The Mayo Clinic identifies narcissistic personality disorder as “a mental condition in which people have an inflated sense of their own importance, a deep need for excessive attention and admiration, troubled relationships, and a lack of empathy for others. But behind this mask of extreme confidence lies a fragile self-esteem that's vulnerable to the slightest criticism.”
I remember my dad as a strong, happy man who seemed capable of accomplishing anything and everything. I remember he was not home a lot, or if he was home, it was late at night and occasionally on the weekends. Often, if I had not seen him in a few days, I would listen for him to arrive, late into the night, usually around 23h30. On the nights I did get out of bed to hang out with dad, he usually had an assorted sub from Mr. Sub with him. He would always share it with me and then he would put me back to bed before heading to his small basement office prior to typing his intelligence reports.
I remember idolizing my father, I followed him around, I wanted to dress like him, and I always had to be with him when he was at home. His puppy. When dad was tending his fruit and vegetable garden in the back yard, he would usually pick me up just above my hips and hold me flat over the strawberry patch so I could stuff my cheeks like a chipmunk! I loved the green onions too… in fact there are several baby pictures of me gnawing on green onions while teething. In the evening, when dad had a beer and he has set it beside his recliner, I would usually be hiding behind the recliner, and I always sneak a sip. I still hate Labatt 50, but my curiosity always gets the best of me.
Dad was very fit back then he spent a lot of time working out with weights, or practicing Jeet Kune Do. One time has was on his incline bench using very heavy weights and I tucked myself up in behind him. He nearly crushed me. He learned to keep me in his line of sight after and got me a swing for the basement so I could watch him while he worked out. One time he was bench pressing and hurt himself. I ran upstairs and got him a Band-Aid for his shoulder. Turns out, part of his undercover persona was that of a bodyguard/bouncer/enforcer, and he had been in a fight a few nights prior and had dislocated his shoulder during the fight. Dad was a good sport and put the Band-Aid on anyway.
Occasionally, on the weekends he would take me to downtown Toronto to see the CN Tower. I was fascinated by this structure. Dad’s office was not far from there. I do not quite remember where it was but when I returned to Toronto as an adult and would bar hop, I recognized the Queen West and Bathurst area immediately. Dad’s office was at a bookstore where I think he either did translation, refurbished books or shipped packages – I’m not too sure, I spent the whole time doing cartwheels in the empty halls. There used to be KFC on Augusta near King (I’m not sure if it still exists), but after visiting his office, we stopped at the KFC to take a bucket home regularly… plus an entire loaf of Grecian bread - my favourite and I am disappointed they do not have it anymore. I may not eat the chicken anymore but I would absolutely go for the bread.
I remember plenty of nights when dad and his partner, Derek, sat at the kitchen table talking shop. I posed no danger I was a kid. Derek liked giving me pennies and watching me swallow them. Dad eventually caught on and had to tell him to stop doing that. For all the time that Derek was around, I do not remember really liking or disliking him. I started coming around when he used to bring suckers over. Normally dad would not allow candy; I was allowed popsicles, maple syrup, some ice cream, and that was it. Hard candy, well… I was quickly starting to like this guy. Around age 4, a doctor had told my dad I was hyperactive, so he decided sugar and red dye were the culprit.
I remember one summer evening, after I had spent a few hours splashing about in my baby pool; we were setting up the outdoor table for dinner when dad asked me to go inside to get cups. Excited to have a task and make dad proud, I ran into the house, grabbed a chair, and took four glasses out of the cupboard, not bothering to return the chair to its place, I spun around and went running towards the stairs. In my excitement, I tripped over the floor trim, fell down the stairs and landed head first wedged behind the door, with busted glass and blood everywhere. Hearing me screaming bloody murder, dad arrived soon after to pick me up all while saying, “I said cups, not glasses. You should have listened”… or something that made me feel like he meant I should have listened. My dad always blames the victim I just never saw it. The forest before my eyes was too dense. I remember going in to the ER room and watching them put a needle in the palm of my hand before removing all the small shards of glass, then stitching me up and sending me home.
When I was 4 years old, my paternal grandparents moved in with us. Dad still wasn’t around much, he worked most weekends also. My grandfather required knee replacement surgery so they would stay with us for a few months. My grandmother, I love her dearly, but I would not want to live with her as an adult. My entire life I remember feeling as if she was frail and on the brink of death. She was not, but she needed a lot of attention and affection. Probably because my grandfather was definitely not an affectionate man. As a kid, I loved having my grandparents around. I remember my grandmother staying in her room a lot and wanting my mother to cater to her. Spoiler alert: she did not cater to her children so she definitely was not going to be catering to a gown ass adult woman- and she did not. It definitely contributed to friction and a sense of malaise in the home. I remember my mom seemed much more distant and irritable. Fortunately, she had a job now.
Dad was dropping us off at daycare one morning, his first drop-off actually, when my sister, who was about 18 months old or a little younger, clung to him for dear life and bit into his shoulder so hard she nearly broke skin through his coat. Dad assumed she wanted to stay with him instead of going to daycare; this was a new experience for us after all. After a few more mornings with my sister, acting this way and me looking very anxious about staying there, dad went to my mother’s place of work and essentially dragged her home with the kids in tow. I think he could have handled this situation better and I think checking references of those you leave your children with is of the utmost importance. I gather my mom found a sitter in the want ads and picked them site uninspected. I am relieved to say that we never had to return there. My days were spent in a locked closet with my sister while being guarded by two Doberman Pinschers. Lunch was served in the closet and there were regular bathroom breaks. I do not remember anything else, but I do know that’s why I fear large dogs; despite wanting a dog, I can’t have one. I know one morning I will wake up and the dog will be eating my intestines. I will take my chances with cats, so far the worst thing my cat has done is THOUGHT about attacking me after I put him on a diet and he was hangry for a few days.
I remember visiting my grandfather in the hospital after his surgery. In fact, I smacked my whole body on him the day after surgery; I climbed up on a chair and flung myself on him so I could cuddle with him in bed. Fortunately, they had excellent pain meds in 1978–ish so he merely winced. After that, dad told me I had to sit on the edge of the bed so I did not hurt him. He recovered at home, in suburbia with us. My sister would often place her feet on top of his with her hands resting on the middle bar of this crutches as he exercised walking up and down the hall.
Tensions increased dramatically in the house with her in-laws now taking up space. They did not approve of a lot of her behaviour. My mother ignored them and gave them the silent treatment for weeks at a time. One day in early February 1979, at 11H00 Monique told her in-laws she was taking my sister and me to Mr. Sub and she never looked back.
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