Jenny has this cute little bead craft that she spends a lot of time with. Jenny is a typically energetic 7 year old. She loves to sing and dance to Taylor Swift, she loves to chase her brother around the house and she loves to jump on the couch. But this bead thing is her thing. Sometimes she’ll quietly spend the better part of an hour painstakingly lining up beads in colorful patterns to make butterflies, dolphins or teddy bears. I think it’s her therapy.
Mark was over yesterday. Even though he could not care less about Jenny’s bead project, he fakes interest pretty well. He puts on his sing-song voice and tries to suggest which color Jen should place next. I’m standing in the kitchen and I feel myself wince when I hear him say, “Oh Honey, it would be so much nicer if you used green there instead of blue. And if you used black there, it would make all the other colors show up better.” With each one of his well-meaning comments I can feel Jenny shrink away from him. She’s already a petite little thing, and each of his suggestions seems to make her tinier and tinier.
After Mark left, I looked over to see Jenny in a collapsed pink puddle on the couch. I walked over to the opposite chair and sat so she knew I was there and aware of how she was feeling. I didn’t say anything right away. I knew she needed to feel bad for a bit. Finally I said, “How ya doin’, Jen?” She unleashed with, “How come he never asks about me? How come he’s never interested in what I’m interested in? How come he doesn’t like the colors I pick? Why is it all about what he wants to do?” There was no point in telling her that I knew exactly how she felt. She doesn’t want to hear that. She doesn’t want me to tell her that it feels like she is invisible, or that the wind could blow right through her insides because it feels like there is nothing inside her. She doesn’t care that I let her pick the colors, that I care about her day or that I like to know the details about school and her teacher. She needs that from her dad. I can’t do that for her.
The best I can come up with is to say, “You know, Jenny, I happen to know someone who has a pretty great life even tho’ she doesn’t have a very great relationship with her dad.” “Yeah?” She’s pouting and ready to kick something by this point. “Yeah? Who’s that?” I wait for her to look at me and I say, “Me … Silly.” I give her a second to let it sink in. She looks at me and says, “Yeah? Well you’re lucky!” We both think on that for a moment and then suddenly we both burst out laughing. Even my little 7 year old could see the absurdity in that comment.
Tags: all about me, child of narcissist, humor, narcissism, narcissistic behavior, NPD, survive
