Though I haven't written anything in quite a while, I sometimes drop by to see what people dear to me are doing.
I think about upsi - what HAS happened there? I also wonder about Kiki, whose blog is gone as well.
I like to see Jonsi get back in the saddle and shoot. Where she seemed extreme (as not polite enough by my FOO standards) in the past, I now smile at all she has to say. In some ways, I have grown.
I love seeing what Mulderfan, Ruth, Jessie, Q and others are up to.
My father is getting - old. Less interested in us, less energetic and thus less pugnacious, less invested in anything. He's been barely noticeable lately, which is, naturally, a good thing. I've also been able to swap apartments with him, which means I now own the place where we live and he owns the place that he rents out and no one can hurt anyone in any real way. So stuff is good.
I allowed myself to complete my dissertation. Even though he is proud and boasts about it, I am still a PhD. It's a practical thing I did for myself and my FOC, and him being there at the defense is something like collateral damage. He didn't do much damage, actually - he only talked to ONE of the professors, also narcissistic, and I giggled to myself that they were perfect company for each other.
I also have a third child now - a boy this time. This was something I'd feared - that I'd treat a boy differently as a result of having a dominant narcissistic father (both better AND worse) - but I was over it before he was born, thankfully.
In many ways, I have the perfect life. By what the world values, I am successful because I have a PhD and three children of both sexes.
But I'll always be an ACON, I now see - never quite good enough, never quite happy, never quite at home. And it's OK. I don't know if others can really get "there" - be really content and happy and fulfilled. If so, good for them. But this level of "not being there" is something I personally will always be able to live with in honesty and authenticity. One of my most precious life goals is writing fiction - novels and stories - and this is where I can be in truth for the rest of my life, if I can but pour this truth into a novel.
All the best to everyone and keep fighting the good fight!
Showing posts with label false self. Show all posts
Showing posts with label false self. Show all posts
Saturday, January 17, 2015
Thursday, January 17, 2013
At the core
I have people in my life that accept me and love me now. But I still can't accept and love myself. I don't trust them to actually accept and love the real me. They accept and love the adult me that developed after years of being molded by my parents.
I don't know any other me. I can try my hardest to be the real me, but I can't re-raise myself from scratch.
When I was a child, I wasn't accepted or loved. That was the core me, the one that could have developed differently.
So, I'm bad at the core. There's something fundamentally wrong with me. I hate and loathe this child at the core of me.
Sure, now that I'm a decent, articulate, generally well-behaved adult, people can accept what they see on the surface. But if they saw through to the faulty unlovable core, they'd hate the real me - the whiny, boring, annoying, weak, loud, pathetic, sensitive brat at the core - just as much as I do.
(I know this is irrational rubbish, but I've just realized after therapy that this is how I feel deep down).
I don't know any other me. I can try my hardest to be the real me, but I can't re-raise myself from scratch.
When I was a child, I wasn't accepted or loved. That was the core me, the one that could have developed differently.
So, I'm bad at the core. There's something fundamentally wrong with me. I hate and loathe this child at the core of me.
Sure, now that I'm a decent, articulate, generally well-behaved adult, people can accept what they see on the surface. But if they saw through to the faulty unlovable core, they'd hate the real me - the whiny, boring, annoying, weak, loud, pathetic, sensitive brat at the core - just as much as I do.
(I know this is irrational rubbish, but I've just realized after therapy that this is how I feel deep down).
Thursday, December 20, 2012
Defending myself from love
I've used defense mechanisms against people in my life that could have been close to me.
I don't hide stuff, or lie, or refuse to engage. But it's like I enter every relationship with the idea that I can't be really close, that I can't expect anything from another person, and that I could easily be rejected at any moment.
Still, I've felt hurt and pain over some relationships with people who were not my parents. Boyfriends, friends. But I deny and minimize that too. I wasn't really all that attached. I don't need anyone. He never really loved me, so what's the difference?
Or, if someone is ready to end a friendship with no explanation for what later turns out to have been a stupid, stupid misunderstanding, then, you know, good riddance.
No, I don't mean that. This one hurts. It's fucking sad. And I feel a lot of shame surrounding it because I've been so stupid and lacked social skills and somehow it all led to losing a good friend over a fucking smiley in a fucking text.
So I'm telling the story.
I had a good friend. A female friend who was actually female and feminine and was into talking and sharing and not only drinking beer and discussing politics. Then we both fell in love with the same guy for a while, while we both had boyfriends. We were all friends. It was a crazy situation. They eventually got together. There were secrets involved. They broke up a lot. Somehow, I ended up talking to both of them about their relationship and listening to what the other did. There were inconsistencies and I'd point them out and this sometimes led to them getting back together. I somehow found myself in the middle. Acting as some sort of peace-maker, go-between, intermediary. It was stupid, but I never said "I'm not interested" to either one of them when they wanted to pour their hearts out. They were both good friends and people I felt things for. Basically decent people. I still feel that.
Then, they definitely broke up and it was nasty and the guy didn't want to talk to the girl at that moment and called me and begged me to simply inform her where she could leave his stuff, as she'd asked him that when they last spoke.
I didn't want to do this. He begged me and said "If I call her now, I might lose my temper and say nasty things I don't mean to her. This will be easier on her."
It was a stupid idea to begin with. I had no business doing that. But I didn't know any better at the time and trusted everyone's social skills were better than mine, and he knew what he was doing when he asked me to do this.
I sent a stupid short text to her with just the information. And then it sounded too unfeeling, too curt, too formal.
So I added a smiley.
<:-)
That was it. It was supposed to be short for "I'm sorry and I love you" or something. Things I was unable to actually say, even in writing.
"You don't have to gloat," she responded. I didn't understand why she'd say that. By no means was I gloating. Really. I wrote back "Sorry, I'm just transferring information." See the lack of social skills? I felt something here, but could only function like a machine.
Then she called me and asked if she could bring his stuff to my place, instead of where he wanted it. I said "OK" and hoped that we were now fine. I still didn't quite understand what I'd done wrong.
When she dropped the stuff off, I asked her if she wanted to have coffee with me. She replied "Our coffee-drinking days are over," turned around and walked away. I didn't ask why. I didn't understand. I just said "All right then."
If she hadn't been so vulnerable, insecure, and dramatic, she might have explained; if I hadn't been so eager to defend myself by easily letting people go and writing them off, I would have demanded an explanation. But we were both too messed up to talk about the issue.
I only learned what the issue was from her ex, years later, recently, in fact.
Her phone had translated my "<:-)" into "he he."
Un-fucking-believable.
And I was suddenly hurt. Because I understood and could no longer write her off. I could no longer rationalize that "I don't really need a friend who was willing to end it just because I sent a stupid message that may have been misguided, but certainly not malicious."
I wrote my parents off decades ago on some unconscious level. I don't know what it would take for me to be able to feel hurt by them.
I don't hide stuff, or lie, or refuse to engage. But it's like I enter every relationship with the idea that I can't be really close, that I can't expect anything from another person, and that I could easily be rejected at any moment.
Still, I've felt hurt and pain over some relationships with people who were not my parents. Boyfriends, friends. But I deny and minimize that too. I wasn't really all that attached. I don't need anyone. He never really loved me, so what's the difference?
Or, if someone is ready to end a friendship with no explanation for what later turns out to have been a stupid, stupid misunderstanding, then, you know, good riddance.
No, I don't mean that. This one hurts. It's fucking sad. And I feel a lot of shame surrounding it because I've been so stupid and lacked social skills and somehow it all led to losing a good friend over a fucking smiley in a fucking text.
So I'm telling the story.
I had a good friend. A female friend who was actually female and feminine and was into talking and sharing and not only drinking beer and discussing politics. Then we both fell in love with the same guy for a while, while we both had boyfriends. We were all friends. It was a crazy situation. They eventually got together. There were secrets involved. They broke up a lot. Somehow, I ended up talking to both of them about their relationship and listening to what the other did. There were inconsistencies and I'd point them out and this sometimes led to them getting back together. I somehow found myself in the middle. Acting as some sort of peace-maker, go-between, intermediary. It was stupid, but I never said "I'm not interested" to either one of them when they wanted to pour their hearts out. They were both good friends and people I felt things for. Basically decent people. I still feel that.
Then, they definitely broke up and it was nasty and the guy didn't want to talk to the girl at that moment and called me and begged me to simply inform her where she could leave his stuff, as she'd asked him that when they last spoke.
I didn't want to do this. He begged me and said "If I call her now, I might lose my temper and say nasty things I don't mean to her. This will be easier on her."
It was a stupid idea to begin with. I had no business doing that. But I didn't know any better at the time and trusted everyone's social skills were better than mine, and he knew what he was doing when he asked me to do this.
I sent a stupid short text to her with just the information. And then it sounded too unfeeling, too curt, too formal.
So I added a smiley.
<:-)
That was it. It was supposed to be short for "I'm sorry and I love you" or something. Things I was unable to actually say, even in writing.
"You don't have to gloat," she responded. I didn't understand why she'd say that. By no means was I gloating. Really. I wrote back "Sorry, I'm just transferring information." See the lack of social skills? I felt something here, but could only function like a machine.
Then she called me and asked if she could bring his stuff to my place, instead of where he wanted it. I said "OK" and hoped that we were now fine. I still didn't quite understand what I'd done wrong.
When she dropped the stuff off, I asked her if she wanted to have coffee with me. She replied "Our coffee-drinking days are over," turned around and walked away. I didn't ask why. I didn't understand. I just said "All right then."
If she hadn't been so vulnerable, insecure, and dramatic, she might have explained; if I hadn't been so eager to defend myself by easily letting people go and writing them off, I would have demanded an explanation. But we were both too messed up to talk about the issue.
I only learned what the issue was from her ex, years later, recently, in fact.
Her phone had translated my "<:-)" into "he he."
Un-fucking-believable.
And I was suddenly hurt. Because I understood and could no longer write her off. I could no longer rationalize that "I don't really need a friend who was willing to end it just because I sent a stupid message that may have been misguided, but certainly not malicious."
I wrote my parents off decades ago on some unconscious level. I don't know what it would take for me to be able to feel hurt by them.
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
D-fense
I'm now irritated and angry that my therapist expects me to cry and express my hurt over what my parents did and who they were. That he sees my laughing and smiling over my discoveries and memories as a defense from my feelings.
I mean, yes, there's truth to that. But it's also a very real and sincere and only natural way to react.
I don't feel pain when I remember how I've seen the mask slip and the look of pure hatred and disgust in my father's eyes. I don't feel hurt when I remember the gloating glint in my father's eyes when he thought he had the power to frighten and hurt me.
The feeling I have is a pleasant one.
"See?" It tells me. "It's not your fault you feel nothing but fear, anger, disgust, and frustration for this man. He's a sadistic destructive malignant narcissist."
You can't be hurt by someone you have no relationship with, no love or respect for, nothing at all, less than nothing. I mean, you can get angry, or you can laugh at how crazy and bizarre a person is, but you're not going to have your feelings hurt and cry about it.
If a crazy person who clearly hates you for no apparent reason says something critical to you or looks at you in a nasty way, are you going to cry over your hurt feelings? No. You're more probably going to laugh about how bizarre it is.
This is a defense, that's true. We defend ourselves against crazy people who are never going to have a relationship with us and are only interested in hurting us. We don't let them near.
I've had that defense against my father for as long as I can remember. There was probably a time when I loved and trusted him, but I can't access that - this probably ended when I was a baby.
Since then, I've known one thing well, albeit not consciously: if I give him the pleasure of knowing he's hurt me, he'll hurt me more. If I am tough and show no reaction at all, he'll leave me alone. That's the only defense a powerless child has. And that's my power. The only thing I truly know as strength.
The only clear memory I have of childhood spankings is the realization that they're not going to happen again because I've won by not showing any pain or fear.
He almost admitted to me that he could never break me when I was a child, recently. In a roundabout way, and, of course, talking about my mother spanking me, not him, but it was there. An admiring sort of anger in his eyes as he recounted how stubborn I was as a child. How they couldn't break my will.
This went on with words as weapons.
It's a battle, a war, a concentration camp. If you've been in a war, yes, you're likely to have been hurt and messed up in different ways. But you're not expected to cry because the enemy soldiers hurt your feelings, are you? If you've been in a concentration camp, there surely are many horrible things to recount. But you're not likely going to weep over how the guards didn't like you or how the Kommandant hurt your feelings. You wouldn't be open to having your feelings hurt in the first place. Because you're in the kind of situation where you're trying to survive against a powerful enemy. There's no time or place for having your feelings hurt by that enemy and wanting to cry over that.
So, yes, it's a defense. And it's a damned good one, one that works with sadistic narcissists. And it's one I've had in place since I was tiny. And I'm not hiding anything or even really holding anything back - I don't remember the last time there was anything there.
I mean, yes, there's truth to that. But it's also a very real and sincere and only natural way to react.
I don't feel pain when I remember how I've seen the mask slip and the look of pure hatred and disgust in my father's eyes. I don't feel hurt when I remember the gloating glint in my father's eyes when he thought he had the power to frighten and hurt me.
The feeling I have is a pleasant one.
"See?" It tells me. "It's not your fault you feel nothing but fear, anger, disgust, and frustration for this man. He's a sadistic destructive malignant narcissist."
You can't be hurt by someone you have no relationship with, no love or respect for, nothing at all, less than nothing. I mean, you can get angry, or you can laugh at how crazy and bizarre a person is, but you're not going to have your feelings hurt and cry about it.
If a crazy person who clearly hates you for no apparent reason says something critical to you or looks at you in a nasty way, are you going to cry over your hurt feelings? No. You're more probably going to laugh about how bizarre it is.
This is a defense, that's true. We defend ourselves against crazy people who are never going to have a relationship with us and are only interested in hurting us. We don't let them near.
I've had that defense against my father for as long as I can remember. There was probably a time when I loved and trusted him, but I can't access that - this probably ended when I was a baby.
Since then, I've known one thing well, albeit not consciously: if I give him the pleasure of knowing he's hurt me, he'll hurt me more. If I am tough and show no reaction at all, he'll leave me alone. That's the only defense a powerless child has. And that's my power. The only thing I truly know as strength.
The only clear memory I have of childhood spankings is the realization that they're not going to happen again because I've won by not showing any pain or fear.
He almost admitted to me that he could never break me when I was a child, recently. In a roundabout way, and, of course, talking about my mother spanking me, not him, but it was there. An admiring sort of anger in his eyes as he recounted how stubborn I was as a child. How they couldn't break my will.
This went on with words as weapons.
It's a battle, a war, a concentration camp. If you've been in a war, yes, you're likely to have been hurt and messed up in different ways. But you're not expected to cry because the enemy soldiers hurt your feelings, are you? If you've been in a concentration camp, there surely are many horrible things to recount. But you're not likely going to weep over how the guards didn't like you or how the Kommandant hurt your feelings. You wouldn't be open to having your feelings hurt in the first place. Because you're in the kind of situation where you're trying to survive against a powerful enemy. There's no time or place for having your feelings hurt by that enemy and wanting to cry over that.
So, yes, it's a defense. And it's a damned good one, one that works with sadistic narcissists. And it's one I've had in place since I was tiny. And I'm not hiding anything or even really holding anything back - I don't remember the last time there was anything there.
Sunday, December 16, 2012
Tough
The tissues on the desk in my therapist's office annoy me. You think I'm gonna cry? No way. I'm tough.
When he says I had a very difficult childhood and many painful events in my past, I don't trust him to mean it. I'm wondering if he's being sarcastic, as in "Oh, poor you. You whiny brat." (I brought it up at the end of the session and he was able to convince me he definitely means it; that almost made me cry.)
Being vulnerable in front of others is dangerous and stupid. If you admit to any hurt feelings, ever, you will be attacked where it hurts AND you will be called ungrateful, whiny, and weak.
When you're hurt by someone, what you do is grit your teeth, clench your whole body, and bear it and just wait for it to be over. You don't even admit it hurts. You don't give them that pleasure.
My therapist asked me if I was aware of an interesting defense I had: whenever I talk about painful experiences, I smile and laugh. I wasn't aware of it. And I didn't mind I had it. I kind of thought that was cool. I'm aware, rationally, that this is messed up and actually weak, but I don't think I can help feeling this way. I don't even remember talking about painful experiences - just things my parents did. I didn't feel any pain.
I would loathe and disgust myself if I were to break down and cry before this father figure - not that I'm tempted to.
My husband is the only one I can cry in front of - and I loathe and disgust myself for that, too.
When he says I had a very difficult childhood and many painful events in my past, I don't trust him to mean it. I'm wondering if he's being sarcastic, as in "Oh, poor you. You whiny brat." (I brought it up at the end of the session and he was able to convince me he definitely means it; that almost made me cry.)
Being vulnerable in front of others is dangerous and stupid. If you admit to any hurt feelings, ever, you will be attacked where it hurts AND you will be called ungrateful, whiny, and weak.
When you're hurt by someone, what you do is grit your teeth, clench your whole body, and bear it and just wait for it to be over. You don't even admit it hurts. You don't give them that pleasure.
My therapist asked me if I was aware of an interesting defense I had: whenever I talk about painful experiences, I smile and laugh. I wasn't aware of it. And I didn't mind I had it. I kind of thought that was cool. I'm aware, rationally, that this is messed up and actually weak, but I don't think I can help feeling this way. I don't even remember talking about painful experiences - just things my parents did. I didn't feel any pain.
I would loathe and disgust myself if I were to break down and cry before this father figure - not that I'm tempted to.
My husband is the only one I can cry in front of - and I loathe and disgust myself for that, too.
Friday, December 7, 2012
For Quercus Garryana - The Black Hole
I owe you several posts, but I really wanted to do this one that I never even promised. :)
It's my list of reasons why I love the discovery of the black hole. The one caused by the absence of parental love that will never be filled.
1) I've always known it was there. I was just never allowed to feel it, acknowledge it, know about it. See, my life and family and everything was perfect. But now I consciously know the black hole is part of who I am.
2) I finally have a right to who I am and what I feel. I've been angsty, dark, cynical, depressed, black, at different points in my life. I was not just being an ungrateful poser. It was me.
3) Pain, sadness, loneliness, anything, feels better than the empty denial of it. Much better.
4) We're all different and have different crosses to bear. We don't have to be happy or fulfilled or fucking perfect. That's what the narcs demanded from us. That's not what being human is all about. I never have to be happy or whole or perfectly content. Just truly honest and human, thank you.
5) Everybody hurts.
It's OK to hurt and feel sad and incomplete and like you're missing something. It's part of being human. I feel like I need to make this point again, even after 4)
Even people from wonderful families have thorns in their sides. It's what being human entails. It's kind of beautiful, really.
6) Finally seeing that black hole face to face, being broken and vulnerable - leaves you open to the really good things in life. You're a Christian, right? Leonard Cohen has some of my favorite lyrics about Christ:
And Jesus was a sailor
When he walked upon the water
And he spent a long time watching
From his lonely wooden tower
And when he knew for certain
Only drowning men could see him
He said "All men will be sailors then
Until the sea shall free them"
But he himself was broken
Long before the sky would open
Forsaken, almost human
He sank beneath your wisdom like a stone
only drowning men could see him
he himself was broken
It makes me shiver, every time.
7) My favorite insight: the real me doesn't need or want perfect, non-messed-up parents now. No, they wouldn't truly get the real me. Nor would my actual dysfunctional still-messed-up parents.
What the real me now wants and needs and gets is other ACoNs - the ones who've been there and understand and offer support and empathy.
How I got myself to finally cry: I imagined asking my therapist if he'd been loved by his parents; I imagined him replying, calmly, slightly sadly, but mostly with empathy: "No". And I felt like someone could understand the hell inside and not judge me. Know it's real and I'm not a wimpy liar making it up. That gave me the permission to feel it and own it.
And that's me and that's really OK.
It's my list of reasons why I love the discovery of the black hole. The one caused by the absence of parental love that will never be filled.
1) I've always known it was there. I was just never allowed to feel it, acknowledge it, know about it. See, my life and family and everything was perfect. But now I consciously know the black hole is part of who I am.
2) I finally have a right to who I am and what I feel. I've been angsty, dark, cynical, depressed, black, at different points in my life. I was not just being an ungrateful poser. It was me.
3) Pain, sadness, loneliness, anything, feels better than the empty denial of it. Much better.
4) We're all different and have different crosses to bear. We don't have to be happy or fulfilled or fucking perfect. That's what the narcs demanded from us. That's not what being human is all about. I never have to be happy or whole or perfectly content. Just truly honest and human, thank you.
5) Everybody hurts.
It's OK to hurt and feel sad and incomplete and like you're missing something. It's part of being human. I feel like I need to make this point again, even after 4)
Even people from wonderful families have thorns in their sides. It's what being human entails. It's kind of beautiful, really.
6) Finally seeing that black hole face to face, being broken and vulnerable - leaves you open to the really good things in life. You're a Christian, right? Leonard Cohen has some of my favorite lyrics about Christ:
And Jesus was a sailor
When he walked upon the water
And he spent a long time watching
From his lonely wooden tower
And when he knew for certain
Only drowning men could see him
He said "All men will be sailors then
Until the sea shall free them"
But he himself was broken
Long before the sky would open
Forsaken, almost human
He sank beneath your wisdom like a stone
only drowning men could see him
he himself was broken
It makes me shiver, every time.
7) My favorite insight: the real me doesn't need or want perfect, non-messed-up parents now. No, they wouldn't truly get the real me. Nor would my actual dysfunctional still-messed-up parents.
What the real me now wants and needs and gets is other ACoNs - the ones who've been there and understand and offer support and empathy.
How I got myself to finally cry: I imagined asking my therapist if he'd been loved by his parents; I imagined him replying, calmly, slightly sadly, but mostly with empathy: "No". And I felt like someone could understand the hell inside and not judge me. Know it's real and I'm not a wimpy liar making it up. That gave me the permission to feel it and own it.
And that's me and that's really OK.
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
(Still) Tangled
Disney's Tangled reaaally hit a nerve. I cried throughout the first time I watched it. It doesn't really matter which personality disorder mother Gothel can be diagnosed with (although, of course, I believe it's NPD), the important thing is that she symbolizes the parent who is not "real" because she is unable to love her child unconditionally.
She keeps Rapunzel trapped solely because her magical hair provides her with an ever-fresh source of youth and energy and narcissistic supply. Rapunzel has learned well that she is only needed and loved for her hair and the services it provides.
Which is why Eugene cutting her hair off is such a cathartic moment. He refuses to use her magical hair to save his life and cuts it off, setting her free.
Although "love will save you" and waiting for a prince on a white horse to rescue you are dangerous concepts because a person or a relationship will not do your hard work for you, I do believe we ACoNs need someone - a spouse, a friend, a relative, a therapist - to show us that unconditional love and acceptance exist and what kind of work we need to do. Someone who won't leave us when we say "no."
Someone who'll cut our magical hair off.
My husband is here to do that for me. I just don't seem to completely be able to let him. I still hold on to it. I don't want to upset him. I want to do stuff for him. I want to be useful to him. We're both aware of this problem in our relationship and his current method of fighting it is gentle humor.
Here's to cutting our magical hair off!
She keeps Rapunzel trapped solely because her magical hair provides her with an ever-fresh source of youth and energy and narcissistic supply. Rapunzel has learned well that she is only needed and loved for her hair and the services it provides.
Which is why Eugene cutting her hair off is such a cathartic moment. He refuses to use her magical hair to save his life and cuts it off, setting her free.
Although "love will save you" and waiting for a prince on a white horse to rescue you are dangerous concepts because a person or a relationship will not do your hard work for you, I do believe we ACoNs need someone - a spouse, a friend, a relative, a therapist - to show us that unconditional love and acceptance exist and what kind of work we need to do. Someone who won't leave us when we say "no."
Someone who'll cut our magical hair off.
My husband is here to do that for me. I just don't seem to completely be able to let him. I still hold on to it. I don't want to upset him. I want to do stuff for him. I want to be useful to him. We're both aware of this problem in our relationship and his current method of fighting it is gentle humor.
Here's to cutting our magical hair off!
My only session (so far)
I feel like writing down a few snippets from the introductory session with the therapist I'm not going to see any more, not only because she just got a desk opposite mine at work. The therapist is young, ambitious, optimistic. She was happy about the
blogging and the support we give each other, but said something kind of
silly:
T: You can also see on those blogs that people with similar backgrounds to yours become all sorts of successful professionals and that's a positive example.
PA: (thinking WTF?!) Many of us indeed are quite successful outwardly, some only too successful, but...
T: So people can overcome bad childhoods!
Another annoying snippet:
T: What you need to do is accept yourself unconditionally.
PA: Sounds good, but how does one who was never accepted unconditionally for the first couple of decades of her life learn to accept herself unconditionally?
T: Don't give me that excuse!
PA: It's not an excuse. (Thinking later: A sentence beginning with "how" is, at least officially, a question. It may be a rhetorical question, but it is not automatically an excuse.) It's my reality. I don't know what you mean by your words. Imagine being born in Plato's cave, and being told you just need to go live in the sun. You don't even know what the sun is. You don't know which way to go.
T: But you can't use this as an excuse not to be moving out.
PA: I'm moving out. I've been slowly moving out for a couple of years now. But it's not going to just happen if you say it should.
(Thinking much later of the perfect analogy: You tell me you can see I'm hungry so I should just go to the restaurant across the street. I tell you I was raised in this room in absolute darkness and have never ventured out. You tell me that's an excuse - all I need to do is get out, go down the stairs, cross the street and enter the restaurant. I tell you I've heard these words before, but I don't know how to recognize "stairs," "street" and "restaurant," I might fall down the stairs, or a car might hit me, or I might get lost. So you have to show me, not tell me I need to get there or even how to get there. Telling me I just need to accept myself is cute, but won't produce any results.)
REBT is really not for me. The main technique seems to be constantly challenging the client's views, feelings, and perceptions. ACoNs DON'T need more of that, even if our constructs need changing. I noticed myself acting in a narcissistically defensive way and/or resorting to JADE a lot during the session - behaviors I thought were somewhat behind me.
Incredibly, I found a great therapist with a lot of training and experience online. He even has a blog, in which he reveals himself as empathetic, intuitive, extremely flexible, only too ready to admit he'd been thinking too rigidly about something before, but a client or a trainee challenges that and he accepts this... and also, he recommends Alice Miller's books. I wrote to him and he accepted me as a client, even with the condition that I can only afford one session per month.
I was so happy with the exchange, especially because I'd written to 4-5 other therapists and they all replied in manners which had red flags all over them ("What do you mean if I've worked with children or the personality disordered? I don't know, my clients don't have the expertise to diagnose their parents." "I'd ask you what it means to you that your parent is disordered, how you have accepted and interpreted and constructed that in your life" etc.)
Just the fact that there is a therapist in my country who's very much into Alice Miller and seems extremely open to understanding and validating and helping me truly experience my insights has had a huge positive effect. I've felt more in the last few days. I've relived some moments from my childhood, actually feeling them this time around. I felt betrayal, anger, and sadness. I have a pretty good feeling about this - I hope I've developed enough intuition and gut feeling by now.
T: You can also see on those blogs that people with similar backgrounds to yours become all sorts of successful professionals and that's a positive example.
PA: (thinking WTF?!) Many of us indeed are quite successful outwardly, some only too successful, but...
T: So people can overcome bad childhoods!
Another annoying snippet:
T: What you need to do is accept yourself unconditionally.
PA: Sounds good, but how does one who was never accepted unconditionally for the first couple of decades of her life learn to accept herself unconditionally?
T: Don't give me that excuse!
PA: It's not an excuse. (Thinking later: A sentence beginning with "how" is, at least officially, a question. It may be a rhetorical question, but it is not automatically an excuse.) It's my reality. I don't know what you mean by your words. Imagine being born in Plato's cave, and being told you just need to go live in the sun. You don't even know what the sun is. You don't know which way to go.
T: But you can't use this as an excuse not to be moving out.
PA: I'm moving out. I've been slowly moving out for a couple of years now. But it's not going to just happen if you say it should.
(Thinking much later of the perfect analogy: You tell me you can see I'm hungry so I should just go to the restaurant across the street. I tell you I was raised in this room in absolute darkness and have never ventured out. You tell me that's an excuse - all I need to do is get out, go down the stairs, cross the street and enter the restaurant. I tell you I've heard these words before, but I don't know how to recognize "stairs," "street" and "restaurant," I might fall down the stairs, or a car might hit me, or I might get lost. So you have to show me, not tell me I need to get there or even how to get there. Telling me I just need to accept myself is cute, but won't produce any results.)
REBT is really not for me. The main technique seems to be constantly challenging the client's views, feelings, and perceptions. ACoNs DON'T need more of that, even if our constructs need changing. I noticed myself acting in a narcissistically defensive way and/or resorting to JADE a lot during the session - behaviors I thought were somewhat behind me.
Incredibly, I found a great therapist with a lot of training and experience online. He even has a blog, in which he reveals himself as empathetic, intuitive, extremely flexible, only too ready to admit he'd been thinking too rigidly about something before, but a client or a trainee challenges that and he accepts this... and also, he recommends Alice Miller's books. I wrote to him and he accepted me as a client, even with the condition that I can only afford one session per month.
I was so happy with the exchange, especially because I'd written to 4-5 other therapists and they all replied in manners which had red flags all over them ("What do you mean if I've worked with children or the personality disordered? I don't know, my clients don't have the expertise to diagnose their parents." "I'd ask you what it means to you that your parent is disordered, how you have accepted and interpreted and constructed that in your life" etc.)
Just the fact that there is a therapist in my country who's very much into Alice Miller and seems extremely open to understanding and validating and helping me truly experience my insights has had a huge positive effect. I've felt more in the last few days. I've relived some moments from my childhood, actually feeling them this time around. I felt betrayal, anger, and sadness. I have a pretty good feeling about this - I hope I've developed enough intuition and gut feeling by now.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
The Savior/Martyr False Self
There are things about me that are fake; there are those that are here as a result of conditioning; there are those I developed as my rebellion against the conditioning.
Many of them are relatively harmless. Some are kind of dear to me, and, as long as I acknowledge that this is not uncompromisingly my innermost self, I can let myself indulge in them (like sometimes wanting to be one of the boys, drinking beer out of the bottle in the park, having a little general rebellious streak).
But one thing that really stood out to me in the story, the unhealthy thing, the thing that forever connects my false self with the tyrant, necessitating their joint death as the only way out, is the savior/martyr complex. The main character in my story so obviously has it that it hurts me to realize it. She's thrilled to have someone to protect. Her life has meaning. Then she's ready to suffer torture and death for him at the hands of the man who wants him dead. And not only that. In the process, in the first version of the ending which disgusted me, she never objects. She never raises her voice. She never tries to defend herself. Not because she's really compliant. Far from it. No, it's because doing any of that would be like weakness or immorality.
In other versions, I let her get raving mad, kick him in the balls, take his gun, all sorts of stuff. But it feels wrong to her to do anything violent to him, or even speak up against him to the cops, and then survive, it's unlike her, makes her somehow unclean. The last time she does it, they both die. He shoots her straight through the heart, which just goes all numb (like in my dream - I'm choosing to reinterpret it as the voluntary death of my false self now), and the young man hidden behind the heavy bookcase manages to tip it over and it crashes on the killer's head.
She has sometimes done good for others, when I was a student representative and fought the good fight. Stuff like that. But she does bad stuff, too.
She exists, it seems, only to be a savior and a martyr, and without a tyrant, she doesn't feel alive, she's just depressed and cynical. She invents tyrants where there are none. She finds the same dynamic everywhere, even where it doesn't exist, and then the savior becomes the sanctimonious judge of those with power who's overly lenient to those without it, and the martyr becomes the whiner.
She's not evil. But she keeps me seeking out abuse from my father or anyone else and interpreting it as this big battle against evil in which she will be the moral victor by silently enduring everything and never even being impolite. And the abuser will just tire of the abuse because he's not getting the desired result, the expected reaction. And he'll move on, frustrated. He's physically stronger and has all the power, so all she can do is shut off and endure it all sullenly and not give him the satisfaction of witnessing any reaction in her.
This may have been a decent survival strategy when I was a child, but now it no longer serves its purpose.
Christians here, please answer this: have you identified with Christ and the martyrs when feeling good & strong by taking stuff silently? Better and stronger than the abusers? I know feeling better and stronger than others is not exactly a Christian sentiment, but, well, maybe some of you know what I mean.
I don't, on the other hand, really identify with all that love and forgiveness for one's tormentors. Just the idea of being stronger by silently enduring and never showing you're suffering. That's not Christian at all, I fully realize.
But somehow, for me, it got blended with my general ideology.
How does one get rid of that? And what does one do instead and still feel good about oneself?
Many of them are relatively harmless. Some are kind of dear to me, and, as long as I acknowledge that this is not uncompromisingly my innermost self, I can let myself indulge in them (like sometimes wanting to be one of the boys, drinking beer out of the bottle in the park, having a little general rebellious streak).
But one thing that really stood out to me in the story, the unhealthy thing, the thing that forever connects my false self with the tyrant, necessitating their joint death as the only way out, is the savior/martyr complex. The main character in my story so obviously has it that it hurts me to realize it. She's thrilled to have someone to protect. Her life has meaning. Then she's ready to suffer torture and death for him at the hands of the man who wants him dead. And not only that. In the process, in the first version of the ending which disgusted me, she never objects. She never raises her voice. She never tries to defend herself. Not because she's really compliant. Far from it. No, it's because doing any of that would be like weakness or immorality.
In other versions, I let her get raving mad, kick him in the balls, take his gun, all sorts of stuff. But it feels wrong to her to do anything violent to him, or even speak up against him to the cops, and then survive, it's unlike her, makes her somehow unclean. The last time she does it, they both die. He shoots her straight through the heart, which just goes all numb (like in my dream - I'm choosing to reinterpret it as the voluntary death of my false self now), and the young man hidden behind the heavy bookcase manages to tip it over and it crashes on the killer's head.
She has sometimes done good for others, when I was a student representative and fought the good fight. Stuff like that. But she does bad stuff, too.
She exists, it seems, only to be a savior and a martyr, and without a tyrant, she doesn't feel alive, she's just depressed and cynical. She invents tyrants where there are none. She finds the same dynamic everywhere, even where it doesn't exist, and then the savior becomes the sanctimonious judge of those with power who's overly lenient to those without it, and the martyr becomes the whiner.
She's not evil. But she keeps me seeking out abuse from my father or anyone else and interpreting it as this big battle against evil in which she will be the moral victor by silently enduring everything and never even being impolite. And the abuser will just tire of the abuse because he's not getting the desired result, the expected reaction. And he'll move on, frustrated. He's physically stronger and has all the power, so all she can do is shut off and endure it all sullenly and not give him the satisfaction of witnessing any reaction in her.
This may have been a decent survival strategy when I was a child, but now it no longer serves its purpose.
Christians here, please answer this: have you identified with Christ and the martyrs when feeling good & strong by taking stuff silently? Better and stronger than the abusers? I know feeling better and stronger than others is not exactly a Christian sentiment, but, well, maybe some of you know what I mean.
I don't, on the other hand, really identify with all that love and forgiveness for one's tormentors. Just the idea of being stronger by silently enduring and never showing you're suffering. That's not Christian at all, I fully realize.
But somehow, for me, it got blended with my general ideology.
How does one get rid of that? And what does one do instead and still feel good about oneself?
The moral of the story
The story I wrote had only one ending that worked - the one in which both the Tyrant and the False Self die. And they do have to both die to make me healthy, although the False Self is the main character. They feed each other, they make each other possible in my psyche. The Tyrant is not really my father - he is an internalized version of my father, an inner figure of censorship and destruction, much more dangerous and powerful and violent than the man ever was. The False Self is not really me. She needs to go. And only in that case does the hidden and threatened Inner Child have the chance to have the freedom to grow and develop into something that could be me.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
The Denouement
I finally finished the story. I took long, long breaks because it was really hard and scary.
In it, all the characters are apparently parts of me and include my very developed and detailed False Self, my threatened, hidden Inner Child, the Abominable Tyrant, and two cops who come in the end - something like surrogate parents.
The story has five or six endings that I tried - and I left them all in, in the spirit of deconstruction and transparency, along with my thoughts on them - and all these endings are very violent and full of rage.
But the only one that works is the one in which the False Self and the Tyrant both die.
In it, all the characters are apparently parts of me and include my very developed and detailed False Self, my threatened, hidden Inner Child, the Abominable Tyrant, and two cops who come in the end - something like surrogate parents.
The story has five or six endings that I tried - and I left them all in, in the spirit of deconstruction and transparency, along with my thoughts on them - and all these endings are very violent and full of rage.
But the only one that works is the one in which the False Self and the Tyrant both die.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Fiction Therapy
I've actually started writing fiction again, after a decade, and this time it's real. I'm writing a fictitious story with fictitious characters, but it's more real and honest than anything I've ever written, including purely factual essays. And it's scary. And I don't know what will happen, but if I just let it happen, without interfering, it does. And it makes so much symbolic sense that it's eery.
For instance, one character (my false self, I think) hides another, (my inner child, I think) behind her bookcase from a persecutor who's trying to kill him. And the moment that occurred to me as the only possible course of action, I realized that this is exactly what I did. I hid my traumatized inner child and my truth and the real me behind my books. I wasn't allowed to think my father and my family were anything less than perfect. But I was allowed to read Orwell and feel rebellious against Big Brother. I was allowed to read Kafka and relate so perfectly to the feeling of being persecuted by an evil system designed to crush, denigrate, and annihilate. I was allowed to read about the Gnostics and despise the evil Demiurge who imprisoned souls in his world and demanded to be worshiped by them.
Writing fiction brings even more things to light than factual blogging! It's incredibly therapeutic.
The next thing that will happen in my story is an open confrontation with the persecutor. This scares me, because it feels potentially prophetic. Will it end in a general carnage, like a Shakespearean tragedy? I hope not. I hope 'my' characters can emerge relatively unharmed. One can hope.
For instance, one character (my false self, I think) hides another, (my inner child, I think) behind her bookcase from a persecutor who's trying to kill him. And the moment that occurred to me as the only possible course of action, I realized that this is exactly what I did. I hid my traumatized inner child and my truth and the real me behind my books. I wasn't allowed to think my father and my family were anything less than perfect. But I was allowed to read Orwell and feel rebellious against Big Brother. I was allowed to read Kafka and relate so perfectly to the feeling of being persecuted by an evil system designed to crush, denigrate, and annihilate. I was allowed to read about the Gnostics and despise the evil Demiurge who imprisoned souls in his world and demanded to be worshiped by them.
Writing fiction brings even more things to light than factual blogging! It's incredibly therapeutic.
The next thing that will happen in my story is an open confrontation with the persecutor. This scares me, because it feels potentially prophetic. Will it end in a general carnage, like a Shakespearean tragedy? I hope not. I hope 'my' characters can emerge relatively unharmed. One can hope.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Only the Blind Can See
It sounds like a paradox, but I'm dead serious. The reason it's so difficult to explain to others what we were missing as children and are still missing now is because it is such a normal, essential thing that those who had it and have it don't even notice it. How can you explain Lack of Love to those whose parents really loved them? How can they understand what it's like never to have received free, safe, unconditional love from those whose duty it was to provide it?
So we talk about the fluff. We talk about their selfish or abusive or lying actions and are told that other parents sometimes do the same. They talk about how our parents raised us, put us through school, bought us stuff. But all this is irrelevant fluff. The issue is Lack of Love. Parental love is something absolutely essential, and yet something invisible, because it's simply taken for granted.
Like eyesight. We don't go around thinking about eyesight all day long, thanking God we have it and feeling empathy towards those who don't. We take it for granted. Only if you're blind, and have known what having eyesight is like, are you likely to See its importance.
When we are told "Well, maybe your parents were unable to really love you, but they put you through school and bought you stuff" it's like telling a person whose parents gouged their eyes out in infancy "Well, your parents blinded you, but they bought you some nice shades, and that white cane they got you sure is neat."
I was blinded early in my life. And only recently have I begun to realize what having eyesight feels like. And only now do I realize what a difference it makes and how essential it is.
So we talk about the fluff. We talk about their selfish or abusive or lying actions and are told that other parents sometimes do the same. They talk about how our parents raised us, put us through school, bought us stuff. But all this is irrelevant fluff. The issue is Lack of Love. Parental love is something absolutely essential, and yet something invisible, because it's simply taken for granted.
Like eyesight. We don't go around thinking about eyesight all day long, thanking God we have it and feeling empathy towards those who don't. We take it for granted. Only if you're blind, and have known what having eyesight is like, are you likely to See its importance.
When we are told "Well, maybe your parents were unable to really love you, but they put you through school and bought you stuff" it's like telling a person whose parents gouged their eyes out in infancy "Well, your parents blinded you, but they bought you some nice shades, and that white cane they got you sure is neat."
I was blinded early in my life. And only recently have I begun to realize what having eyesight feels like. And only now do I realize what a difference it makes and how essential it is.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
I cried in public today
I was waiting in a line with my one-year-old in a mei tai. A nice elderly couple started talking to me and cooing to the baby, tickling her. The man, in particular, paid special attention to her, and his wife kept saying "Oh, grandpa, you're boring that poor baby!"
And I just burst into tears, right there, in that line. I couldn't help it.
It occurred to me that this perfect stranger paid more real, positive attention to my child than my father has to both my children in the 4.5 years that I've been a mother.
And I was just so sad. I was so close to asking these people to adopt me.
I told my aunt this. She hugged me. I feel kind of "adopted".
I've become so much more vulnerable lately. I "didn't need" love before, or hugs, or attention. I was "strong". It was all so sickly sweet and sentimental to me. But it is only the narcissists' fake displays that are syrupy and sickening. The real thing also exists. And it's truly nourishing and wholesome.
And I just burst into tears, right there, in that line. I couldn't help it.
It occurred to me that this perfect stranger paid more real, positive attention to my child than my father has to both my children in the 4.5 years that I've been a mother.
And I was just so sad. I was so close to asking these people to adopt me.
I told my aunt this. She hugged me. I feel kind of "adopted".
I've become so much more vulnerable lately. I "didn't need" love before, or hugs, or attention. I was "strong". It was all so sickly sweet and sentimental to me. But it is only the narcissists' fake displays that are syrupy and sickening. The real thing also exists. And it's truly nourishing and wholesome.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Boring Me
I've heard it too often to count. My father doesn't want to "bore" me with long or frequent phone calls. When he calls, he asks how we are and what we're doing and then says "I don't want to bore you any more" and hangs up abruptly.
And I used to believe him, only too well. I even went so far as to completely internalize that insanity - I FELT GUILTY about being so obviously BORED with my father's phone calls that he apparently felt he had to make them ludicrously short.
I was even defensive about it. After a phone conversation that took all of 10 (ten!) seconds, my husband asked "What kind of a phone conversation was that?" And I was sure he was BLAMING ME for being such a cold and cruel daughter that my own father felt he had to hang up after 10 seconds, so I actually snapped at him and tried to defend myself! It was only recently that I asked him "You actually meant him? He was the one you thought was not communicating in a normal way?" He replied "Of course. What did you think?" I thought it had to be my fault. I thought I was so obviously selfish and self-absorbed that people just didn't really want to talk to me for long for fear that they were boring me. And I was sure I must be boring the socks off them, too.
Wow. I'm only now realizing some of the effects. I don't call people to just talk to them. It doesn't feel right. There has to be a practical reason for every conversation. If I miss someone, I'll call them only if I can invite them over for a meal or coffee, at a very specific date. Or (Dear God!) if I need a favor. Because that's something concrete and practical. I actually lost a friend once because I never called her on the phone.
But neither am I cold, cruel, and easily bored nor am I boring and difficult to talk to. I'm only boring to my narcissistic father because he's narcissistic and I've never really been a good audience (too many opinions of my own, not enough silent worship, not easily hurt by his criticism, and, perhaps most importantly of late, noticeably happily enjoying life in my family of choice with no drama at all). He doesn't want to talk to me. And it's not my fault. And I can talk to other people. I can actually pick up the phone and call my aunt, my cousins, my friends, and just... talk. Wow.
And I used to believe him, only too well. I even went so far as to completely internalize that insanity - I FELT GUILTY about being so obviously BORED with my father's phone calls that he apparently felt he had to make them ludicrously short.
I was even defensive about it. After a phone conversation that took all of 10 (ten!) seconds, my husband asked "What kind of a phone conversation was that?" And I was sure he was BLAMING ME for being such a cold and cruel daughter that my own father felt he had to hang up after 10 seconds, so I actually snapped at him and tried to defend myself! It was only recently that I asked him "You actually meant him? He was the one you thought was not communicating in a normal way?" He replied "Of course. What did you think?" I thought it had to be my fault. I thought I was so obviously selfish and self-absorbed that people just didn't really want to talk to me for long for fear that they were boring me. And I was sure I must be boring the socks off them, too.
Wow. I'm only now realizing some of the effects. I don't call people to just talk to them. It doesn't feel right. There has to be a practical reason for every conversation. If I miss someone, I'll call them only if I can invite them over for a meal or coffee, at a very specific date. Or (Dear God!) if I need a favor. Because that's something concrete and practical. I actually lost a friend once because I never called her on the phone.
But neither am I cold, cruel, and easily bored nor am I boring and difficult to talk to. I'm only boring to my narcissistic father because he's narcissistic and I've never really been a good audience (too many opinions of my own, not enough silent worship, not easily hurt by his criticism, and, perhaps most importantly of late, noticeably happily enjoying life in my family of choice with no drama at all). He doesn't want to talk to me. And it's not my fault. And I can talk to other people. I can actually pick up the phone and call my aunt, my cousins, my friends, and just... talk. Wow.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Not a Wimp
One of my mantras is "I'm not a wimp".
And I'm not. But I may seem like one (to myself?) at times. Because 1) I've been taught that only wimps do what's good for them, and strong people take abuse and destroy themselves in different ways and 2) I've been taught that a single little mistake will lose me parental love forever (see the latest silent treatment stories for proof), so my every confrontation with anyone is preceded with bracing myself for the worst possible outcome.
Which means I'm careful when choosing my battles. I won't stand up for myself (only wimps defend themselves, strong people can take anything) but I have to stand up for general ideals, and then I'm prepared for, say, losing my job if I refuse to do something immoral for my boss.
And then nothing happens to me. And I feel like a drama queen, creating drama over nothing. But it's not my drama. It was my narcissistic father's drama. And it was real. The slightest perceived offense and I no longer existed.
It's surreal to begin to understand that normal people don't function like that. That the world is not populated with people who will shun you, fire you, destroy you, over the slightest mistake or disagreement.
And I'm not. But I may seem like one (to myself?) at times. Because 1) I've been taught that only wimps do what's good for them, and strong people take abuse and destroy themselves in different ways and 2) I've been taught that a single little mistake will lose me parental love forever (see the latest silent treatment stories for proof), so my every confrontation with anyone is preceded with bracing myself for the worst possible outcome.
Which means I'm careful when choosing my battles. I won't stand up for myself (only wimps defend themselves, strong people can take anything) but I have to stand up for general ideals, and then I'm prepared for, say, losing my job if I refuse to do something immoral for my boss.
And then nothing happens to me. And I feel like a drama queen, creating drama over nothing. But it's not my drama. It was my narcissistic father's drama. And it was real. The slightest perceived offense and I no longer existed.
It's surreal to begin to understand that normal people don't function like that. That the world is not populated with people who will shun you, fire you, destroy you, over the slightest mistake or disagreement.
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Duh.
I only now made the connection.
My father is a narcissist. He looks down on sexually desirable women as potential mates and sources of supply. He's essentially a misogynist.
I've always felt uncomfortable with acting and looking feminine and desirable. I have no problem with my womanhood and sexuality, just appearing feminine and attractive.
Duh.
I could hope to earn a modicum or a semblance of respectability and being taken seriously as a person and a human being only by being "one of the boys."
Camouflage.
Now to unlearning it.
My father is a narcissist. He looks down on sexually desirable women as potential mates and sources of supply. He's essentially a misogynist.
I've always felt uncomfortable with acting and looking feminine and desirable. I have no problem with my womanhood and sexuality, just appearing feminine and attractive.
Duh.
I could hope to earn a modicum or a semblance of respectability and being taken seriously as a person and a human being only by being "one of the boys."
Camouflage.
Now to unlearning it.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Luxuries
I have a problem with clothes. I hate spending money on clothes and shoes for myself. I feel like it's a selfish, luxurious sin to be buying new clothes. Getting clothes second hand from friends and relatives is a sinless way to obtain them. For years, in my teens and adolescence, I only wore my grandfather's and father's old shirts, pants, coats, and wore the same shoes for years, until they fell apart. I looked like a hobo and though of it as my "style". I certainly didn't want to be a "lady" like my grandmothers, so that worked out well.
It was a source of weird pride for me. I needed little. I was ascetic.
Now I have a weird thing where I'll sometimes feel so starved for clothes, while at the same time feeling horrible about giving money for them, that I'll buy tons of dirt cheap stuff that will fall apart after the first wash.
And I've felt for so long that my parents gave me sooo much, that I only realized last night that they bought me almost no clothes after I was 11 or so. I was made to feel incredibly grateful for everything I was given, even if it was used. My father would give me an old coat of his, tattered and worn out, and make me seem ungrateful and unappreciative if I didn't like it. Like I was a spoiled brat. I had to justify needing anything and it had to be cheap. Things like shoes. My father glued my soles back on with superglue several times before acknowledging that I indeed did need new shoes, after, say, 5 years of me wearing the same pair.
I was too proud to acknowledge it even mattered. I never needed anything from them. There was pride in wearing old stuff and being a hobo and needing little.
When I was a baby, and in my early childhood, though, they dressed me up like a doll, in expensive dresses and shoes and bought only the best finery for me. And then, abruptly, it stopped, and I actually fondly remember getting a pair of stockings and some underwear, because it was such a rare, incredible treat.
And I only really understood this last night! This realization happened after I shared with my husband the fact that I never had a bed.
I never had a bed.
When I was little, I slept in my crib, and then on a couch.
Then, when my grandparents died, I inherited one of their old beds. With a mattress that was falling apart.
Only now do I realize how wrong this is. Now, when I've bought beds and mattresses for my family and seen how it is indeed possible to wake up without pain in my back.
It was a source of weird pride for me. I needed little. I was ascetic.
Now I have a weird thing where I'll sometimes feel so starved for clothes, while at the same time feeling horrible about giving money for them, that I'll buy tons of dirt cheap stuff that will fall apart after the first wash.
And I've felt for so long that my parents gave me sooo much, that I only realized last night that they bought me almost no clothes after I was 11 or so. I was made to feel incredibly grateful for everything I was given, even if it was used. My father would give me an old coat of his, tattered and worn out, and make me seem ungrateful and unappreciative if I didn't like it. Like I was a spoiled brat. I had to justify needing anything and it had to be cheap. Things like shoes. My father glued my soles back on with superglue several times before acknowledging that I indeed did need new shoes, after, say, 5 years of me wearing the same pair.
I was too proud to acknowledge it even mattered. I never needed anything from them. There was pride in wearing old stuff and being a hobo and needing little.
When I was a baby, and in my early childhood, though, they dressed me up like a doll, in expensive dresses and shoes and bought only the best finery for me. And then, abruptly, it stopped, and I actually fondly remember getting a pair of stockings and some underwear, because it was such a rare, incredible treat.
And I only really understood this last night! This realization happened after I shared with my husband the fact that I never had a bed.
I never had a bed.
When I was little, I slept in my crib, and then on a couch.
Then, when my grandparents died, I inherited one of their old beds. With a mattress that was falling apart.
Only now do I realize how wrong this is. Now, when I've bought beds and mattresses for my family and seen how it is indeed possible to wake up without pain in my back.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Nothing Personal
Learning to talk about myself and my life, although it sounds straightforward enough, has been one of the greatest challenges of my life.
When I was 17, a boyfriend of mine observed that "You don't know how to just talk. You discuss philosophy, religion, literature, politics, but you can never just talk".
I replied "Maybe I'm just an intellectual person. I never even THINK about anything else."
He said "No. I know other intellectual people. And they can talk about their personal lives just fine."
Intellectual was always safe. My parents are perfect. I'm so grateful. Now, let's discuss obscure medieval heresies...
When I was 17, a boyfriend of mine observed that "You don't know how to just talk. You discuss philosophy, religion, literature, politics, but you can never just talk".
I replied "Maybe I'm just an intellectual person. I never even THINK about anything else."
He said "No. I know other intellectual people. And they can talk about their personal lives just fine."
Intellectual was always safe. My parents are perfect. I'm so grateful. Now, let's discuss obscure medieval heresies...
Monday, May 16, 2011
Trapped between two "shoulds"
In this post I was bashing myself for not living up to what I perceived as the ACON ideal: having no contact with one's narcissistic parents.
There's also the ideal of my culture - being nice and polite to one's parents and remaining in touch.
These two perceived ideals fight over me and cause me anxiety. As a true ACON, I haven't asked myself: "What do you WANT? How do you FEEL?"
Having allowed myself to imagine hearing the news of my father's death, I was surprised to find that my emotional reaction was one of disappointment and being cheated out of something. I'm not done with him. I don't want NC.
I won't see him until late October and we only exchange the occasional sms or e-mail in which he asks how we are, and I reply "Great". And I miss... not him, but the opportunity to grow stronger in relation to him. It may be sick, but I want him as a sparring partner. I want to be strong enough to feel perfectly calm and happy in his presence. I'm almost there. I find I've grown and changed so much since the apartment saga and he very seldom succeeds in pushing my buttons.
I don't even really believe he'd throw us out of the apartment, and even if he does, it's not the end of the world, just an inconvenience - we'll move into the one that he's using, which is legally mine. This was my rationalization of why I'm not fulfilling the "ideal" of NC. Because I'm not allowed to do what I want (in this case stay in touch with full awareness of my father's NPD) but instead always strive to fulfill every ideal that I can read between the lines of blogs and fora.
There's also the ideal of my culture - being nice and polite to one's parents and remaining in touch.
These two perceived ideals fight over me and cause me anxiety. As a true ACON, I haven't asked myself: "What do you WANT? How do you FEEL?"
Having allowed myself to imagine hearing the news of my father's death, I was surprised to find that my emotional reaction was one of disappointment and being cheated out of something. I'm not done with him. I don't want NC.
I won't see him until late October and we only exchange the occasional sms or e-mail in which he asks how we are, and I reply "Great". And I miss... not him, but the opportunity to grow stronger in relation to him. It may be sick, but I want him as a sparring partner. I want to be strong enough to feel perfectly calm and happy in his presence. I'm almost there. I find I've grown and changed so much since the apartment saga and he very seldom succeeds in pushing my buttons.
I don't even really believe he'd throw us out of the apartment, and even if he does, it's not the end of the world, just an inconvenience - we'll move into the one that he's using, which is legally mine. This was my rationalization of why I'm not fulfilling the "ideal" of NC. Because I'm not allowed to do what I want (in this case stay in touch with full awareness of my father's NPD) but instead always strive to fulfill every ideal that I can read between the lines of blogs and fora.
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