It was eight o’clock and she was tired.
She was always tired these days. Tonight she had come home from work, sat down in the rocking chair for a few minutes to kick off her shoes and rest, and the next thing she knew, Christopher was pulling on her arm, demanding his dinner. She had dozed off for nearly an hour!
James was late coming home again…like that should surprise her? He must think she is incredibly stupid, putting motel bills on the American Express card and then giving her some lame excuse that he took “the guys” to the restaurant there for lunch. Yeah, right. And if she had wings, she could fly. She tried to muster up a bit of wifely jealousy, but the truth was, she was tired of James and his crap. She worked like a skivvy and had to watch every fucking penny so that the bills got paid each month, and he spent money on that damned credit card like it was free. Well, it was…she had to pay it out of the household accounts, over and above his monthly pocket money. Selfish bastard.
She was just too damned tired to do anything about it.
Her back aching, eyes blurry, she started the dinner dishes, alternately yelling at Christopher to get back in bed and at James to supervise the child until she could get the kitchen clean. The boy was six and had yet to sleep through the night even one night of his life. She was exhausted.
At ten minutes after eight the telephone rang and, drying her hands on a dishtowel, she lifted the receiver. “Hello?”
The voice on the other end of the line was muffled, as if speaking through a handkerchief, but definitely male. The caller asked for her by her maiden name. She was instantly wary.
“This is she,” she said. “What can I do for you.”
There was a pause, a buffeting air sound, and then the voice said, “Do you want to know where your kids are?”
She went completely numb. Her brain quit working. Her breathing stopped. She felt like time had frozen at just that moment.
“Who is this?” she finally blurted out. “Who are you?”
“That’s not important right now,” he said. “Do you want to know?”
“Of course,” she said. “Where are they?”
His voice had an eerie, disembodied, almost detached quality to it. “Not so fast,” he said. “You have a whole new life now, a family. This could disrupt things. I want you to think about it.”
“I don’t need to think about it,” she said, her voice insistent. “They are my kids and I want them back. Where are they?”
“Take some time to think it over,” he said. “Eight years is a long time. Discuss it with your husband. I’ll call you back tomorrow at the same time.”
“Wait! Wait!” she cried. “I don’t need time to think it over!”
The line was dead.
It is difficult to deal with a narcissist when you are a grown, independent, fully functioning adult. The children of narcissists have an especially difficult burden, for they lack the knowledge, power, and resources to deal with their narcissistic parents without becoming their victims. Whether cast into the role of Scapegoat or Golden Child, the Narcissist's Child never truly receives that to which all children are entitled: a parent's unconditional love. Start by reading the 46 memories--it all began there.