La Dolce Vita? Think Twice!
Ah! Italia! La Dolce Vita! Federico Fellini! Anita Ekberg in the fountain! I have met Anita, she was a friend of the family. La Famiglia! I have also met Federico… he was a bit of a persona non grata because a certain aspiring actress, also know as that histrionic narcissist who is my mother, refused to sleep with him when he made a pass at her, according to her, and he didn’t like being rejected so he fucked her over by making her unemployable… or whatever her version of the story was. I don’t know, listening to her was a painful thing to do because she suffered from verbal diarrhoea in extremis.
The root of all my problems, past and present, hopefully not future, is Italy. So I don’t really like the country, although I can appreciate the charm it has for those who… aren’t me.
It all began when a beautiful, charming, talented, ingenue decided that she would take a nanny job with a well to do family in Rome, so that she could study opera. She had the voice of an angel, it was amazing, and was going to inflict it on others via a grand operatic career. While in Rome… well, there was a bit in Milan first, where she had a relationship with an impotent married famous investigative reporter. Whatever. The Rome bit is the part which lead to my existence.
Rome in the Fifties was happening man! The McCarthy trials made Cinecitta and all things not… American… can I say that… without offending… no… fuck it, I’m in a careless mood… history… not now… then… context people! Context makes a BIG difference… attractive to artists and actors and directors. So wannabe opera singers were also wannabe actresses. That and when your relatives are acting nobility, albeit in the UK… blah blah. Narcissists do go on about their credentials to greatness.
Have I lost you yet, are you confused, welcome to what it is like to live with Narcissists. And their Flying Monkey minions. I won’t explain, things will only get worse if I try to do so.
Anyway, the Ingenue met a CIA man whose cover was as a goofy party organiser. Don’t ask. I learned the hard way. Seriously, just pretend whatever Narcissists tell you makes sense, then walk slowly away. He picked pretty people up in the cafes of Rome, invited them to Diplomatic Dos and Jet Set Affairs to make up the numbers, and… I have no fucking clue what else was served up or involved. Best not to know. At one of these parties the Ingenue met an On the Verge of Being Famous Artist. Sparks flew. They hated each other, so they got married. They lived an incredibly glamourous life, became rich and famous, or famous and rich. Details… what are they. They bought a dream house. Which the Ingenue hated. They had a child eventually, which both of them hated even though the Ingenue had the child deliberately, something to do with selfishness. The Child ruined everything by being born – psychologically known as Unwanted Child Syndrome. They passed the buck of blame like it was delicious candy. They fucked around. Well, the artist fucked every woman who wanted to be immortalised on canvas by him. The Ingenue, now Wife of Famous Artist, a role she took and takes extremely seriously, played the martyr, enjoyed playing the saintly martyr, thus played it some more.
Things grew increasingly complicated, confused, a narcissistic orgy. The Artist took a Lover. The Lover held on for dear life. The Lover had already had an affair with another famous married artist, a good friend of my father’s, but he had selfishly died from a heart attack. So she had to move on. She was a Dippy Cool Hippie from San Fran. Also an Artist. She understood the poor put upon misunderstood husband and very famous rich artist… blah blah blah.
Hell continued indefinitely. Endless battles, wars, choosing sides, always picking the wrong one… yadda yadda. That Unwanted Child eventually grew a pair of balls even though she was a female. It’s uncomfortable, but sometimes you just have to do what you have to do to survive. One day someone insane fell in love with her. The Ingenue hated this person, tried to scare them away. You can’t love something unloveable. It belongs to me even though I don’t want the fucking demon hell spawn child. But I am a Saintly Martyr par excellence! Perfect in everything I do! Love conquered that. Unwanted Child made its… her… escape. Left all that behind. Built a new life as a very relieved orphan. Happily ever after ensued. Then….
One day the Hippie Lover contacted the Unwanted Brat Child and said your father is dead, there is an inheritance, I don’t want your fucking mother to get her hands on it and by Italian law you are the Forced Heir so this shit is your problem whether you want it or not. You don’t count. Everyone else, as in MEMEME, does. Child was also contacted by Ingenue mother, who had found that she could not get her hands on the inheritance as Famous Artist father had managed to get a divorce just before he died.
Ah! Inheritance! It conjures up such lovely ideas of sudden wealth! Money problems solved! La la la! Have you ever explored Italian Inheritance Law? Have you ever dealt with Narcissists coming at you from every direction? Not just regular Narcissists, but fucking Malignant Ones? No? Yes?
So Unwanted Child with support from insane person who loves her… hired her very first lawyer. Oh, she’s dealt with lawyers before, but they were always hired by her fucking Narcissistic Parents to deal with some crazy case, crime…. whatever. Roy Cohn once agreed to represent Famous Artist father in quite an important case… Roy Cohn regretted that decision. Narcissists always know how to hit the regret button, over and over and over… again…. even in the most impervious souls. Fucking awesome talent, that is.
This thing is going to get way worse before it gets better… if it does get better. One thing I have learned… do things your way. If they go wrong, at least they went wrong because you did things your way. So be it. Problem is, when dealing with Narcissists, they don’t see you as an entity separate from them, with any rights or will or anything… When you don’t do things their way, which is usually toxic for you, they get very nasty… I’m being railroaded from so many angles… yet I resist and stick with my own crazy shit. I must be destroyed!
I’ve tried to explain it. The visible part of the iceberg. The Gordian Knot which can’t be cut with Alexander the Great’s sword. Wish it could. Wish I could tell everything and everyone to fuck off… But I am trying to deal with things in a logical and responsible way. The buck stops here. I’m an idiot!
Truth is you probably think I’m a whinging rich bitch. I’m not rich. Not sure about the bitch bit. It may be a very good thing. There isn’t a lot of money involved in this inheritance. Rich and Famous Artist self destructed his career yonks ago. You would have no idea who he is if I told you his name. He trashed his fame. He squandered his money. Fair enough, he earned it, he had every right to do whatever he pleased with it. I never claimed any part of it. Never wanted it. I washed my hands and walked away. But… YOU… ME… are not allowed to walk away. That’s not how narcissists see things. They make the rules, the decisions… blah blah blah. The inheritance is basically the shit he left behind which he didn’t have time to squander, and which he knew would fuck up and out his heir. That’s how he thought.
Think I’m exaggerating? Want to swap lives? But… if we swap you have to go through everything I have been through, those are the conditions. Still think I have it easy? Hmmm. I guess I’m just a spoiled brat. Not a problem. I’m past the point of caring about the sticks and stones. I’ve been told the awful truth about myself since I was an infant… it’s getting a bit tedious, to say the least. I cling to those who see some morsel of good in me. They are my friends, my solace, they make life worth living. I am deeply grateful to them. They know who they are.
As for why I don’t share my shit with my friends… this is just the bare bones of why.
I did smoke today. Next time you judge a smoker for smoking. A drinker for drinking. Etc. Pause. Think Twice.
Thank you for listening.