A Letter to the Narcissist – No. 72

 

hannah letter

About ‘A’.

When I first saw you I was thirteen and you were the twenty four year old vocalist of a band that I liked. Like a young, punkish Iggy Pop you were a wonderful frontman and I absorbed it all. How could a person who wrote such angry, bold lyrics not chime with me? Let’s say we we knew one another in the most casual ‘hello, goodbye’ way.
A record deal, being on TV, all strong signifiers that you Lady Stardust had spotted you and your place outside the rank and file was all but guaranteed.
Yet it didn’t happen.
The big time eluded you and where you vamoosed to in order to lick your wounds was pretty much unknown.
I meanwhile had many relationships then a serious one then a child then became widowed.
At forty six I was unprepared for dating.
I was fat and frightened and hadn’t had a good haircut for eons.
I changed that.
Fast forward a few years and I am wearing a UK 10-12 size clothes, moreover I actually have clothes. Cashmeres, silks, wrap tops, kitten soft suede ankle boots, faded jeans now become me and my dirty blonde hair has been coloured and now has shades of vanilla and caramel running throughout. My make-up bag contains delicate, flattering make-up and my skin care routine brings out the best in my pink and white complexion. I glow.
The band reform to everyone’s surprise, treading the nostalgia boards like so many others and there you are, my degenerate, dishevelled ex-hero. Old pictures of that sculptured, decadent face pop up online and I cannot resist liking each and every one of them.  I am hidden in a crowd of others who are all pretty much doing the exact same thing. I am safe here in cyberspace.
But your antennae twitch and you start to zero in on me, soon the ‘likes’ are flowing my way. Maybe I am witty after all, maybe everything I say is note-worthy, maybe I am just the chosen one. The latter it would seem, I become your chosen one and you invite me to come and see you. We go for a drink. It’s good fun. I attend one of your gigs and that’s even better as you dedicate one of your more salacious tracks to me and break off mid-set to kiss me. I am blushing but pleased. Your messages are like honey, sticky-sweet. Am I safe? Do I miss you? If so, you miss me more! Will I come to your place for a few hours? Pretty please?
It is quite far, maybe a £15 cab fare, but I make a decision. It’s OK. I’m going. I take three long hours bathing, creaming, shampooing, conditioning, blowdrying, scenting my flesh My underwear and clothes are selected with great care.
I take pills since being widowed. Valium, they come in handy tonight and I take a few before leaving. i cannot bring myself to tell my son where I am going yet so tell him a shaggy dog story. Your messages push me onwards with their urgency ‘come on!’ they say, ‘I am waiting.’ I am ten minutes late when another flashes up ‘where are you?’ I am too nervous to not reply. Lipstick, chewing gum, scent. The taxi-driver watches me brush and rebrush my hair and smiles knowingly. That look tells me that I am back in the world of dating, of appeal, of gloss, of sex and best of all, love.
You rent a room in a HMO [house of multiple occupancy]. Men only. There is a spy-cam in the communal kitchen and another blinks at me on the stairway. The house smells of cereal packages stashed in a pantry, stale and biscuity. You lead me to your room that contains only a single bed, a lamp and a small black and white TV. Amy Winehouse is playing on your laptop, sad, smokey, sexy-voiced, booze-wrecked Amy.
I don’t know what I talked about. I listened as you told me about two ex-wives, both serial cheaters and both heartless enough to remove two sets of children from your life. You tell me about your most recent ex who bought you a car, a guitar and a watch, but she’s gone now, the mad-woman who set your flat on fire out of jealousy when you wanted to quit the relationship. Another female friend has found you this room and paid the deposit. Your Housing Benefit claim has yet to kick in. You do not tell me what your last job was, but then I didn’t ask.
We are all over one another. I draw the line at sex but there’s still this weird feeling of losing myself. I feel very young in this tine room and in the pitch black could be anything or anyone. i don’t need to be this sad, hung-up women, I don’t need to be the mourning widow, I don’t even have to think about being a mother for a few hours. Who wouldn’t feel slightly high? It’s 3am when I leave. I smell of cigarettes and stale biscuits. My phone alights ‘my pillow smells of Floris scent. When will you be back?’
‘Soon!’ I reply.
We see each other at the weekend at first, then a day in the week is added then another. i carve out time, I make the time that I hardly have. My son is behaving badly to garner attention, my father is dying of cancer, my mother ridicules me moon-blind about how I look and how I behave. But i don’t care.
A is an opportunist. My mother and my son are visiting my father? Great! Let’s use the free bedroom. Which we do. And we do so every time they visit. We sneak around like alley-cats and have sex in strange places. Graveyards. Phone booths. Public lavatories. I ache inside and keep getting Urinary Tract Infections. Doctors. Antibiotics. Antibiotics. Doctors.
I offer oral sex to silence him and this is accepted but he wants the power over me, not vice-versa and arguing over my ‘frigidity’ is such a drag that I often just let him proceed.
The cigarette burns my clavicle and A does not apologise.
His lip, I notice, is studded with cold sores and I ask him about it.
‘That’s from you,’ he replies. ‘Your pussy.’ He shakes his blonde head ‘and what about the STI you gave me?’
‘UTI,’ I correct, after all, I have never had an STI. But A is not listening, not at all, he doesn’t believe me, thinks me unfaithful and then swiftly drags me by my hair to his Facebook page to show me the ‘lover’ he thinks I am screwing behind his back.
I don’t know the guy and am certainly not sleeping with him.
I am in A&E. I cannot breathe from three fractured ribs and trauma to my breasts just adds to the pain. I stay in bed for three days, but the texts roll in at any time of the day or night. i lose count, hundreds each day, telling me what a whore I am, what a groupie-slut I am, what a disease-ridden c**t I am. I tell him that I am in bed and he tells me that he has seen two men come into my house. i am a prostitute so how much am I charging them? I sleep only for a few hours in any day. The glow has gone. As for weight, my size 12 clothes hang off me.
We don’t part. I see him when I am better but reduce the time we spend together. I am also looking around A’s room when I get the chance, I feel invasive and mean but do it anyway.
Girl’s pants, age group 10-12, are in one drawer, lube, anal probes and vibrators in another alongside hundreds of viagra tablets. His hidden bottles of vodka are in the cistern of the lavatory. I guess he gets slaughtered at soon as I leave his side, maybe prompted rows so that he could be alone and drink until he passes out.
I am nauseated but he likes me nauseated though and shows me the gay modelling calendar he posed for aged 20, tells me of boyfriends who have paid for his services in the past and that he is bisexual. Vanilla sex bores him. When will I just give him my arse instead of my boring vagina? When will i learn to give a proper blow-job?
It is June. We have been together for a year. A quits the band for the final time and they are glad to see him go, they too have been receiving around the clock abusive texts, they too have seen him punching holes in walls when he doesn’t get his own way. One band member tells me that the ex-wives were all beaten up and the children abused. One of his daughters was dying aged 30 of breast cancer yet he ignored that because he wanted to be with me. The ex who ‘set fire to the flat’ did no such thing,  but he did.
Had they told me would I have believed any of it? Or would I have opted for his version of events? Hard to say.
June is also my birthday but he gets me nothing, he never has. Valentine’s and Christmas and birthday are for other women not me, which is too humilating to admit. I leave for three months with my son and never return to his side. I go to an STI clinic and get a comprehensive check-up and mercifully all of these results are clear.
A still says that he has only ever loved me in his life. On Facebook he posts that the one he loved was both cold and detached and people ‘like’ the comment. They have decided who the ‘bad’ one is. Me. His dwindling audience are my judge and jury.
I haven’t seen him for sixteen months now.
Life never guite reverts back to how it was, you do not emerge from a fire minus burn marks, but I think that i have learned a lot since the day I first clicked ‘like’ on one of his old pictures, amazing at that bug-eyed, cheekboned, ravishing face.

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14 thoughts on “A Letter to the Narcissist – No. 72”

  1. Hannah,
    *hugs. I’m SO sorry. Musicians can be dirty awful people with no regard for anyone but themselves. The narcy aspect just heightens it. I don’t know if it’s playing in grungy bars, the groupies, or doing drugs out in the alleyway, but that lifestyle is a recipe for romance disaster. I was married to one. Happy to hear you are out. ~You deserve better

  2. Wow…Hannah…thank you for sharing. What a brutally honest letter. You are wonderful to come out of that.

  3. I was very glad to read at the end of the letter that you managed to get away from this deeply disturbed and dangerous individual.
    I hope that you are doing well. Keep going!

  4. Hanna,
    Very brave of you to share this with us. I had an idea of how low can low school narcissists behave by reading the articles here..but reading your letter is very impactful and brings the understanding to a completely different level.
    It certainly shows how certain schools can go soooo low.
    I bet your ex is a Lesser….low very low indeed!
    Stay out!!!

  5. Your letter is raw, honest and beautifully written Hannah. I’m placed by your words right into that haze of cigarette smoke lingering in the darkness; of that palpable pain of hope being trampled upon; records of Amy Winehouse playing in the background (I love her music; her death was tragic) and I’m so glad you got away from this cruel abuser. Life sometimes teaches us lessons when we’re the least prepared for it; you did so well to survive and to share your words here. Thank you!

  6. Met* me. I did proofread my comment before I sent but didn’t catch the omitted word. My eyes saw that to be there. Just like trying to read my narcissist, I suppose a part of me still sees what I want to see.

    Ugh!

  7. Wow Hannah… What a raw and honest letter you shared! Your detailed description allows us to feel as if we were there, right by your side. While the surroundings and circumstances might be different, our stories are all pretty much the same.

    I know too well that feeling of wanting in my heart to be with someone even though my mind warned me that it wasn’t safe. Your fellow certainly lived on the edge. I am relieved to hear that you escaped with your health intact.

    My instincts warned me that he… my sweet, attentive, overly-complementary gentleman who acted as though he hadn’t been with a woman in over a year when he me… was a player. So I made him get tested before I ever was physically intimate with him. Your story reminds me of the dangerous games they play.

    When I discovered the multitude of women he seduced while swearing his devotion to me, I was sick with worry. Fortunately, he tested clean again. But I often wonder when his risky ways will catch up with him?

    You have come far Hannah. A sixteen month respite is further than I’ve ever made. I hope you stay strong and never go back.

    And I hope that I can do the same.

  8. Can dirty little secret become IPPS? Is it possible for narc to divorce with IPPS and promote dirty little secret for this role?

      1. HG, this seems to contradict your other articles, in particular “The Dirty Little Secret” where you say DLS will never be considered for the IPPS role. Why the contradiction? Thank you!

      2. Yes, I can understand why that appears to be the case. It will assist if I go into further detail for you. At the outset of the person’s allocation into the role of DLS, there is no prospect of that person becoming the IPPS, that is why they have been made a DLS. The majority of the time that person remains a DLS and is not “promoted”. In certain instances, not at the outset, but later, there is a possibility (albeit it remains low) that this person will become the IPPS. They will not be made the IPPS directly and thus in that respect they never become the IPPS from DLS, but they would become an IPSS (Shelf and then Candidate) and thereafter may become the IPPS. Thus it is the case that at the outset the DLS will never be the IPPS but over time, dependent on how they function for the narcissist and also dependent on other matters in the fuel matrix, the DLS may become an IPSS and then may become IPPS. It is a fairly rare occurrence nevertheless.

      3. Thanks so much, HG! I really appreciate you taking the time to explain the mechanics! It makes sense.

  9. This made me cry. I thought previously maybe that I had cold tendencies in me and started blaming myself in my relationship…And then realized that narcs don’t find this offensive. My ex would have laughed. This makes me hurt inside. That man should be beaten to a pulp. What kind of disgusting people do this to others.

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