Escaping Hell: The Demon that Lived in my Narcissist Mother
STORY TWO: REGIFTED
Things had finally blown over with her. It happened every couple of months and before I really knew why it was happening, I continued to think it was all my fault. She got over not getting invited to the beach and it was now mid September and her birthday was a week away.
An evil and dark heart pumped black blood through my mother but she covered it up with Clinique foundation, false eyelashes, and Chanel perfume. I had to give it to her. She was a 53 year old mastermind when it came to fabricating elaborate stories with details created for the listener an ear length away. She had a way of telling stories the right way to the right people to get the right results for herself. I would die of exhaustion if I had to tell lies and keep up with them but then again I am a writer so I guess I take after her in some ways.
Even now, as I sit here in this cell, I realize she has won. She played the victim and she died the victim. Guess that’s the price she had to pay to live up to her name of always the poor victim who didn’t deserve the circumstances that life handed to her. It makes me vomit in my cell just thinking about it. People taking their lies with them to the grave and dying with their lies never exposed. People dying and lying to themselves, never knowing who they truly ever were. It’s sad for them but they wreak havoc on the world around them and that’s sad for the world.
It was mid September and I thought things were going well but anytime things went well for too long, I was on edge, always waiting for the ticking time bomb that lived inside her to detonate in my face. And every time, it happened.
Her birthday was a week away and I knew how much she loved to celebrate her entrance into this world sprinkled with the traditional birthday card and gift. I planned carefully and wanted her to feel special and loved. I booked a reservation at her favorite restaurant and it took about fifteen minutes to find the perfect birthday card, not too plain but not too cheesy. I bought her a classy and hip small black purse, the perfect size for concerts and travel.
We sat across from each other and I got the steak and vegetables. Her salad sat in front of her piled high with chicken, strawberries, and feta cheese. She sipped her white wine.
“My coworker got tickets for Santana and she’s taking me for my birthday. I’m excited for that. It’s the best gift ever,” mom said.
I lit up with excitement for her, “That’ll be rad. Sounds like a lot of fun.”
She sipped her wine and stared at me without a smile.
“You should open your next gift,” I pulled the gift bag onto the table.
“K,” she said.
She opened the card first at the slowest pace possible. Reading the card with careful precision, a small forced smile broke out across her face.
“Ah, thank you,” she said.
She removed the pink and white tissue from the gift bag and placed it onto the table and then reached in and pulled out the purse.
“It’s the perfect size for a concert,” I said.
“Cute,” she looked up with that same forced smile.
One week later, she was upset with me again and said that I wrote a longer letter in her birthday card last year and this year it was shorter so she concluded that I was treating her differently. Her birthday was in September, and that December she regifted the purse back to me as a Christmas gift.
