The Narcissist Boy

THE NARCISSIST BOY

A PERSONAL ESSAY

By

Carl Termini

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In relationships I was a chaos creator. It was my way of asking to not be viewed as an after-thought, As if I was just something you accidentally stepped into. But I grew up, and I redeveloped and recreated my identity. Then came Jonathan Griffiths, and I was the most authentic I could've been - and it was not good enough. Of my contributions nothing was good enough, because I just infuriated Jonathan. I asked how to be a better boyfriend and he'd tasked me with making the world a gentler place for him, comforting him with nothing less than 100% support and grilled cheese, then I was the enemy with no value to me. I would implement and improve, so James could break-up with me to see if I would continue. His experiments happened twice before I wised up. By the third I got off the carousel.

In late November 2015 Jonathan Griffiths, an unemployed community theatre actor, asked to go for coffee. On this first, and only, date we went to a local cafwhere Jonathan ordered himself wine and I purchased a coffee. Before our drinks had been served Jonathan said he was an unemployed community actor, who preferred his stage name: James Lockhart. The conversation was easy with cards placed quickly on the table. I don't understand the current culture we are in, James said. I belong to another era, the 1920s or the 1940s. He continued saying he had OCD, bipolar with severe anxiety, and haphephobic. It was because of being haphephobic, James said, if we progressed to a relationship that sex would not factor heavily. Do you believe in an open relationship because I've done that and I won't do one again?

I believe in monogamy; I'm fine with you being haphephobic. I had reached a point in my life where laughter and shared memories were what built a relationship's foundation. I continued: I am not big into cuddling and enjoy my space. Placing my remaining cards on the table I said that I am not an overly emotional person. I am logical and think things through with measured responses. I do not get baited into fights that I am not the cause of; if you have a bad rehearsal I won't engage in an argument, but I will listen to you vent, yell, and complain.

We will not get along then, James laughed. At the time I thought it was a simple drunken joke, but I didn't know it was a prediction of how our relationship would progress.

When I returned to work we spent days and evenings texting, I tailored all texts to James' interests in movies and acting. At texts would be in real-time critiquing plot and character developments about what we were each watching. Weekends were then spent together playing house, with me also acting as taxi for James until Monday morning came when I would drop him off at his home on my way to work. As winter break approached James asked if I'd be interested in spending weekdays together, Playing house as you put it, he said. Think of it as a trial run.

I had didn't have anything going on other than working and lounging around, so I agreed. James gave me one condition, which was that if he was to spend so much time at my apartment I would need to purchase him a workout machine and scale, So I can work on being thin like you are. I had thought it odd to compare himself to my body, as we had completely different builds and structurally it would never happen, but I agreed; after all, I had been inundated by magazines and newspapers about how actors had to keep their bodies in shape for roles.

I'll pay you back, James continued, selecting and charging the products to my Amazon account. James scoffed at the after new year delivery.

Over winter break I played house: cleaning up after James and making sure the apartment was constantly tidy, and cooked every evening a fresh meal. It never felt like work because it was pleasurable to have someone seemingly appreciated everything, so I asked James to escort me to a friend's birthday party. I saved and reworked January's budget, so that we would be able to enjoy the time out without watching what was spent. I was determined to show him a nice time and how things could be.

As I drove after the birthday dinner James said, Due to my OCD, we can't officially be boyfriends until January first, as I can't begin anything unless it's a Monday or a new month. I was elated, having finally been chosen. A dating lifetime of pursing others had been role-reversed. My display of domesticity, a role I had auditioned for countless times only to be runner-up, had paid off. During that same drive, I was informed that for New Year's Eve we were going to be going to several parties by him saying, We will bring three dishes, so you make two and I'll make my spinach dip. It's the only thing I can make.

I blinked, Okay. I was happy to oblige, play myself, and chauffer for James. At the numerous New Year's Eve parties, where I was frequently left alone amongst strangers, I made the best and kept my humor on winning his friends over, such as when James' returned to my side saying I see you've met Carl.

I prefer Fuck-puppet, I elicited a laugh from the friends who told James to keep me.

I know. James took gulp of the alcohol in his cup; back then I didn't know it took alcohol for James to be kind. He'd smile, but never at me.

I counted down until we'd officially be boyfriends. When midnight finally came we sealed our relationship with a kiss. It wasn't to be though because James and I lasted 9 months, with three break-ups during that time.

The exercise equipment arrived the third week of January, the Thursday prior to Martin Luther King, Jr Day. James found it too difficult to maintain focus on the three-steps to put the equipment together, so I completed the task. With giddiness James jumped onto the equipment and began obsessively working out, while I began looking for a copy of my birth-certificate for a new part-time position. The documentation was not in my filing box, so I checked my lockbox and it wasn't there either. During winter break I had rearranged the apartment to make James more comfortable, as he did not enjoy my decorating style, so I knew that the paperwork was somewhere within the walls of the domicile. I knew that the birth certificate wasn't stolen, I began scurrying around and systematically going through the apartment; which then degraded into organized chaos. James never stopped working out on the equipment that I had purchased, to help me. He said OCD made it impossible to come to my aide. Again, a pattern that would persist throughout the relationship. After an hour I looked at the mess I had made through the apartment, and begrudgingly sat in my parlor saying, Fuck, to no one in particular, then took a deep breath and readied myself to search the following day.

When James came to apologize I twisted everything to about him not caring. I replied in monotone, Don't worry, frozen on the couch ruminating of the places I looked and where I could look. I thought about numerous hiding places, but they had all been checked. He continued to try to but I asked to be left alone. James continued pushing the situation, until I finally answered quietly with, Don't worry - it's not your problem. Unable to trigger an explosive response James shouted how he won't tolerate drama, and then he stormed out of my apartment to rehearsal. That evening I laid in bed, eyes squeezed to drift asleep, listening to James play my PlayStation 4 in my living room. The beginning of a pattern was staring me in the face, so I buried depression in paranoia and finally fell asleep.

The next morning, I awoke alone to a text that effectively ended our relationship. He'd still like to be friends, the message said, but he still has a lot more to do on himself. For James breaking up was necessary to reduce confusion, but he created more the following weekend because it was back to playing house. He deliberately kept me in a state of confusion, guessing how to act, who to be, what to say, and how to love: my friendship was met with a snappish attitude, and intimacy was met with chastising. As a defense mechanism, in the immediate aftermath, I relegated our messaging to James-centric topics about movies and television. Any personal questions were deflected with a recently read Hollywood headline to keep the conversation afloat. So like every other dream I kept it on a shelf until someone else gave permission that I may touch.

When Easter came I paid for a trip to San Antonio to visit my parents. I had refused to dis-invite James because of the embarrassment that at 33 years old I couldn't keep long-term plans from falling apart. During the trip I worked diligently towards mending what was broken between us, though I still had no clue what it was that I had done to break our union. It was during the return journey home, James asked if I'd be open to a relationship again.

Yes; I had sickly enjoyed our comradery. As we eased back into one another, and began again on this merry-go-round, the isolation I had blanked myself in warmed me to a toasty insecurity. I couldn't shake that if he was going to hurt me he should just hurt me and be done with me; I pleaded, Promise, you aren't going to screw me over.

Because I do that, he snapped. His pattern of doing one thing and then saying another was beginning to show. I vowed then to keep our relationship to myself because I was unable to face more humiliation that at 33 I was the only person I know who is not in an adult relationship.

Summer pushed me into a deep depression by routinely playing caretaker and not boyfriend. Alone I watched what was popular and thus forbidden while James was around. He rushed me through anything I found enjoyable by consistently bemoaning, Popular culture is so insufferable - why must you make me repeat myself! Then he became defensive saying that his sense of humor is to mock things, and to be cruel. I accommodated by having my enjoyments in the early mornings while James slept or evenings when he was at rehearsal. It no longer felt reciprocal to share pleasurable pass-times, because all he does is insult anything that brings me joy.

Early July brought the second break-up, by way of a letter from James where I was called selfish, cruel, and uncaring because I no longer catered to his needs with immediacy. I wrongly thought James was a grown man capable of taking care of himself. I promised I'd change, and he coincidently took me back just in time for his birthday. We dined at one of the nicest restaurants, then saw a community theatre production of "Romeo & Juliet". The evening was finished with drinks at a gay bar. I stayed for one drink because I had work the next morning, and as I left James came with me around the corner. I thought he was going to be sweet how he was going to walk me the half a block home, but he just really needed money for drinks. It was his birthday after all; I gave him 80 dollars

The final break-up began on 9/24 when I came home with groceries and silently put them away, while James asked unnecessary questions rather than help. Only after I was done he asked if he could help. No. I left to my car where I sat until I saw James leave for rehearsal. By the time I went to bed James hadn't returned, but there was a letter from him in the morning calling me toxic. He didn't want to be together but he still cared, it said, and he wanted to separate but see where it went. He thought it was best he move out since co-habitation was too dramatic and that I made him feel alone, because when I got home from work I didn't immediately ask him about his day. James tried to return his key, and I told him to keep it in case he's ever in town and needs to stay. He thanked me as he put his coat on and picked up his bag. Then, oddly, James admitted that he broke up with me each time to test my reaction, and see if I would continue to change like I promised. It never lasted though. I was finally clean. Every thought I had wasn't wrong - he was consistently testing to see if I was good enough for a relationship with shifting conditions.

James inquired if East House turned out to be as strict as he had been hearing about, if he could move back in, If it is still available. I was told if he did require moving back in there would be stipulations:

1. We need to be kinder to each other

2. Absolutely no fighting; if either one of us is in a mood we hold out in seclusion

3. We create a chore wheel or list to be completed by Sunday of each week

I asked for clarification as what the definition of strict was believing a schedule would benefit him. To James this meant receiving counseling 24/7, which he thought was unnecessary. James wanted in East House because he wanted permanent state-paid-for housing.

I should've stopped the carousel then, but assuaged that I understand James' special circumstances. If James wants to resume homeostasis as a lifestyle that is fine, but I wasn't going to make any special accommodation for him being inert. James wanted back in for a catered life - cook; make special trips to the store to buy him soda; have no boundaries about private spaces; or eat foods I bought specifically for my lunches. My goals and attention, though, are going to be on school and writing, which require focus on myself. The living arrangement will not require every interaction to follow the previous rough melodramatic pattern, nor one I wish to be part of. As long as my eyes are wide-open, this is how it will work - right? This is how it becomes a win-win - correct?

When James came over to inform me he will move in he asked if it was okay to stay to warm up. I answered Yes, in a tone that addressed I was insulted the answer could've been no. Where James warmed up is a mystery because I was in the living room finishing paperwork and he never joined me. Then from somewhere in the apartment he text asking if I would - ever be so kind - buy him a futon. It would be more comfortable for him to sleep on a futon than on an air mattress. Before I could answer, he sent me an Amazon link to a futon for one-hundred fifty-three dollars. I will pay you back slowly with this part-time job at the theatre doing the ticket counter. Good, but inconsequential. I was more concerned about not being the Bank of Carl, teaching fiscal responsibility should never be my job. Instead I was motivated by the purely selfish financial reason to not incur more unnecessary debt because of kindness. James then asked to be told when the futon arrives, so he will know his move-in date. After brief silence was a [click] locking the front door and James putting himself on the other side.

When the futon arrived, James' excuse-creating was in full-effect by putting it off until due to a sore throat. In the same breath James asked how long it would take and cost to make a new set of keys because he had lost his. I quickly answered, I don't know, but can use my building key and I can use my phone to buzz myself in. When he asked about a key to the apartment, I told him that I had a spare he could have. With the Christmas coming up, That postpones the move-in date, he pathetically reminded.

On Christmas Eve, in Barnes & Noble, I received a text from James inquiring about my motivation for wanting him to move back in, to which I honestly replied: Save money.

He answered, Getting the lay of the land before I move in. Good to know you're as uncaring, cold, and cruel as ever.

Holy, merry fucking Christmas to you, too! I no longer care if he moved in or not because I can fail all on my own. Before moving in he'd already begin violently disrupting the calm developed in his absence. I browsed the meager science fiction/fantasy section, smiling while leisurely crafting my response, You're living with friends, have a part-time job, and haven't given any indication you were sad - so what's wrong?

Nice to know one's friends want them around; forgot who I was talking to. And so he routinely drew a conclusion about me that was incorrect. I wondered who he thought was talking to. Then he added, I only stayed hoping to save the relationship but there's no hope. I wondered what idea of me he had bound to himself, holding to a grudge like a starving dog and marrow.

Should I lie? I didn't want you thinking by moving back in we'd get back together, when I don't want that.

You're a dick as always. I'm getting reservations about moving back in.

Then don't move in. I started giggling again; You're not trapped. James was going to be fine on his own, and I was not going to let him get to me.

That ship has sailed.

That's his behavior and his so-called friends, if they won't allow him to stay longer on their couch.

How about you follow the rules I put in place and just be kinder to me. Actually, just be kinder in general; you'll find that it will benefit you in the long run.

Typically, I'd make an apology but I didn't care because I didn't do anything wrong. What do you want from me? He just turned me into the villain after I re-open my home, buy him furniture so that he has stability and he throws a hissy fit because I responded consistently as I said I would. I'm not perfect, and I had apologized, but this time I wasn't interested. Fuck it, I'm not buying tickets.

James never resided on the purchased futon because he hasn't been getting any response from the building about replacing his key; I don't think he's rushing too much. He has asked me to make the call on his behalf, which I agreed to do. I did pause to wonder why I was willing to do this, beyond my temperament (kind acts always make me feel better when I'm kicking myself), seeing as James made a huge deal about me having to celebrate his birthday back in July 2016, when I didn't even get a "happy birthday" text from him.

Between Christmas and New Year's Eve I found out that James was put into inpatient at Strong Memorial Hospital because of a mental breakdown. This means that the last break-up and the drama since September has been the result of James having a break. He apologized for some of the fights. I can't' forgive him, or at the least unable to accept his apology. Now I am inviting this chaotic, demanding, needy, and stress-inducing element back into my life? I had to protect myself, so I outlined my rules for him:

1. Pay full half of his portion of rent and utilities

2. Be kind and use his "bipolar fortress" rather than letting it act as a large closet of junk

3. Don't go in my room or wear my clothes - let me have my private space

4. Actually pay me back for things that I bought him and will need to buy him

5. Do not treat me as a bank

6. I am not a taxi, and he will need to pay me gas money for rides to places that are just for him.

7. Do not throw my kindness in my face, or the camera that I bought him when he was depressed and crying

8. I am not his employee and I'll not be making calls or emails on his behalf

I told him my stipulations were so he could build the necessary mental stamina and life-skills that were needed. James scoffed saying my demands are too great. He said, I knew you couldn't facilitate what I required. I immediately back pedaled that if he could not pay rent that would be okay and if he didn't pay me back timely I would be okay with that, and I would also be his personal assistant after supplied proof that he had tried first on his own. At this James agreed it was for stability.

Just prior to moving back in, James contradicted his need to move in, as his friends thought it would be a bad idea for him, saying he was moving in only for me.

I don't need you to move in. I'm good all on my own, I answered. I don't need your money to get what I need. Let James stay with friends that would lick his ass. Why pretend moving in was something you wanted?

He still wanted to be friends and perhaps boyfriends. Maybe meet for dinner.

Why? According to him I was cruel, cold, and mean.

I believe there's a good person inside you still. I hope that I could find him again.

For that, I reminded, he'd need to accept me for who I am, just as I had accepted him wholly and completely. James hemmed and hawed at this.

Then why ask to move back in at all?

I needed to know where you stood on the topic.

Then why ask if I wanted to get back together?

He repeated, I needed to know here you stood on the topic.

You manipulated me to see my reaction, again?

I don't do that, he answered.

Liar! That's the very definition of manipulation. Just fuck off!

Now you're just being spiteful.

That would require giving a fuck, and I'm fresh out of fucks.

He said, That doesn't make any sense.

I was relieved because if James moved in and I made one mistake - didn't clean all of his dishes, clean all of his mess or laundry, or leave things solely as he wanted - it would cause an explosion of his anger towards life. I would've been living for him, continuously biting my tongue and living in the name of fear of abandonment; pretending to be stunted, but all that brought was me being walked over; of being misconstrued like that was good enough for me. I couldn't keep living, surviving, like that. I was better off because it had taken too long to stop the tape of disparages telling me I am cruel, uncaring, and cold from playing in my mind. I had convinced myself that I loved him, but it was just a toxic relationship. Without James I developed a harmonious routine that has allowed for success. James was every poor choice in one person, and by dating him I managed to begin truly exorcising ghosts of the past. He had made his affection ebb and flow until I was no longer able to care that he was completely gone.