I have always challenged Eirwen, my narcissist ne plus ultra mother. And as we often must when dealing with a narcissist, I have fought to be my own whale shark rather than that pilot fish mooching along at the shark's gills.
NB - we have Royal Marines Commando, Stacks, to thank for that analogy.
Eirwen was unreasonable, raging, physically violent.
I read and reread E.B White's classic Charlotte's Web. One teatime Eirwen, leering, simpering, was telling family friend Connie 'Practically Bedridden' Presland how Charlotte famously spun words into her web.
'Words such as "splendid", Connie, and - '
'No,' I said. 'Charlotte spins "Some Pig", "Terrific", "Radiant" and "Humble"…'
Connie's features shrunk on my behalf.
Eirwen shouted at me, 'I'll thank you, you snivelling fatso, not to question your elders and betters about something I spent my hard earned money on buying you in the first place.'
'"Some Pig", "Terrific", "Radiant","Humble",' I repeated.
'I beg your pardon, when I just told you precisely what she did spin into that web. This is Eirwen Silcox you're arguing with.' She transmuted hitching her knitting yarn into a memsahib's snort. 'We'll carry on this discussion when our guest has left. No, Connie, of course you mustn't go yet - there's bananas, Pink Angel Delight and tinned evap for afters. He'll wait.'
She meant I would wait for her to beat me with the blue stick. I can still see myself at seven or so, in my underwear, downstairs in the communal area, flinging that blue stick (once the handle of my toy broom) into the dumpster.
Eirwen was also conniving, telling her friends made up things about me. All those Lillians: Big Lil, Little Lil, Welsh Lil, Lives the Wrong Way Round the Balcony Lil; plus Inner Brother Joan of the Lodge and - who could forget - Connie 'Practically Bedridden' Presland.
'He's been vandalising my knitting again, jealous I have my artistic outlet. He punched Whiskey the cat full in the face. He can stage the most convincing asthma attacks. He was born lacking a fully observable penis. He's tried now to convince each of his childminders in turn to adopt him. I said to him - you get adopted by Aunty Daisy, mind, and you'll end up retiring with her to Basingstoke. There's no Battersea Funfair in Basingstoke.'
See how narcissists concoct details to corroborate their lies? Also, see (hear:)
'Yes, it grew only from the time he was exposed to the elements outdoors of my womb, Big Lil. That's why in his baby photos, either his father or I has our hand over his groin area. Or when he's on the rug in front of the gas fire, we have his Welsh shawl draped across…'
Instinctively, I knew from an early age to keep my own record of my life. I wish anyone in close proximity to a narcissist would do the same. I've needed often to refer to mine to refute this or that parental invention.
If nothing else, the process has developed my capacity to remember things. My friends are often amazed at my exact recall of past events; Eirwen and Terry almost always frustrated.
Perhaps all my onstage stories, blogs, vlogs, aspects of the memoir My Tutu Went AWOL! are my attempts, in the face of Eirwen's narrative, to record the truth about myself.
Eirwen talked recently about writing her own memoir. 'There are companies these days who will get you to say it all aloud and then put it through a computer. It won't be all over-formalised, shall we say, like your book, Iestyn. Just natural. More for the people to read. Because, let's face it, what did informed critics have to say about your book?' By which she means her friends. 'You completely misrepresented our very loving relationship, as Mari saw it. And she's had her leg off. Welsh Lil's daughter, who's newly religious so prays over a slice of ham, thought you went to town on me. As did Inner Brother Iris from the Lodge. Of course, as we know, I never got a copy of the book for myself…'
She did. I sent her one.
My Tutu Went AWOL! doesn't have an index. In her copy, Eirwen has added:
Mentions of yours truly: 4,9,16
Miss out the mentions on 6, 14, 139. Very rude about my waters breaking, my beautiful tortoiseshell horn-rim specs and hessian cushion covers.
Eirwen said, 'Anyway, I'm asking around for ideas about what I should call the memoir of my life. People say they'll be ever so thrilled to read it, they can't wait.'
I couldn't resist suggesting, (sorry), 'Call it, Here Lies Eirwen Silcox.'
The process of keeping track has always been for my benefit only. When I face Eirwen with the correct versions (as I see them, two sides to everything…) she cannot, will not process them.
They contradict her narcissist's view of herself - 'This is Eirwen Silcox you're talking to…'
Keep your own record straight.
And be your own whale shark.
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