I remember one of my narcissistic lovers. He was a textbook example of a malignant narcissist, and a mean one at that. Although he never became physically violent, I think he would have if I hadn’t ended that relationship.
One of the strangest things about him was the way he gave me gifts. The guy had plenty of money–he had a trust fund, for heaven’s sakes and owned his apartment free and clear, and he was always traveling. He never asked me to go with him though. Instead, he’d bring me back “gifts” from his road trips. I remember he’d make a big show out of presenting me with these gifts as if he was giving me the keys to a new car. They were never wrapped nicely, but always stuffed in a paper or plastic bag.
So what sort of gifts did this narcissistic trust fund jerk give me? Jewelry, chocolates, books, candles, clothing?
No. He’d give me gifts of trash. The stuff he didn’t want. You know, like the free samples they give out in hotels–tiny bars of hotel soap, shampoo, a wrapped glass with the hotel’s name on it, even a “Do Not Disturb” door sign. Once he gave me a gift card with about $2.00 left on it. I couldn’t even use that because it was for a store they don’t have in this area. Thanks, Mr. Generous! The most extravagant thing this loser ever brought me back from these trips was a keychain that was probably free too. One of his gifts was half a Stuckey’s nutty bar, that he’d already opened and eaten part of. How cheap can you get? He was the stingiest POS I ever knew.
It wasn’t like he didn’t have the money to buy me something nice. He used to show me, with great fanfare, all the nice things he’d bought for himself. A leather jacket, a framed picture, a box of homemade peanut butter and chocolate fudge. I remember asking him if I could have a piece of the fudge and he said no.
For Christmas that year he actually bought me something. It was a “Toonces The Driving Cat” coffee mug. Although still a cheap gift, it was thoughtful because he knew I loved that Saturday Night Live skit.
About a month later, we had a fight. We were arguing more frequently by then. Then he said something that made me wonder if I’d heard him right. He said he wanted the Toonces mug back. He told me to go get it and give it to him. I said no. Shooting me eye-daggers, he said through gritted teeth, “I never gave you that. I only let you borrow it.”
Livid, I went and found the mug, pretended to hand it to him, saying “Here!” As he reached for it, I threw it hard against the floor in front of him, shattering it into bits. He stormed off in a rage and slammed the door on his way out. As I swept the pieces of broken ceramic into a dust pan, I heard the squeal of his tires as he backed out of the driveway like a bat out of hell. He always did have a problem with road rage too.