The visit from Hell is over.
In two days, he never asked me one thing about my life. On the few occasions when I did say something, I got no response, or he interrupted me. He talks all the time about running and even when he’s alone.
At four am this morning, I awoke and saw a light was on, so I came into the main part of the house to turn it off. (I’d gone to bed Saturday night leaving him watching TV.) He was up and sitting at my desk smoking Marijuana!
He doesn’t smoke much Marijuana, he says, he was constantly smoking it so I said, “It seems to me that you, in fact smoke a lot of dope.” But he said he smokes a gram a week, but that it was so beautiful here he did his whole gram for next week here.
When we went for a drive, he asked nothing about the sites or our island. He kept talking about running. If I tried to read, he kept talking about running. Neither did he ask about my deteriorating speech, he just kept talking about running.
I had no idea what he was like. I’d only spent a few hours at a time with him before, and never alone. It was a heinous weekend for me; an excellent one for him. He wants to come back; I had a nasty seizure this morning.
He didn’t come on the dog walk with me this morning. He went running. He wanted us to listen to music he liked; watch videos that he liked. Nothing he said, or wanted to see or hear, interested me at all.
I suspect he has a personality disorder of some kind. Perhaps he is what a narcissist is or he’s a kind of narcissist. He has no idea at all of the effect he was having on me.
But he left at two-thirty.
Since then, I have been blissfully alone. Now, a spa is in order. Then, reading some of Olive Kitteridge. I am just in the first story and I am absolutely smitten with Elizabeth Strout’s writing. I’ll get more of her books.
After that … a nice dinner followed by Grantchester and Beecham House on PBS.