The Narcissist Who Stole Christmas
Dec. 25th, 2021 10:46 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
evile
The Grinch hated Christmas — the whole Christmas season. Oh, please don’t ask why, no one quite knows the reason. It could be, perhaps, that his shoes were too tight. Or maybe his head wasn’t screwed on just right. But I think that the best reason of all may have been that his heart was two sizes too small.
Yeah but at least the Grinch was capable of changing, of learning and evolving and seeing the error of his ways.
Not so with a narcissist, especially during Christmas.
Tis the season for connection. Celebration. Family. And those warm and fuzzy feelings we get when we’re surrounded by those we love.
The reason for the season is also a narcissist’s nightmare. They don’t do connection. They don’t celebrate unless they’re at the center of that celebration. Family members are useful only insofar as to how they can serve — or supply — their insatiable need for attention and admiration. If there’s a spotlight, you can bet a narcissist will be in it, and if not…
Well let’s just say It’s Not Such a Wonderful Life.
So while the rest of us are decking the halls and rocking around the Christmas tree, a narcissist is quietly seething when the attention is diverted away from them.
Staring down from his cave, with a sour grinchy frown, at the warm, lighted windows below in their town…
Navigating Christmas with a narcissist often left me feeling like I was the mayor of Whoville, scrambling to keep the cups of my little Whos filled with holiday cheer while dealing with a Grinch whose cup had a hole in it that he’d drilled himself, thus ensuring my attention and energy would be directed toward him.
Since I had grown up watching my mother fawn over my father (a man who was indifferent to making our spirits bright) especially during Christmas, I stepped into the same role with my own husband without a second thought. I was used to watching my father give the middle finger to Santa and pout his way through the morning if our happiness got out of hand (such as when we woke up early to excitedly open our stockings), so when my husband became stingy with his tidings of comfort and joy I chalked it up as normal and left it at that.
After all, I counted myself lucky that at least he wrote his own name on the gifts for our kids, unlike my father whose name was always in my mother’s handwriting, which led to his inevitable leaning over to her while whispering, “What did I get her?”
I considered it a step up that the father of my children wasn’t as checked out or clueless when it came to Christmas gifts. Of course, I had to buy those gifts. The ones for our kids. From him. Along with his extended family’s presents as well. And my parents. All of which I charged on the one credit card I was allowed, the balance in January left to accrue when my husband denied me the funds to pay off in full as he promised every December.
Maybe that’s why I never liked New Year’s Eve. The night nothing more than a countdown to the debt that welcomed me in the new year.
During one of our last Christmases spent together before I went dashing all the way to the divorce lawyer, I had a mini meltdown on Christmas Eve and cried over how stressed I was of being the one responsible for buying everyone’s gifts and filling up my credit card.
Narrator: But do you know, the Grinch was so smart and so slick, that he thought up a lie and he thought it up quick.
Grinch: Why my sweet little tot,
Narrator: The fake Santie Claus lied…
Grinch: Of course I’ll give you all the money you need to pay off all the presents you bought! I am so grateful for all you do, how much time you spent, and the love you put into the gifts for not only our children but my family too!
Narrator: And his fib fooled her…until the Visa statement came and his response was the same, “You should have budgeted for that.”
As the years passed, the Grinch…uh, I mean my husband, seemed to dislike Christmas more and more. The eggshells I walked on became ever more fragile (or “fra-gee-lay” in Italian) to the point that when the day finally arrived I spent most of it feeling like Rudolph trying to hide my red nose from the Abominable Snowmonster.
Well, that’s not fair. Just like the Grinch, “Bumble” as the Snowmonster was called, actually ended up reforming his evil ways. The same can’t be said for a narcissist.
Maybe that’s why they never made a Christmas movie about one.
As we came all ye faithful around the tree, I played Santa as I did every year and passed out the presents one by one, with the joy of watching my children bringing out the child in me as well. Our holly jolly, unfortunately, seemed to have the opposite effect on my husband, who found ways to check out of our Christmas experience whenever he wasn’t the reason for our sleigh bells ringing.
While the rest of us sat on the floor surrounded by wrappings and bows, hugging one another for the gifts we received and the gifts we gave, my husband sat on the couch.
And drifted off to sleep in heavenly peace.
Aww. Come let us adore him.
Though once I woke him up, there wasn’t much left to adore.
And for those who might suggest, “But maybe he was tired!” I’d like to introduce you to a term that explained this repeated behavior of his very well…
Narc-olepsy, which I’ve come to believe is short for narcissist-olepsy:
(noun) a condition characterized by an extreme tendency to fall asleep whenever a narcissist is not the center of any ho ho hoing and becomes bored to the point of nodding off while visions of sugar plums dance in their heads.
I’m not actually certain about that last part since I’m pretty sure any narcissist would be jealous of anyone dancing without them. Damn those sugar plums!
Later, during Christmas dinner when the rest of us talked each other’s ear off with funny stories of the past, my husband excused himself right after his last bite and went to watch television. Then when the noise from our raucous laughter grew from the board games we played after we feasted on roast beast, he turned up the volume.
Grinch: That’s one thing I hate! All the noise, noise, noise, noise!
In our defense, it was hard to keep our laughter in check during a game of Cranium when my 70-year-old mom had to whistle her clue for a Justin Timberlake song.
How did she even know who J.T. was?
“I know stuff,” she said straight-faced and took another gulp of wine.
Cue the noise, noise, noise, noise and the volume from the television going up, up, up, up.
Just like the Grinch (before his exemplary transformation, of course), a narcissist takes pleasure in stealing pleasure from everyone else. Not only that, but they seemingly enjoy watching those around them squirm in discomfort…especially those who hold Christmas so dear.
I always felt both elated and anxious whenever I gave my children gifts since I was so good at it. I’m not bragging. I just am really good at giving gifts to people I love because I pay attention. I know what is meaningful to them. I know what they hold dear. I know those closest to me so well that my gifts reflect that love and affection I feel for them.
Because of that, I am known in my family to give really great gifts, which doesn’t bode well with a narcissist in the midst. My husband was green (another quality in common with the Grinch) with envy over my special bond with our children. Thus, that is what he tried to whittle away at every Christmas by stripping away what was special from my specialty.
Whatever the gift was, such as the yearly calendar I made my mother that is personalized with photos of all of her grandchildren, ol’ grinchy would find a way to throw it in my face.
“I love it!” my mom exclaimed as the rest of us gathered around and watched her sift through the months of the calendar. This was one of the last gifts given since it was so special. My mother got tears in her eyes as she gathered her grandkids around her and expressed her gratitude for being so lucky to be their grandmother.
“Did you get one for my mother?” my husband asked, distracting everyone from the joy at hand.
Keep in mind, this was toward the end of Christmas morning when almost every gift had been unwrapped.
Also keep in mind that I had little contact with his mother (his own contact was few and far between with her throughout each year) and she didn’t know our children outside of meeting them on a few occasions.
And let’s definitely keep in mind that I hadn’t heard from his mother in a while, she lived far away and never spent the holiday with us, and oh yeah this was his own fucking mother.
“What?” I stuttered, caught off guard at the idea that I was supposed to have somehow given his mother the same exact gift, shipped it to her before that moment without his knowledge, so that I could answer him with the expected, “Yes she is opening it as we speak!”
You’re a mean one, Mr. Grinch. You really are a heel.
This was one of the many reasons why for all those years I wasn’t dreaming of a white Christmas according to tradition. Instead, I was making my list and checking it twice, hoping Santa would see I was tired of being with someone who wasn’t so nice.
The jolly old elf must have been listening because what to my wondering eyes did appear (after I escaped my abusive marriage and went through one helluva divorce, that is) but my life back and every holiday since filled with cheer.
Today, it truly is the most wonderful time of the year.
So from my house to yours, I hope you have yourself a merry little Christmas. May your days be merry and bright…
And may all your Christmases be narcissist-free.
no subject
Date: 2021-12-25 04:51 pm (UTC)after being a complete shitty asshole to absolutely EVERYONE, insulting, belittling, putting-down, being difficult and unpleasant, they will somehow *ALWAYS* turn it around and play the victim.
"You're not putting up with my bullshit, you're not tolerating my abuse, you're not praising and worshipping and adoring me enough, you're not giving me enough attention, you're not giving me enough presents, you got presents for OTHER PEOPLE and not just me, this gathering isn't the Great and Wonderful ME! Show 24/7, you're not eating my poop with a smile on your face, therefore I'm being abused! WAAAAAAAH!"