LJI 10:3 - Everything looks like a nail
Over time, I have begun to realize that my client is a textbook narcissist. She is always either the hero or the victim in every story, and watching it play out is exhausting.
It took me almost six months to reach this realization, and I'm embarrassed to admit that it took as long as it did.
And like all narcissists, she is an expert at weaving a tragic story.
"My ex mother in law used to hit me and pull my hair." (Not likely. Said "mother in law" was DDD's mother of the year once.)
"When I found out I was depressed, my parents yelled at me." (Again, not likely.)
"Our old staff kicked our cat and then lied and said he bit her." (The cat DID bite her. He's an asshole.)
"My old roommate used to kick and hit her dog." (They took the dog away before doing an investigation. She never did that. But she never got the dog back.)
"My boss said she would fire me if I start backsliding again." (Said boss held onto her job for her for over two years when she dealt with health problems, and now said boss is a villain. Right.)
I come in every Monday morning with an unsweetened cold brew (cream, no sugar) from Dunkin Donuts in my hand and she asks me how my weekend was. She hasn't gotten dressed yet and her hair is a rat's nest with badly done highlights. She's wearing the shirt I picked up at Goodwill, featuring a cartoon bird staring at his bill, which is on the ground.
"I went to Whitefish, MT and it was so cold my pecker fell off," says the word bubble above the bird.
I tell her about the minutiae of my weekend. She waits five minutes before rehashing her fight with her boyfriend, who has mild fetal alcohol syndrome and is mentally stuck at the age of nine.
Their fights are always about work, at least they start out that way.
He wants her to work more. She says she's trying.
She says they should do something fun. He doesn't want to.
He says he misses the way she was before she got sick. She says he expects miracles from her, and that she's *trying*.
She says he's taunting her by eating food she can't eat because of her recent IBS diagnosis. (He goes through a 24 can case of Pepsi in a week and a half.)
I try to be encouraging, but I am exhausted. She expects me to play therapist for her as she rehashes this weekend's events again, and again, and again. I provide encouraging comments here and there, while I play Yahtzee or browse Facebook on my phone.
"I told him to hide the knives because he might not like what happens if he doesn't," she says.
I look up, startled. "Do you need me to call someone?" I ask. The number for the crisis line is stuck to the fridge with a magnet. Her mental health team has been checking in with her repeatedly over the last few days.
"Oh, I'm fine," she says matter of factly. "I just wanted him to pay attention to me."
My stomach does a sick lurch.
I wonder how much more of this I can take before I have to move on from here.
How many more punctures it will take before her emotional manipulation has left me permanently exhausted. I promised her six months ago I would stay for the long term. And I am trying. I am trying so hard.
If this job is a new set of tires, I'm a car.
And I am wondering, daily, how much more of this heightened emotional manipulation I can take before all of her nails puncture my tires beyond repair.
But I still come in and smile, with my Dunkin cold brew in hand on Monday morning and say "How was your weekend?" while still dreading the answer at the same time.
It took me almost six months to reach this realization, and I'm embarrassed to admit that it took as long as it did.
And like all narcissists, she is an expert at weaving a tragic story.
"My ex mother in law used to hit me and pull my hair." (Not likely. Said "mother in law" was DDD's mother of the year once.)
"When I found out I was depressed, my parents yelled at me." (Again, not likely.)
"Our old staff kicked our cat and then lied and said he bit her." (The cat DID bite her. He's an asshole.)
"My old roommate used to kick and hit her dog." (They took the dog away before doing an investigation. She never did that. But she never got the dog back.)
"My boss said she would fire me if I start backsliding again." (Said boss held onto her job for her for over two years when she dealt with health problems, and now said boss is a villain. Right.)
I come in every Monday morning with an unsweetened cold brew (cream, no sugar) from Dunkin Donuts in my hand and she asks me how my weekend was. She hasn't gotten dressed yet and her hair is a rat's nest with badly done highlights. She's wearing the shirt I picked up at Goodwill, featuring a cartoon bird staring at his bill, which is on the ground.
"I went to Whitefish, MT and it was so cold my pecker fell off," says the word bubble above the bird.
I tell her about the minutiae of my weekend. She waits five minutes before rehashing her fight with her boyfriend, who has mild fetal alcohol syndrome and is mentally stuck at the age of nine.
Their fights are always about work, at least they start out that way.
He wants her to work more. She says she's trying.
She says they should do something fun. He doesn't want to.
He says he misses the way she was before she got sick. She says he expects miracles from her, and that she's *trying*.
She says he's taunting her by eating food she can't eat because of her recent IBS diagnosis. (He goes through a 24 can case of Pepsi in a week and a half.)
I try to be encouraging, but I am exhausted. She expects me to play therapist for her as she rehashes this weekend's events again, and again, and again. I provide encouraging comments here and there, while I play Yahtzee or browse Facebook on my phone.
"I told him to hide the knives because he might not like what happens if he doesn't," she says.
I look up, startled. "Do you need me to call someone?" I ask. The number for the crisis line is stuck to the fridge with a magnet. Her mental health team has been checking in with her repeatedly over the last few days.
"Oh, I'm fine," she says matter of factly. "I just wanted him to pay attention to me."
My stomach does a sick lurch.
I wonder how much more of this I can take before I have to move on from here.
How many more punctures it will take before her emotional manipulation has left me permanently exhausted. I promised her six months ago I would stay for the long term. And I am trying. I am trying so hard.
If this job is a new set of tires, I'm a car.
And I am wondering, daily, how much more of this heightened emotional manipulation I can take before all of her nails puncture my tires beyond repair.
But I still come in and smile, with my Dunkin cold brew in hand on Monday morning and say "How was your weekend?" while still dreading the answer at the same time.