My apologies to the Cheers theme.

I opined, recently, that I wouldn’t be surprised if the president couldn’t easily name his grandchildren.

Perhaps that seems far-fetched.

Maybe, one would think “no, no matter how horrible he is, what grandfather wouldn’t know the names of his own grandkids?”

Sadly, I have experienced this level of narcissism.

My second husband wasn’t a grandiose, screaming bully. He was a quiet narcissist.

I didn’t know about malignant narcissism when we dated. If I had known then what I know now, I’d have no trouble identifying his brokenness.

Like the first time I met his younger brother and his family.

His younger brother lived less than 20 minutes from my ex. They saw each other often. When we were on the way to visit, I asked about his two nieces and a nephew.

He could only tell me the oldest girl’s name and had no idea what his nephew’s and younger niece’s names.

I remember finding his complete lack of interest in the actual names of his flesh and blood relatives odd.

That I didn’t run away screaming right then and there tells you of my decision making skills at the time. Well, maybe not that exact second because I was in a moving car. 

My second husband didn’t bother himself with learning their names because they were meaningless to him.

They did nothing to further his fucked up narrative.

At the time, I didn’t consider that he didn’t know their names because he was a broken monster with no empathy and a sadistic streak.

I just thought it was a cute little quirk. Just typing that made me gag a little. 

Back to the present, the president doesn’t like animals.

He has no idea at all how to relate to children. They just aren’t important to him.

So yeah, I think it would hilarious if a reporter asked him to name his grandchildren in order by age.

Bet he couldn’t do it.

Photo courtesy of free photos.

So, on my Twitter feed, if there are old blog posts or articles, then Randy posted them. I rarely post articles. I just rage at the universe or say sarcastic things.

I don’t always read the articles he posts, but I read this one on the 8 signs of narcissistic rage.

When I read narcissism posts, they usually play out the same.

Yep, yeah, yeah, yeah, uh huh…read it already. Nothing new. This one wasn’t much different, but number 8…well, this one triggered a memory.

“The narcissist feels (fears) not in control of their relational or physical surroundings.”

One thing adult children of narcissists often do, is fall into a relationship with a malignant narcissist. It’s completely fucked up, but common.

My second husband didn’t behave like my father. He was not loud. He didn’t yell. He didn’t rage.

There is no doubt, he was a malignant narcissist. There is no doubt that he felt rage. His rage just showcased in a different manner.

I thought, for a while, about which was worse. The sudden, violent screaming rage or this weird, silent, disconcerting anger?

I don’t want to keep you in suspense here or anything. The screaming, violent rage is way worse, but doesn’t negate how unsettling silent anger can be.

My second husband did this thing where, if he didn’t get his way, he would shut the fuck down. It was like being ghosted by someone you live with.

This may not be the first time I saw this behavior, but it was one of the most extreme.

My second husband and I lived in a 3 bedroom apartment on Cincinnati’s east side. We had a routine which rarely varied. Hardly ever.

I did not understand the routine rules. I mean, I knew we usually did a certain thing, but had no idea what would happen if I changed the routine.

For all that is fucking holy.

How our evenings played out is this: He would get home from work and open a bottle of wine and then he would start dinner. He was an excellent cook and dinner was usually an event. We didn’t usually eat until at least after 9:00 pm. He would drink a bottle of wine, and smoke weed. Then, we’d eat dinner and drink tequila.

Then came the lottery tickets. He bought between $50 -$75 of scratch off tickets.

Every day.

I hated this. I couldn’t stand the waste. It was tedious.

But we’d scratch tickets off, drink more, smoke more and then go to bed.

One night, he said he was going to work a little late, so I thought I would take some of the burden off and I cooked dinner.

Our apartment was on the top floor and had a vaulted ceiling. When you walked in, it was a sort of great room. Living area with a fireplace, an adjoining space for dining and behind a counter was a galley kitchen. So, when you walked through the front door, you looked right into the kitchen at the back of the room.

He walked through the door, saw me cooking and said nothing. He didn’t break stride. He kept walking until he got to the bedroom.

I didn’t think anything of it. I figured he was changing clothes or whatever. I kept doing what I was doing. I called out to him to see if he wanted a drink and got no answer.

So, I called out again.

This wasn’t a huge apartment and my voice carries, but I had no idea what was going on.

I walked from the kitchen to the bedroom.

I didn’t see him at first, but then I did.

He was curled up in a ball in the corner of the room rocking back and forth.

He would not respond when I spoke to him.

He would not respond when I yelled at him.

He just stayed there and rocked back and forth.

By the time my food was finished cooking, I was too upset to eat. It seemed very apparent he would not be eating the food I cooked.

I don’t remember if I put the food away or threw it out. I just remember that as soon as the evidence of my transgression was gone, he came out of the bedroom, opened a bottle of wine and started

We ate dinner very late that night.

I didn’t sleep much that night.

I mean, I already suspected I made a mistake with husband number 2, but this behavior was just fucking batshit. I did not understand the behavior at all.

I do now. I totally get who he was.

When I read the part about how a narcissist losing control of their physical surroundings could cause rage, I understood. Sometimes rage is quiet.

It’s still completely fucked up, though.

Photo courtesy of Alexas Fotos.