The Power of Demise
“As long as I have a want. I have a reason for living. Satisfaction is death.”
So said George Bernard Shaw. To us satisfaction is not death but we derive satisfaction from death, the death of others. I wrote about how I rarely attend funerals and explained the reasons why, but that is not to say that we will not use the instances of dying and of death to our distinct advantages. Indeed, where the spectre of death looms waiting to cut that last slender link between the person and life, with his sharpened scythe, our kind come crawling from the woodwork in order to avail ourselves of the copious fuel that is available. Should you see one of our kind re-appear after an absence, there is a reasonable chance that the sickly sweet smell of death has attracted us.
Should we learn that a family member or friend is about to shuffle off this mortal coil, then this presents a marvellous opportunity for our kind. To begin with, the façade can be maintained through demonstrating false compassion about the circumstances of the person whose demise is imminent. We know all the phrases to rollout to the procession of visitors and comforters who are drawn to the bed of the dying individual. We delight in keeping a vigil besides this person even though we may not have bothered with them in years. Should someone be as bold to question why we have appeared now of all times after remaining away, we will seize on such an unwarranted observation to castigate the questioner.
“How can you ask such a thing like that, at a time like this?”
“This isn’t about me; it is about Uncle Malcolm.” (How we say this with a straight face still surprises me.)
“You can talk, what have you done for her lately?” (Which will be asked even if we know that the questioner has been a total rock to the dying individual)
Our response will be designed to draw an emotional reaction and allow us to drink of the fuel provided.
We will provide the rudimentary appearance of caring, although it is all for show. We will of course leave the heavy lifting work to other people. We are not there to change the pus-ridden bandages or sooth the fevered brow. We will not clean up after someone soils themselves or spills food and drink down their front from shaking, tremulous hands. Not at all, but we will do what we do best and shower words of empty kindness, false compassion and fake consideration towards the ill individual. This makes us look good in the eyes of all assembled and their nods of approval and muttered thanks not only provides us with fuel but adds to the façade’s maintenance. We are a good stick for travelling all this way (we were coming anyway for another reason) and offering such eloquent words of comfort to all assembled.
Watch us as we move amidst family members, friends, colleagues and neighbours who turn up to see if they can help as we position ourselves as gatekeepers. Nobody gains admittance without seeing us first so that we may suck in the fuel that comes with such a heightened emotional situation. Tearful siblings, stern-faced uncles, bewildered cousins all ripe for us to send a pleasant and supportive comment towards, purely to receive their thanks, gratitude and approval.
We will not allow the person whose sands of time are running out to inhabit centre stage one last time as we camp on to their ground, usurping them through an exhibition of apparent concern and compassion. Watch carefully and you will see that we do not actually do anything for the dying person, that is not our role, there are minions for that and it is all beneath us. Instead, we see this as a chance to draw fuel and appear to be a supportive individual who is pulling everyone together and ensuring that the dying person’s final days are as happy and as comfortable as possible.
We have seen enough times what needs to be said in order to produce the tears, the slowly dipped head and the weak smile, the attempt to be brave despite the heavy sadness. Inside we do not feel this as we greet each person. We feel empowered at the fuel that flows. We hover by the bed, watching over the new arrival’s interaction with our charge, commenting on what we have been doing for them (in fact it will be someone else who has cared for them but we are content to take the credit) so we gain additional approval and thanks. We regard these visitors as having come really to see us, to thank us for our work, our generosity and our greatness, rather than the dying, shrivelled person in the bed nearby. Like some morbid cuckoo we appear and take over this person’s final act, claiming it for ourselves, our fuel lines snaking towards anybody and everybody who appears.
Of course there even remains the opportunity to draw fuel from the dying individual. Though they may look at us through morphine-hazed eyes and mumble medicated words which are difficult to discern, the tightness of their grip on our arm or hand tells us plenty about how they appreciate what we are doing. As their time on this world draws to a close, we still see the chance to pull some fuel from this person as we trot out the familiar platitudes at a time like this. We do not say them to convey comfort, but only to ensure that appreciation, gratitude and thanks comes our way and in turn fuels us.
As guardian and comforter-in-chief we position ourselves at the centre of everything during this period. We do little but direct others and issue our spoken commands and observations, all of which being self-serving. We will endeavour to create yet more fuel by leaning in low and listening intently as the dying person speaks, perhaps their last words as we nod and gently pat them with our hand, the chosen one for their final speech. We will take these words and use them to our advantage. Should the grieving widow, let’s call her Emily ask what her now departed husband said, we might dismiss his actual words and say,
“He said, tell Emily I am sorry for what I did.”
Her look of confusion at our false utterance will provide fuel. Alternatively, we might say,
“He said, tell Rose I love her so, so much.”
Her puzzled look as she asks “Who is Rose?” generates a further dollop of fuel.
Then again, we may pretend that some huge secret has been imparted to us and that we cannot say what it is in order to draw questioning and attention to ourselves.
Indeed, there may be instances where there is that last chance to draw some negative fuel, to make those dimmed eyes flares one last time in shock, hurt and confusion. An opportunity to lean in close and whisper a final caustic sentence, designed to consign this wretched person to spend their final moments in torment, unable to respond effectively, their grimaces and clawing indicative of the discomfort that has been caused by the parting savagery that has been gently spoken into their ear. A parting burst of negative fuel which underlines our sense of omnipotence that we can still achieve this even at a time like this. Such an act is usually saved for someone who we truly believe deserves it.
I have watched in my time a master practitioner at such behaviours. From silent child made to sit and observe, through to knowledgeable adult who can see straight through this veneer and who knows what is really being done. I have seen all these moves, actions and behaviours meted out by this supposed bastion of compassion and all the while I knew what was really going on.
I may not have copied those behaviours extensively myself – usually because time has never permitted me to spend such days providing such a vigil – but I have seen it when younger and snapshots when older, as well as recollections from others which all fits together. I know what she does. When she arrives, immaculately attired, heels clicking away on the floor as she assumes centre stage, I focus on that click click clicking and know that the death watch beetle has arrived.
I have learned and I may yet choose to apply those lessons should the need arise, but I know for sure that I will seek that last fountain of negative fuel before the death rattle. I know who I will save my choice comment for in order to achieve that satisfaction from death.
41 thoughts on “The Power of Demise”
A sad story about abuse and death…
It is a very sad story about Dark Side of the Narcissism. I’m sharing it to show you, that, no matter what, we don’t have to be silent about any form of abuse we are dealing with.
I warn you, that it is a very depressive reading, so, perhaps, it is better not to read it at all…
His name was Andrey and he was my best and dearest friend. We met when we both were at high school. He and his older sister came to our city from another one to live with their old grandmother, because “their parents had died”.
My high school teacher told me, that Andrey always had a very bad marks at his former school, so she decided to “attach” him to me to help him to improve them.
He was a heavy introvert. He talked to no one. We shared a desk, we walked together at school, but we didn’t talk to one another at all.
One day, we sat together and I was drawing the intricate maze picture in my notebook.
He said “Your maze doesn’t have an exit”.
I said “Yes, all my mazes don’t have them”.
“My mazes don’t have them also”.
Then he gave me his notebook and when I opened it, I saw a lot of pictures of mazes. They all didn’t have any exits.
I looked at him and he said “Friends?”.
And then we both smiled.
Our friendship was something special. We weren’t romantically involved with one another, we didn’t have any sexual matter between us. It was just pure and tender friendship. We were inseparable. We studied hard together, we walked together, we laughed together. He had a very big and kind heart. He had a lot of hidden pain inside of it also. I sensed his pain, but I never pushed the matter. I waited for him to be ready to talk about it.
One day, when we were sitting at our “secret place” (small forest next to river) and talking about life, I said “You and your sister are different, but you both have the same type of pain inside of yourselves”.
He said “Because we were together at that hell… Wanna hear about it?”.
His father was a successful lawyer. Honorable man. Social activist. His mother didn’t work, because of “mental disorder” (she really didn’t have it, but she was a bipolar). She was a quiet housewife. They all represented the picture of “happy family”. But when the doors were closed, they had another type life.
His father was a psychopath, pedophile and rapist. He raped his family and forced all of them to watch the process. He raped his wife first, then his daughter, and then his son. He started to do it when Andrey was 5 and his sister was 7. The sex was always rude, cruel and lasted for long time. He knew how to beat and torture them without any “bruises”. He took a lot of photos of the process also (the police found them after his arrest). All family was mortally afraid of him and they were silent about their “home life”. Andrey’s mother tryed to “escape” from the harsh reality using alcohol.
When Andrey was 14, his father raped the 7 years-old boy and the police catched him accidentially. They put him into jail and he was cruelly killed there by two criminals at the same day. Andrey’s mother continued to drink heavily after that and one day she left her children escaping with an unknown man. No one heard anything about her anymore. The children were sent to their old grandmother after that. In a half of year, she died also… The two broken souls continued to live…
Andrey and I finished our high school successfully and we both started our graduation at Uni. He always wanted the tech career for himself…
When we both were 25, I catched cold and had a hectic fever. I was barely alive from it. My first narc-husband (we were married for 7 years already) was out somewhere. Andrey visited me at morning and brought a lot of fresh fruits. He was in a good (not depressive) mood and joked a lot trying to cheer me up. Then he told me that he needs to finish his tech project and went to his home.
I woke up at night having a very intensive feeling that something is wrong. “Andrey, Andrey, Andrey” was spinning in my head. We didn’t have a phone in our rented house, but we had a street phone near it. I had slept wearing pajama, so I just put my coat on it and raced to the street to call Andrey.
“Noname… How did you… You are ill… Go to bed. Immediately. Right now!”.
“Everything is alright?”.
“Yes. Everything is alright. Go to bed now. You’ll freeze to death. Don’t worry about me and have a good night. I’ll see you tomorrow”.
Then he hanged up on me.
I was staying on the dark, cold and windy street and I knew that he had lied to me. Everything was wrong. Everything.
My husband had a party at our music band mate’s home. His home was 5 minutes’ walk from Andrey’s home. I called to our mate and asked him to give the receiver to my husband.
“Hi, little one. What’s up?”.
“It is something wrong with Andrey. Please, go and check him…”.
“What could be wrong with your dear Andrey? I bet, he is sleeping now”.
“No, he is not. I’ve just talked with him. I’ve never ever asked you anything, but now I ask you. Please, please, go and check him. I’m serious”.
“We have sooo good party here and it is pretty cold outside… Go to bed, little one. You’ll see your dear friend tomorrow…”.
Then he hanged up on me.
And then I run. To Andrey’s home. I’ve never ever run so fast before. It took me by 25 or 30 minutes to get there. I rang and knocked on the door, but no one answered. Andrey’s flat was on the 1st floor, so I climbed through the kitchen window, that was closed, but wasn’t locked. Then I run to his room…
He hung himself. His body was shaking with final convulsions. I run to the kitchen, grabbed a knife, put the chair and cut the roap. He fell down on the floor. But it was too late. He was dead already.
I sat on the floor, put his head on my lap and hugged it. I didn’t cry. The pain was so overwhelming, that I felt nothing. I was numb.
At morning, his sister returned to home (she visited her old school girl friend) and found me there sitting on the floor with Andrey. I didn’t react to her and the policemen’s questions. I was numb.
Andrey left the letter to me. “…I can’t take it anymore. He (his father*) is dead, but he continues to rape me every night. Every. Single. Night. My body. My soul. My everything. The death is the one possible way from my maze, Noname. I know you’ll understand me. You always did…”.
After cremation, his sister and I went to our (with Andrey) “secret place”, because Andrey wanted me to disperse his ashes there. It was his last will.
After that, his sister and I were sitting silently there, engrossed in our own thoughts.
Then she said “He always wanted to die. If he hadn’t met you you, he would have died many years ago. You maintained his life. Your heart was beating for both of you, for all of us. He didn’t survive that hell. Don’t blame yourself, Noname. All those years we have known you, we were happy. He was happy. He laughed every day…”
“I was 5 minutes late to save him… Five. F*cking. Minutes…”.
“You always say “what’s done is done”. So, what is not done is not done also…”.
“Yes. You are right. What is not done is not done…”.
In a couple of days after Andrey’s funeral, I left my husband and filed for divorce.
Andrey’s sister and I maintained our contact after Andrey’s death. She never had a man in her life. She was afraid of them. Once she said “When my work mate put his hand on my shoulder, I felt as if he is raping me…”. She died 2 years ago from breast cancer. She wanted to die also…
P.S. As you can see, the silence is a “friend” of all Narcs. It permits them to do their “dark job” and abuse their partners, families, other people. Facing any form of abuse, never be silent. Talk.
Fuck. That just made me cry. Those poor children. How sad. I hate people who abuse children.
Yes, I noticed the same thing NarcAngel.
I am a fairly recent widow (4.5 years ago) and I couldn’t imagine in my wildest thoughts that a person could actually say those things to the widow just to create thought fuel drama for themselves. That is disgust beyond disgust for me.
I’m sorry for your loss. I know a part of it always stays with you. I’m also really sorry you’ve had to deal with narc problems on top of losing your husband. [hugs]
Sounds alot like my ex. He loved to crash funerals and to go to gravesites of people he didn’t even know and pretend that he knew them. I found it to be extremely odd and down right morbid. Now I know that he would even put on an act at a funeral and lie that he knew the person just to get some FUEL!!!
Cant help but laugh everytime we say something deplorable about Narcs and then say no offence to HG. Thats not a poke at you J. (or anyone else). I have done it as well.
NA—ikr. rat bastards. shit not HG tho. he is teaching us split thinking. or emoting? idk. fuck narcs. love HG. whose the oxymoron? ;p
I hate NPD. Tactics. I love learning them, To build our defense. Sort of like Navy Seal training. Hold your head under water, nearly kill, makes us better.
How else do we learn but behold the “enemy” it’s a mind fuck and awesome all in one. Inexplicably comrades.
LOL, none taken, Angel. It’s an odd dynamic to be sure…
Narcangel …its bc we know how easily wounded narcs can be. I find it awkward in a sense bashing narcissists and HG being the one reading these thoughts but i view HG as being nonnarc on this forum. No offence HG to any snarky narc comments 😄
I know they are directed at inferior brethren so it does not concern me.
I know, right…?
One of my favorite posts so far. This one REALLY shows just how truly depraved your kind are and how far they will go for fuel. (I mean no offense, HG. Merely a statement of fact.)
One of the most unsettling moments with my N and one that started my speculation about his narcissism was a selfie he took with a very old, very ill, elderly friend at his deathbed. The man was clearly in pain, groggy and not in the mood for a selfie. My N grinned with the dying man at his side and posted it on facebook. Clearly, posting it was the point. And I thought… what kind of monster snaps a pic with someone on their deathbed?
Thanks for bringing this aspect to light, HG. Great post.
You are welcome.
Well, there’s currently a smiling picture of my dad at his brother’s funeral on my phone. I never really thought about it before now.
Oh HG! This completely substantiates the theory I have about my narc. Being a holier than thou man of God, he is the first to be at hospice of someone dying. Doesn’t matter if it’s the parent of an old coworker- he is there till the end and will even show up at the funeral if his schedule permits. I have always believed this is just for show and to build up his façade. It’s a sure fire way of getting people to fawn over him and praise him for his compassion and goodness. “Oh Narc is such a wonderful guy. He really values relationships.” – said by someone completely bought into the fakery. Never mind that Narc never once visited or even cared about our mutual friend who was going through cancer treatments at that time. But then she wasn’t connected enough to his professional and social circles to serve him any good; not enough fuel to make it worthwhile.
Indeed. Never there for the hard part but suddenly appearing to claim the Crown of Compassion at the end by just turning up and feigning concern.
Absolutely! Unbelievable too! I’ve seen this from MRNs at work.
It’s a good way in I see now, sick relatives. “How’s your MIL is she warm enough, hold out hope it took my abusive father years to die!” What a nice man, how caring he is to text me this and ask, what a diamond. I wonder when you are sick or indeed a mid ranger… is it over played, are you beyond ill? Do you covert the attention by haming it up. Oh so much to learn.
Tales from The Narc Crypt
Every October my MMRN, his matrinarc and narc-niece would host a large dinner party (fuel gathering event). Of course, I was not allowed to cook or bake, however, I was allowed to sweep, mop, vacuum and scrub the toilet. Well, once my boyfriend started taking such good care of his IPSS, I started to boycott my maid duties. About an hour and a half before 25 guests were supposed to arrive, I checked the bathroom to see if his niece had cleaned it. HOLY SHIT! It was a filthy mess! Nothing had been cleaned and there was dirty laundry all over the floor. The worse part: her filthy underwear (5 pairs) had been left on the floor SUNNY SIDE UP! Disgusting! Immediately, I found my MMRN and told him to get his lazy-ass niece to go clean the bathroom. All she did was pick up the laundry and wipe the sink down. Quite a few of my narcissists were too busy collecting fuel to clean up after themselves, his mother and niece were absolute slobs. Yuck!
What I noticed was that although you boycotted the physical duties yourself, you still covered for them by monitoring the situation to ensure that it was done and when it was not you addressed it to ensure that it was before there was any embarassment. In essence-you did not boycott the responsibility but took on another role (overseer) instead of letting them fall on their face. They know that we cannot shuck the responsibility. Once and empath always an empath……
Dont you dare offer to go over this year to make sure lol. If HG doesnt forbid it I sure as hell do.
Excellent points. I certainly did take the role of overseer and would continue to do so until the end of December 2015. No more dinner parties for me, I am minimal contact with my MMRN; we have a 7-year old daughter. You are absolutely correct: once an empath always an empath. It is good to know that you and HG “forbid it”. I have actually thought about those words during many moments of weakness and they really do work. So from now on, I will think: NA & HG forbids it.
I’ve got one for you lol…
There were times I would go into his bathroom and find a present just sitting there!
Okay let’s be real here. How the hell do you forget to flush a turd? How much effort does it take to turn your body around and flush?
Of course…when I found these disgusting “suprises” (sometimes left in there since the morning) I would jump and go “ahh” or “ew” and he would then yell at ME. After all… I ask so much of him right? How dare I ask him to flush his turd and not leave it there since the damn morning….
Flush your damn turds.
I know a female narc that does the turd in the toilet routine, too. Seriously, pick up your dirty panties and flush the toilet, filthy narcs. It is all about the fuel.
The turd thing just confuses me…
How the hell can you forget to flush? All you have to do is rotate your body and flush!
He would no joke start getting so mad at me and would carry on when I would say something.
He used to bike from his place to mine and he would come over sweaty and try to touch me and sit on my bed and I would just hold my nose and demand he go take a shower.
You should have hosed him down in the garden with a power hose.
Let’s ask the expert. HG why do you think some narcissists don’t flush their pooh pooh? I posit fuel.
I shall assume you mean the expert on narcissism as opposed to being an expert regarding this foul behaviour.
They do not flush their excrement because of the innate lack of consideration for others through a lack of accountability. Combine this with the sense of entitlement to do as they please because they will no doubt be thinking about something else or they have been texting somebody else whilst on the toilet and they are so preoccupied with that, that they fail to flush.
Alternatively, they have too much fat in their diet which has caused the excrement to float and remain whilst the toilet paper was flushed away.
Yes, your expertise in narcissism; not foul toilet protocol. Your answer makes complete sense when I think of the guilty party that commits this offense. Questions like these are really helpful in understanding how the different narcissistic elements manifest in everyday scenarios. I was thinking of the emotions (fuel) disgust/shock/anger and completely bypassed lack of accountability and sense of entitlement. I have made note of your answer. Thank you.
My dad said something like that 😂…
Ugh and alcoholics have that disgusting sweat smell of alcohol coming out of their pores – it’s vile.
Pa Q is a tinker.
When my ex nobody kept bothering me to go kayaking my dad said “you might as well tie cement blocks to your ankles and jump into the water if you’re crazy enough to go with that fuck up”
That’s not very pleasant for your father to refer to you as a fuck up.
Not me silly… my ex. Lol
Not what Pa Q told me!
Gosh… aren’t I so abusive? I ask people to flush their turds and not sit on my bed when covered in sweat.
I’m so unreasonable! How did he ever put up with me?!
You were such an abuser, typical empath you see!
It’s such a shame – he never liked when I played games back. He would just look confused or get mad.
No one wants to play with me! Lol
hmm I doubt Pa Q would never say such things to you.
Uh oh … should I be concerned about your reality testing?
Nothing like the thought of a man texting me while he is on the shitter.
And when that time comes, HG, I will not feel the least bit sorry for her. We reap what we sow.