David McElroy

making sense of a dysfunctional culture

narcissism

As a child, I was a very capable liar, because I learned from a narcissist

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We were on the way to the home of my father’s new boss. I was 11 or 12.

“David, if he asks you about your foot, here’s what you need to know,” my father said as he drove. “You accidentally got it cut by the blade of a lawn mower. You went to the emergency room, but it wasn’t very bad. If he wants to see what it looks like, tell him it hurts if you take your shoe off, so you can’t.”

I acknowledged my assignment and added a couple of details for effect. My father approved my additions. I was ready to play my role backing up an excuse he had used when he needed to leave work one day.

I didn’t know the full story. I never knew the full story when it came to his lies. I just knew how to lie. I was very, very good at lying.

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Relationships he couldn’t mend were the real tragedy of my father’s death

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My father died this morning, but I actually lost him many years ago.

There was a tragic pattern in his life, one which I couldn’t see while it was happening, but which is plain to see now that his life is gone. He was desperate to be loved and needed — something which I can understand — but he managed to destroy every relationship he ever had for long.

He attracted people to him with his good nature and charm. He drove them away with his need to control them — and with his incessant lies about just about everything.

His three children once loved and adored him. One by one, he pushed us away. My mother loved him when I was young, but he crushed her spirit and destroyed her love. He screamed at her. He belittled her. He tried to force her to be like him in every way.

Mother’s loving and childlike spirit was wounded badly — and she walked away from us because she came to believe she was either going to kill him or kill herself.

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After years of silence, it’s time to tell the truth about my father

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It always started with screaming, but it often ended in silence — for days or weeks.

On this particular night, I was in the kitchen when it started. I was about 14 years old. I don’t remember what made my father angry, but I know it was minor. It was always minor with him.

I might have used a tone he didn’t like. I might have forgotten to take out the trash. I might have forgotten to put a load of clothes into the dryer. As an adult, I now understand these are fairly minor things, but when I was a child, everything I did wrong was a cardinal sin — when he was in this mood.

I always forced myself to be completely calm. I wore a blank expression. Any sign of disagreement with him — or talking back to him in any way — would increase his fury. All I could do was stand like a statue and hope it would end soon.

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