’t do nothing. I’m bathing Violet. You can handle bath time, then. If you’re going to criticize, you need to handle it yourself.”

“I did handle it…when Eli was a baby! You like to forget that!”

“I don’t forget that, but that was over seven years ago. And now you’re criticizing, so you need to handle it.”

“You don’t ever do anything. You sit around here and don’t do anything. You like to brag about your $1000 a month that you make. Do you know how little that is, after you pay taxes? It doesn’t pay anything. I pay for the house, for the food, for the gas and electric. You just spend your money on stupid fun stuff like a pool so you can lounge around and do nothing. You don’t do shit. You should be a little more grateful for the life I provide for you.”

He made sure I was crying, and stalked upstairs. Half an hour later, he was back. “Good luck supporting three kids on your thousand dollars a month. You’ll be living on food stamps, in government housing. You won’t be doing all the fun things you like to do.”

And here we are again. James conveniently ignores the years I spent working 2-3 jobs while he was taking grad school classes and working out. And he conveniently ignores the year he was out of work and I marched back to work far too early after having Caleb because, frankly, I was the sole provider. He also conveniently forgets that we still paid childcare for two kids while he was out of work because he refused to watch the boys, and how I still did all the cleaning, cooking, and nighttime parenting. Because, you know, he coached freshman track. So he was doing SOMETHING.

Over and over, he reminds me that teaching isn’t a real job. That I got three months off in the summer. (I worked several jobs every summer until I had kids, when the cost of childcare no longer supported it.) He forgets to mention that I gave up a tenured teaching job that paid really well when we moved down here. For the job he just HAD to have.

He tells me I’m cold and unemotional with the kids. He claims I never hug them or love on them. He claims I’m brainwashing them. Why? Because I tell them, “This is not how a man should treat a woman.” It’s the only thing I know to do.

When I was sobbing uncontrollably, and Violet was sobbing uncontrollably because of it, he muttered, “Oh, so you’re going to make a scene out of this, are you?” Because a real man makes a woman cry, then accuses her of manipulation.

I would like to leave, but I haven’t because I’m quite certain a family court judge would give him partial custody. He looks good on paper, and he can be charming if he wants to be. He is perfectly capable of controlling his vicious temper if he wants to. He doesn’t. The thought of my children having to navigate his moods without someone to speak truth to them is more than I can bear. So I stay. At least I can tell Eli, “You are fearfully and wonderfully made” when his father picks on his size. Because yes, he does treat the kids just as badly as he treats me. He screams at them and swears at them. Today, he hollered, “I’m not going to let you raise my sons to be fags.” All because I let them play in the shallow end of the pool instead of demanding that they go off the diving board. It scares them. I believe in letting kids work their way up to conquering their fears. He’s downstairs right now pretending to be super dad, trying to love up the kids so they think I’m the crazy one. But Eli knows, and so does Violet. I worry the most about Caleb. He wants his dad’s affection so badly, he’ll believe anything.

Trust me, this is only the tip of the iceberg. No, he’s never hit me…but my mom, who has seen how quickly he flies into a violent rage, is sure he will. And sometimes I wish he would; it is easier to prove physical abuse in a court of law. The effects of a decade of emotional abuse are more elusive.

I’ll never judge a woman for staying, and I’ll never judge a woman for leaving. For every set of “irreconcilable differences”, there’s someone else like me, fighting and praying for the truth to set her free.  I’ve remained mostly silent all these years because, frankly, it’s embarrassing. I mean, I fell for this man. I married him. I had no idea people like this existed, but I still bear the responsibility of my choice. I mean, who wants to say, “Yep, I was young and dumb.”

But I feel like I need to start telling my story. My husband will go crazy if he finds out, but you know what? Evil prospers in the darkness. I’m not keeping his secrets anymore. I’m throwing open the doors and letting in the light. If the light reveals that I am, in fact, unlovable, a terrible wife, deserving of this life I’ve lived, then so be it. I’m just tired of living the lie.