My Life in Reverse (4 page)

Marissa just shakes her head.

“I’m going to get to work.” I tell her. “Keep busy.”

“I’m here if you need anything.”

“I know.”

Masks of a Narcissist:
 Refers to the different “faces” that the Narcissist shows in public as well as to the victim.  These different masks are often socially acceptable, or even desirable masks.  They are often the persona of the great parent, the church-goer, the volunteer, the world’s best spouse, the charming and funny person.  However, those close to the Narcissist knows that many times their actions are very different than those of the people that they pretend to be.

Mask (of a Narcissist) slipping:
 When a Narcissist’s mask slips, it is usually only the victim that sees this–although others may from time-to-time see it too, (they just don’t know what they are seeing, and often chalk it up to the abuser having a bad day). It is during this time that the Narcissist’s true self, which is composed of deception, manipulation, and cold, calloused, calculating behavior is revealed.  Many victims are terrified of the person they really see when the mask slips, and often describe them as “pure evil”.
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14 months ago (a few days later)…

“If I can’t have you, nobody will.” His eyes are dead serious.

A chill runs through me despite the sheer volume of people around us. “Do you hear yourself? So what, if I won’t be with you, I can’t be with anyone?”

“Yes.”

I shake my head. Luckily the waitress comes to take our order.

I knew coming out with him was a bad idea.

“None of my friends will fuck with you.” He says smugly.

“I wouldn’t fuck with any of your friends to begin with.” I point out. “Ew.” I know way too much about where they’ve been.

His head twitches to one side for a split second. The movement concerns me.

“You should just stop it and take me back.”

“No.” I say firmly. “In fact, how’s that roommate and apartment search going?”

“I’m still looking. You know I have to save up.”

My escape to my mom’s is short-lived. He follows me there. Now he takes one of the two bedrooms over while I share a smaller room with the kids. Every night he tries to convince me to sleep in his bed. Every night I decline.

He’s been just insane since I’ve tried to separate from him. He’s sent his friend’s to spy on me when I meet my friends for lunch or dinner. He even knew I left the house one morning (to go to the freaking eye doctor) without my telling him—while he was at work. That’s some creepy shit, right there.

Don’t get me started on social media. He’s so pissed I blocked him after he decided to use my FB wall to fight with me, that he keeps making new accounts…new accounts that I keep blocking.

The whole situation exhausts me.

He
exhausts me—and not in a good way.

It feels hopeless. Inescapable.

It feels like the end of me.

I come to some harsh realizations. I don’t matter to him. I’m just a thing. His object. My feelings, thoughts, hopes, and dreams mean nothing because I’m not a valid person. Not in his eyes.

It’s all about what he wants.

Not about what I can survive.

A few weeks later…

I have no space. No personal space whatsoever. He’s always here, in my face—spouting words that sound like static, but still manage to cut me deeply.

I keep losing weight. It’s the stress and what’s likely an ulcer in my gut that aches every time I get too freaked out…which is way too often.

I’m literally wasting away, mentally, physically—and nobody around me cares, or at least cares enough to notice.

Everyone ignores the huge pink elephant in the room that I’ve become.

I wish I could say my spirits are high, but it’s really quite the opposite. I’ve hit an all-time low, instead. The only thing keeping me going are those kids.

It’s not the first time they’ve saved me, nor do I doubt will it be the last…

12 years ago…

I can’t believe it. He swore he’d stop using—
swore
it. I can look at him and tell he’s high as a kite. It’s hard to call him on it—even when I find an empty heroin bag or needle—because he gets so mad…so adamant that it’s not his.

We have a baby on the way.

A whole new life of responsibility.

There’s no time to shoot dope! There’s no fucking money for it, either.

He goes to work—sporadically—but all his money is long gone before I see any of it.

I don’t know what to do…I don’t even know if there’s anything
to
do…

Other than hope for the best…and prepare for the worst.

11 years ago…

“Who’s shit is this?” I ask him. I just found a ring and earrings in the back seat of the SUV. I’d say ‘our’ SUV, but that would imply that I get to drive it.

I don’t.

Even though I’m the one with the license, car insurance, and the titleholder…

“I don’t know.” He blows off my question. “Probably one of my friend’s girl’s shit.”

Never mind the fact that I struggle to feed us while he can drive friends around. “Hmm.” I say and slip the jewelry into my pocket. It’s silver (and I kind of like the ring.) Maybe I’ll just wear it until someone claims it.

I tell the nagging voice in my head to shut up. It tells me not to be stupid—that you don’t find jewelry in the back seat for nothing.

Unfortunately, I don’t have time to overthink anything.

I have a kid to care for.

10 years ago…

“We have no fucking food!” The words come out full of exasperation. I’d even gone and applied for food stamps, but they haven’t kicked in yet. “He’s been eating ramen noodles for a week straight and we can’t even afford anything for us!”

He hasn’t given me any money for rent or bills. Nada. Zilch. Zip. Much less for food. Fuck, I’ve been hand-washing laundry in the bathtub, because we can’t even afford the laundromat.

“They’re going to want the rent soon, too!” I add.

The anger in him grows. His pupils are small as fuck. Apparently he can’t pay rent or buy food—but he can still buy heroin and shoot it up. Awesome.

I don’t know if it’s because he’s high, mad, or both. He slams the door on his way out.

I look for something to feed my kid.

8 years ago

“You got what?” I ask, incredously.

“I got arrested.” He says. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Arrested for what?”

“Drugs—but don’t freak out. Brian asked me to get him some blow, but I got nabbed. They’re not going to prosecute as long as I help them.”

“Help them how?” I can’t wrap my head around what he’s telling me.

“Give them the bigger fish to fry.” He explains.

Oh. My head begins to shake slowly. I have a really bad feeling about this.

7½ years ago…

I pull out three empty dope bags and two needles. I’m not even snooping, just doing laundry. We moved back in with my mom for six months, staying in the room in the garage. All of us. Even the kid and dog.

I’m pregnant again—kind of far along, now. Still, I work over forty hours a week at a restaurant, waitressing and bartending.

I come to the realization that I can’t live like this anymore. He denies his drug use left and right, but I find shit everywhere that disproves his claims.

Now I
do
begin to search. I tear through everything. I find more and more paraphernalia. I’m livid. Words can’t express the anger that courses through me. Even six months pregnant, I call one of his dealers. I threaten to kill her if she sells to him again. I tear into her viciously...and then I have an epiphany.