Valentine Venom : Part One

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There are many advantages to being the Ultra Narcissist. One of those advantages is the ability to control one’s ignited fury.  Total control of that ignited fury has proven, so far, elusive, but we do maintain significant control over it. Accordingly, whereas the Lesser Narcissist will erupt with heated fury when wounded – he tells his partner she is an ugly, lazy whore because she has not brought him his dinner when he wanted it – the Greater will often keep it under control. We remain wounded, but obtain the fuel required to address the wound in an alternative manner and keep that harsh, vicious ignited fury under control.

For an alternative time.

Those that wound us and do not receive an immediate application of ignited fury will not escape forever. Yes, they may have been spared the vitriolic verbal volley or evaded the icy glare and accompanying silent treatment to whichever manipulation we seek to apply, but we will punish them. A mental note is made and righteous retribution will be exacted. Always.

Valentine’s Day provides an array of opportunities to make good on that need to punish.

Today has been no exception.

A few weeks ago, a lady, Gillian, who is the head of a particular department within the business, saw fit to vote against a proposal. My proposal. She was outvoted and my proposal was adopted. The other voters evidently people of sound minds and forward vision. But not her. Her opposition lacked any intellectual rigour, was devoid of financial prudence and valid business opportunities were absent. No, it was evident to me that her opposition was founded on wanting to make my life difficult, to flick two fingers in my direction and to seek to derail my proposals.

This was the  third such transgression on her part. I had maintained my control over my ignited fury on the previous two occasions and did so on this third occasion also. I must admit however that this took some considerable discipline as I watched her raise her hand in objection and have the audacity to look in my direction also as she did so. Utter impertinence. I met her gaze with unflinching emptiness even though I was picturing her well-appointed apartment being engulfed in flames with her screaming for  help in the middle of the inferno. I sneered at her resistance but inside I felt the presence of the yawning chasm and the sensation of falling towards it. This is the effect of the wounding. I was sat in the boardroom and her failure to agree, her deliberate refusal to back my proposal, her defiance and intransigence was telling me that my plan was not good enough.

Not good enough.

Those three words which had been almost a slogan for my childhood. Not good enough.

She was just like all the others. Unreliable, treacherous, a traitor and not to be trusted. Not to be trusted a third time as she had now proven.

Three words. Not good enough. Just like she always said to me. She was just like her, seeking to ruin my world, seeing to govern me, seeking to control me. I am not to be controlled. I am the controller.

As these thoughts tumbled towards the waiting void, the fury then made its  presence felt. Reliable fury. Always there, ready to drive back the wicked transgressors. I felt its first surge as the fury arose, driving back the sensation of falling caused by the thoughts of those three words.

Instead, another three words replaced them. Victoria aut morte – victory or death. Another part of the Tudor family legacy, but one I would readily embrace. It must be victory, always victory. The fury continued to rise, banishing any suggestion of weakness – one must never be weak (“No tears HG, no tears” as she always warned). There are never any tears – well not mine anyway.

The presence of my fury urged me to put this impudent underling in her place. I continued to stare at her and as she lowered her hand she continued to defy me, eyes still locked on mine.

I wanted to annihilate her there and then, verbally shred her stance and humiliate her, leave her quivering with rage or even better reduced to tears of impotence in the boardroom and then drink of that delicious fuel to address her wounding of me. This would then abate my fury. I wanted to rip apart her weak analysis, round on her department’s shortcomings and make her responsible, I wanted to demonstrate to the other heads that she was not fit for purpose and land blow upon blow upon blow.

But this was not the time. A savage (albeit accurate) outburst would be frowned upon. It would detract from the force of the proposal. It might swing waverers against me. It might damage prospects. I felt the words forming in my mouth, ready to spit venomously in her direction, but I kept my mouth closed. Fighting to contain the fury but as it burned and blazed, it dragged down my fuel level. Her wounding and this control of my fury, with no fuel being forthcoming would cause my fuel levels to plummet and this would enable the void to appear once again and this time only more so and with that the risk of it making its presence known.

I was aware of the hands being raised in favour of my proposal and those acts of support, of approval and validation provided fuel. Several lines of fuel pumped my way from the non-intimate secondary sources that approved my scheme.

“HG’s proposal is approved and will be implemented with immediate effect, well done HG, excellent work,” announced the chair of the meeting. More fuel.

“Yes, well done,” commented somebody else. More fuel.

A hand patted my shoulder in affirmation. More fuel.

The wound was closing. I maintained my gaze and then she looked down and there it was. I saw the disappointment in those brown eyes of hers. I saw the downturned mouth and the frown. She was trying to hide her dismay but failing. Her instinctive response of defeat was evident to see. Her body slightly slumped in response, her arrogant stiffness eroded and all of this provided me with more fuel.

I felt the effect of her wounding fade, the positive fuel manifesting from my successful proposal and her negative fuel from defeat tackling the wound and thus the fury abated. I had maintained control. I had not fallen to the void. I had had triumphed over her rebellion. I had not erupted and damaged a variety of other considerations.

I had carried the day.

But this was the third act of wounding by her in recent weeks.

Three wounds.

Three words.

She had  to be punished and today was that day……

To be continued


4 thoughts on “Valentine Venom : Part One

  1. Violetta says:

    This one is so worth it. Gillian is one of those horrible mid-rangers who need out-narcing by someone who knows how.

  2. Asp Emp says:

    I enjoyed reading this one, HG.

    It gave a good example of how ‘wounding’ can lead to the start of a downward ‘spiral’ within a narcissist and a clear picture of what happens. Fortunately, on this occasion, there was the provision of positive fuel from more than one source to make up for one person’s ‘disloyalty’ (from a narcissistic perspective).

    I can also now understand that such ‘wounding’ can take someone far back into the past where all the ‘abuse’ started originally.

    For me, the ‘sensation’ of the past’s pain does not feel like it does from a narcissist’s perspective (ie the ‘creature’ or the ‘abyss’ appearing). When I say ‘does’, I can still get ‘hurt’ so I tend to ‘close my door’ and bring up my ‘protective shield’.

    Alas, for Gillian, well, I did have look for Part Two of this ‘story’….. (my narcissistic trait of a dirty empath…… laughing) – I am not THAT curious to know what happened next…..

    Laughing….. the image of the scorpions reminded me of a ‘discussion’ about hornets / wasps mating on another thread on this blog…… that was hilarious!

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