Cool, Calm & Contentious - Merrill Markoe [27]
Rising above my mother’s baiting was an exercise in Zen I could only intermittently remember to perform. When she was in the mood to vent, I would watch her fishing around for things about me that pissed her off. Talking too fast? Check. Unflattering hairstyle? Yep. Never heard of the book she was reading? Check check check.
In the end, it was wonderful to have a clinical explanation for all of this puzzling stuff. It was also distressing to learn that there was no way for me to single-handedly control or repair all of our conflicts. Gone was the dream that handling my mother with kid gloves or talking to her honestly might transform her into someone more enlightened. Instead, the further I got into my stack of books, the clearer it was that I had to face a depressing reality: interacting with her unguardedly meant entering a one-sided conversation that would sooner or later spiral into a petty personal attack. The fantasy that she would one day accept me on my own terms was officially dead.
Since no true board-certified narcissist is ever going to change, the only variable under my control was my ability to stop reacting to her. Even then, she might initiate some fisticuffs just to stay in good form. As every book on the subject of narcissism eventually explains (in CAPS, italics, and underlined with bold exclamation marks!!!), the only method for coping is to maintain emotional distance. Change your expectations. There’s no pleasing unpleasable people.
But forewarned is forearmed. So from that point on, when my mother provoked me, I refused to bite. When she raised one eyebrow at me and said for the millionth time, “You really don’t get out to many cultural events, do you? Not the opera, not the ballet, not the theater,” instead of coming back at her with “Well, neither do you. Plus, you didn’t just finish writing a book,” I smiled and said, “Well, no. I guess I don’t.” When she tried to follow it up with a list of other things I wasn’t doing, I said, “Yep. Well, I guess I better go take a shower or I’m not going to get much done today, either.”
And then I left the room.
It confused her when I wouldn’t argue back. She could sense that I had grown more distant, that the familiar push and pull that stood in for intimacy in the dance between us had been modified without her approval. But it would have done no good to explain my motivation. Nothing I could do or say would ever make things better.
By the end of her life, I was mainly tap-dancing around her, trying not to be pulled into another pointless fight. For her, it must have been a little like being a boxer sitting in the ring, wondering why the opponent hadn’t shown up.
I am grateful to my mother for inspiring me to learn about narcissism. Thanks to her, I am better equipped to function in my hometown of Los Angeles, a city so overrun with narcissists that being able to identify one is as crucial to your well-being as owning a car or a cellphone. I’ve developed sonarlike early-warning detection abilities, fine-tuned by decades spent as the distributor of overblown praise and the recipient of browbeatings.
I still think back proudly to a flirtation at a party a few years ago with someone who set off all my narcissism alarms. There he stood, alone, brooding, self-absorbed, and artistic, but also hilarious in a sly way. I knew instinctively, and from years of practice, that the way to draw him out of his shell was by asking probing but flattering questions, then listening to his answers with rapt attention bordering on awe. If I followed that up with extreme empathy and selfless offers of support, he would be mine. I could make love to him (or at least perform oral sex) and, if I was lucky, afterward also help clean his house and put his schedule in order.
Despite the fact that every micron of my body begged to do these things, I watched myself with amazement as the voice coming out of my face said instead, “Well, you seem like a smart guy. I’m sure you’ll figure it all out.