So, I'd asked my father to have some old family videos turned into CDs for me.
I hoped it would provide me with additional insights into my childhood.
He brought them to me a few weeks ago.
I was somewhat surprised. I'd forgotten my mother and, looking at her, I felt more distant from her than ever. She seems weird, cold, too eager to sound loudly interesting and funny, or just vanishes into the background, despondently.
She's the one who'll taunt me and criticize me for her amusement in those videos. My father actually sometimes defends me. It's nothing big, for sure. Annoying pecks more than stabs.
But, I just don't like her.
I guess that's surprising. She died, then I discovered my father was a narcissist, then I remembered he was always the dominant one, and I somewhat idealized her posthumously. And I felt guilty for being duped or forced into choosing him over her when I was a child. Now I'm not so sure it was the worst thing I could have done. I just don't like her.
I've been telling people about this interesting discovery lately, most recently last night over some beers with friends.
So, this morning I had one of those vivid nightmares, the recurring one I've been having for years with some variations: I find out again all my work towards my doctorate is futile, as I never actually graduated from college. I have to go back to my final year. Nothing is a big deal, except for one course that I'd apparently just forgotten to take and thought of as boring and useless.
I now realize I can choose another course instead, and this time, being older and different, I choose, strangely for me, a course taught by a lovely, helpful, kind woman, involving baking colorful cookies shaped like snowmen and stick figures and cartoon characters. It was childlike and fun and you couldn't fail. I was happy to learn something that might help me make nice gifts for my family. I felt like a loved child being allowed to take this course. I hugged the teacher for being so helpful and she hugged me back.
She looked and acted nothing like my mother. This time, passing the missing exams meant finding a kind, loving, mother surrogate.
The dream continued by me going to my therapist and discovering someone else there, a colleague of his. He insisted I talked to him, so I started telling him about my mother and my dream, and he interrupted me:
- Stop blaming your mother! Stop blaming your parents for your problems and behaviors!
So I started railing and ranting and howling at him:
- I'm NOT blaming her for my behaviors! I'm only blaming them for not loving me, and for how bad that makes me feel, but me screaming at you right now is all ME, and my anger is all ME! And if you think I can't blame them for making me feel that way, don't you dare blame me for how you're feeling right now, being screamed at!!!
That felt good.
(I still haven't terminated therapy, as things are sort of still happening in every session.)
Showing posts with label narcissism. Show all posts
Showing posts with label narcissism. Show all posts
Thursday, March 7, 2013
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.
Sunday, December 16, 2012
Engulfing to Ignoring
I think I pinpointed the moment my father went from engulfing to ignoring.
To begin with, he never managed to be truly engulfing, just overly controlling on the outside. There never was classical enmeshment in my family. But he was always there, a cold, silent, towering dictator.
This was when I was a little doll, then a stubborn little kid, then a preteen who was involved in and successful at many activities - the piano, ballet, gymnastics, choir, acting - all of which he took me to and talked to the teachers and boasted about it all to others and proved he was an involved father of a gifted child to everyone who'd listen.
Then I dropped all these activities, one by one. I took to reading and listening to music in my room. He was upset and tried to talk me out of it. When this failed, I basically dropped off his radar. There was nothing public left for him to "do with" me - and that was all that existed before, anyway.
Really, when I think about it, he never was engulfing, it just felt that way. He wasn't capable of that. He was just around a lot, getting narcissistic supply from public figures.
And his narcissistic parents, to whom all the diplomas and awards were dutifully and ceremoniously presented for approval.
When that was gone, there was nothing left.
To begin with, he never managed to be truly engulfing, just overly controlling on the outside. There never was classical enmeshment in my family. But he was always there, a cold, silent, towering dictator.
This was when I was a little doll, then a stubborn little kid, then a preteen who was involved in and successful at many activities - the piano, ballet, gymnastics, choir, acting - all of which he took me to and talked to the teachers and boasted about it all to others and proved he was an involved father of a gifted child to everyone who'd listen.
Then I dropped all these activities, one by one. I took to reading and listening to music in my room. He was upset and tried to talk me out of it. When this failed, I basically dropped off his radar. There was nothing public left for him to "do with" me - and that was all that existed before, anyway.
Really, when I think about it, he never was engulfing, it just felt that way. He wasn't capable of that. He was just around a lot, getting narcissistic supply from public figures.
And his narcissistic parents, to whom all the diplomas and awards were dutifully and ceremoniously presented for approval.
When that was gone, there was nothing left.
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
Still shaking after a whole day
Here's something that still has me shaking after a whole day. I couldn't fall asleep last night. I am trying to figure out why exactly that is - because I'm so terrified of government institutions because I'm an ACoN and my NF was so much into doctors and teachers and all these authority figures; or because I'm so vulnerable and defensive about my parenting because I know at a deep level that I can never be an adequate parent. Anyway, feel free to point out my craziness out to me. This is what I wrote about it on a parenting forum:
So, I live in a post-Communist country. Public schools and certain medical check-ups for children are mandatory (and free, by the way; but still mandatory).
Today I had the pleasure of taking my 2.5 yo daughter for a first check-up with a speech therapist and defectologist AND getting information from them about my 5 yo's check-up that was conducted in her preschool class.
It was a real treat.
I was told my (wonderful, sweet, smart, almost bilingual, introverted) 5 yo is "socially impaired" (because she's shy in large groups and with strangers), "behind" (because she apparently didn't know all the arbitrary things expected from her at that age), and needs help from them.
The (pretty mean-looking, intimidating, crabby) lady told me it was obvious my daughter wasn't used to a "collective" - she'd been at home with us all her life before preschool and never went to daycare, something they obviously saw as neglectful and somehow evil - and she needed institutional help so she'd catch up with other, "socialized" children.
When I asked exactly what techniques and methods she thought she could use to help my daughter adjust to a school setting with more ease, the woman frowned at me and said "That's for me to know!" I replied: "I can't give my consent unless I have information on what you propose to do to my child" and she still wouldn't tell me! So I declined - the lady was giving me, a grown woman, the creeps, I certainly don't want to expose my sensitive child to her!
She said my child had cognitive issues. When I asked for examples, this is what I got:
- "She couldn't name all the body parts"
"I find that hard to believe," I replied. "Which ones couldn't she name?" I asked and got NO REPLY. My kid knows how to name body parts in two different languages and this was absurd.
- "She couldn't count to ten"
"She can count to one hundred," I replied. Perhaps she was terrified of this lady.
- "She couldn't name the days of the week."
OK, this one is true. My kid doesn't know the names of the days of the week. Those are seven words that she can cram by heart in two minutes, but what's the point of it in a 5 yo's life? She's just never been interested. She can tell time, though, but that doesn't matter, because the guidelines say that a 5 yo must know the days of the week or be deemed cognitively impaired. (Added: I actually taught her those seven words yesterday and it took all of 90 seconds.)
I said my child was fluent in two languages, and she reprimanded me for that, as it is bad for a child to be bilingual - a child must first learn her own language well before she's exposed to another one. I immediately got scared and defensive and said I couldn't prevent her - she just picks up languages effortlessly!
(And, only after writing this, I actually find the courage to say that this is baloney! I studied language development in uni and there's nothing wrong with being bilingual!)
Then it was my baby's turn. She was, to begin with, speech impaired - yes, she develops verbally a bit slower, but she's got a good ear and is catching up quickly. She just started showing an interest in learning words later. She's more interested in her motor development. (She speaks more than 200 words at age 2.5, and is learning new ones every day.)
They were concerned and seemed to blame me for not "working with her" enough. See, I have to actively teach my child speech, not just talk to her in a normal way.
One horrible oversight on my part is not teaching my children onomatopoeic words. You see, a child will never learn how to speak and will forever lag behind if you don't drill into her when she's two years old that a doggie says "woof" and a cow says "moo" and a sheep says "baa". Or whatever. I told them I wasn't sure I knew them all and I am a language and literature teacher at a university.
(I just remembered - she does know that a mouse says "click"
)
It was problematic that my 2.5 yo was still not "part of a collective" - i.e. at daycare 8 hours a day. (I have no reason or desire to put my child in daycare).
And it was shocking to them when my toddler asked to nurse. They asked me why on Earth I was still nursing her. I answered "Because the WHO encourages it until at least the age of 2, and then further if both mother and child are happy with it," to which I was given a lecture about the bad quality of my milk.
My milk has great quality, by the way. It has just been used to cure conjunctivitis in my toddler and myself, and has warded off strep throat for my toddler.
Then she said I was attaching my toddler to myself by nursing so long, and she won't be able to be a part of a collective and learn well in the future because of it!
I asked her what research she has to back that claim up and mentioned that experiments in attachment psychology (Harlow, Ainswhorth, Bowlby and others) have demonstrated that securely attached children actually do a better job exploring and learning.
To which she replied that I can have my theories, but it was her job to tell me what the consequences of my actions were.
All this time, they were talking to me and asking me questions, never even looking at my toddler. The poor kid noticed toys in a box and tried to get them, which I attempted to bring to their attention, but they ignored it, and she gave up and headed towards the soap on the sink. I got up and took the soap away from her, as it looked yucky, and the speech therapist had the nerve to reprimand me for not listening to her, but paying attention to my child instead!
I've been sad, angry, crushed, all day long. My husband told me we should just ignore it all and keep doing our thing. But I can't help feeling both reprimanded as a bad mother AND afraid for my child in the future, if people like this ever get to her. Trying to turn her from an introvert into an extrovert. Trying to make her into a neat case with all the right boxes ticked. Knows days of the week? Check. Detached from parents and adjusted to the collective? Check. Fully "socialized", i.e. institutionalized? Check.
Really, feel free to comment honestly. Am I being overly narcissistic and defensive? Part of me believes I truly am an inadequate and neglectful mother and that my children really are better off with anyone else; and part of me wants to protect them from these people; then the other part of me tells me that's because I'm trying to keep them for myself and from the people who'd love them more and do better by them because I'm a neglectful narcissist; then I go insane.
So, I live in a post-Communist country. Public schools and certain medical check-ups for children are mandatory (and free, by the way; but still mandatory).
Today I had the pleasure of taking my 2.5 yo daughter for a first check-up with a speech therapist and defectologist AND getting information from them about my 5 yo's check-up that was conducted in her preschool class.
It was a real treat.
I was told my (wonderful, sweet, smart, almost bilingual, introverted) 5 yo is "socially impaired" (because she's shy in large groups and with strangers), "behind" (because she apparently didn't know all the arbitrary things expected from her at that age), and needs help from them.
The (pretty mean-looking, intimidating, crabby) lady told me it was obvious my daughter wasn't used to a "collective" - she'd been at home with us all her life before preschool and never went to daycare, something they obviously saw as neglectful and somehow evil - and she needed institutional help so she'd catch up with other, "socialized" children.
When I asked exactly what techniques and methods she thought she could use to help my daughter adjust to a school setting with more ease, the woman frowned at me and said "That's for me to know!" I replied: "I can't give my consent unless I have information on what you propose to do to my child" and she still wouldn't tell me! So I declined - the lady was giving me, a grown woman, the creeps, I certainly don't want to expose my sensitive child to her!
She said my child had cognitive issues. When I asked for examples, this is what I got:
- "She couldn't name all the body parts"
"I find that hard to believe," I replied. "Which ones couldn't she name?" I asked and got NO REPLY. My kid knows how to name body parts in two different languages and this was absurd.
- "She couldn't count to ten"
"She can count to one hundred," I replied. Perhaps she was terrified of this lady.
- "She couldn't name the days of the week."
OK, this one is true. My kid doesn't know the names of the days of the week. Those are seven words that she can cram by heart in two minutes, but what's the point of it in a 5 yo's life? She's just never been interested. She can tell time, though, but that doesn't matter, because the guidelines say that a 5 yo must know the days of the week or be deemed cognitively impaired. (Added: I actually taught her those seven words yesterday and it took all of 90 seconds.)
I said my child was fluent in two languages, and she reprimanded me for that, as it is bad for a child to be bilingual - a child must first learn her own language well before she's exposed to another one. I immediately got scared and defensive and said I couldn't prevent her - she just picks up languages effortlessly!
(And, only after writing this, I actually find the courage to say that this is baloney! I studied language development in uni and there's nothing wrong with being bilingual!)
Then it was my baby's turn. She was, to begin with, speech impaired - yes, she develops verbally a bit slower, but she's got a good ear and is catching up quickly. She just started showing an interest in learning words later. She's more interested in her motor development. (She speaks more than 200 words at age 2.5, and is learning new ones every day.)
They were concerned and seemed to blame me for not "working with her" enough. See, I have to actively teach my child speech, not just talk to her in a normal way.
One horrible oversight on my part is not teaching my children onomatopoeic words. You see, a child will never learn how to speak and will forever lag behind if you don't drill into her when she's two years old that a doggie says "woof" and a cow says "moo" and a sheep says "baa". Or whatever. I told them I wasn't sure I knew them all and I am a language and literature teacher at a university.
(I just remembered - she does know that a mouse says "click"
)It was problematic that my 2.5 yo was still not "part of a collective" - i.e. at daycare 8 hours a day. (I have no reason or desire to put my child in daycare).
And it was shocking to them when my toddler asked to nurse. They asked me why on Earth I was still nursing her. I answered "Because the WHO encourages it until at least the age of 2, and then further if both mother and child are happy with it," to which I was given a lecture about the bad quality of my milk.
My milk has great quality, by the way. It has just been used to cure conjunctivitis in my toddler and myself, and has warded off strep throat for my toddler.
Then she said I was attaching my toddler to myself by nursing so long, and she won't be able to be a part of a collective and learn well in the future because of it!
I asked her what research she has to back that claim up and mentioned that experiments in attachment psychology (Harlow, Ainswhorth, Bowlby and others) have demonstrated that securely attached children actually do a better job exploring and learning.
To which she replied that I can have my theories, but it was her job to tell me what the consequences of my actions were.
All this time, they were talking to me and asking me questions, never even looking at my toddler. The poor kid noticed toys in a box and tried to get them, which I attempted to bring to their attention, but they ignored it, and she gave up and headed towards the soap on the sink. I got up and took the soap away from her, as it looked yucky, and the speech therapist had the nerve to reprimand me for not listening to her, but paying attention to my child instead!
I've been sad, angry, crushed, all day long. My husband told me we should just ignore it all and keep doing our thing. But I can't help feeling both reprimanded as a bad mother AND afraid for my child in the future, if people like this ever get to her. Trying to turn her from an introvert into an extrovert. Trying to make her into a neat case with all the right boxes ticked. Knows days of the week? Check. Detached from parents and adjusted to the collective? Check. Fully "socialized", i.e. institutionalized? Check.
Really, feel free to comment honestly. Am I being overly narcissistic and defensive? Part of me believes I truly am an inadequate and neglectful mother and that my children really are better off with anyone else; and part of me wants to protect them from these people; then the other part of me tells me that's because I'm trying to keep them for myself and from the people who'd love them more and do better by them because I'm a neglectful narcissist; then I go insane.
Thursday, November 29, 2012
The Bad Heart
I recently realized what the "bad heart" my father's family suffered from meant.
I'd worried I'd inherit their cardiology issues - my N Grandma, SG aunt, and NF all had "bad hearts."
Except that my N Grandma spent several decades trying to fill the black hole in her heart with junk food, alcohol, and cigarettes and died of a fourth heart attack, after she had used her "bad heart" to manipulate her husband and children into quivering obedience.
Except that my aunt never had heart issues - when she claimed she did, she was just blind drunk. When she claimed she couldn't have kids because of her "bad heart," she just meant that her evil mother had forbidden her to have any other children to care for but her and that she had made her abort the child she'd conceived with the man she loved but wasn't allowed to marry. She died of cirrhosis of the liver after several decades of trying to fill the black hole in her heart with alcohol and cigarettes on an empty stomach.
Except that my NF just suffers from manageable high blood pressure after several decades of trying to fill the black hole in his heart with junk food, alcohol, and cigarettes. He's actually surprisingly healthy for his age, activity level, and diet.
The bad heart transmitted in my family is a metaphor. It's the heartlessness of the parents and the broken hearts of the children. None acknowledged, none made conscious, none properly mourned.
I'd worried I'd inherit their cardiology issues - my N Grandma, SG aunt, and NF all had "bad hearts."
Except that my N Grandma spent several decades trying to fill the black hole in her heart with junk food, alcohol, and cigarettes and died of a fourth heart attack, after she had used her "bad heart" to manipulate her husband and children into quivering obedience.
Except that my aunt never had heart issues - when she claimed she did, she was just blind drunk. When she claimed she couldn't have kids because of her "bad heart," she just meant that her evil mother had forbidden her to have any other children to care for but her and that she had made her abort the child she'd conceived with the man she loved but wasn't allowed to marry. She died of cirrhosis of the liver after several decades of trying to fill the black hole in her heart with alcohol and cigarettes on an empty stomach.
Except that my NF just suffers from manageable high blood pressure after several decades of trying to fill the black hole in his heart with junk food, alcohol, and cigarettes. He's actually surprisingly healthy for his age, activity level, and diet.
The bad heart transmitted in my family is a metaphor. It's the heartlessness of the parents and the broken hearts of the children. None acknowledged, none made conscious, none properly mourned.
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
Poor Little NF
I have my father's childhood photo album. He is not interested in having it, I am.
One of the first pictures shows him as a chubby, happy, smiling baby. In the next picture, he's pouting. In the last, he's weeping.
The cute story behind it? He was such a happy baby and always smiled. They had no photos of him crying. So they shouted and yelled at him and told him he was a bad boy until he broke into tears.
So cute, right?
In the next several pictures, his smiling grandpa is letting Little NF ride him. When I asked NF about his grandpa, looking at these photos, all he had to say was, darkly, "He was a strict man." It sounded eery. Wasn't he a darling, playful, sweet old guy? I mean, look at the pictures! Apparently, far from it.
He had lots of people to teach him how to stage a perfect family photo shoot. How to manipulate reality and emotions. They started when he was an innocent little baby.
He was sweet then, you know. I feel perfect love and empathy for that poor little baby in that old photo.
One of the first pictures shows him as a chubby, happy, smiling baby. In the next picture, he's pouting. In the last, he's weeping.
The cute story behind it? He was such a happy baby and always smiled. They had no photos of him crying. So they shouted and yelled at him and told him he was a bad boy until he broke into tears.
So cute, right?
In the next several pictures, his smiling grandpa is letting Little NF ride him. When I asked NF about his grandpa, looking at these photos, all he had to say was, darkly, "He was a strict man." It sounded eery. Wasn't he a darling, playful, sweet old guy? I mean, look at the pictures! Apparently, far from it.
He had lots of people to teach him how to stage a perfect family photo shoot. How to manipulate reality and emotions. They started when he was an innocent little baby.
He was sweet then, you know. I feel perfect love and empathy for that poor little baby in that old photo.
Revisiting Mother. Again.
When I first started this blog, I had a black-and-white world in my mind. I was horrified at what I'd discovered about my father, and idealized my poor dead mother - although I could feel and remember very little about her.
Then I started remembering some things slowly. Now I feel the need to reassess some of the things I'd written before.
I remembered that, contrary to what I said in The Torture Chamber for Babies, my mother never took that incriminating comic - in which babies were being brutally beaten and whipped to teach them not to cry - to her colleagues. My poor brain imagined that one.
This is what happened: I drew it while I was at her work. I remember that distinctly now. I suppose I felt safe enough, at a public place full of psychologists, to create a cry for help, however veiled. The scene that I remembered came after this: slightly concerned looks, and complimenting my drawing abilities - and that was that. I'd given my mother too much credit. Of course she wouldn't have shown this voluntarily to anyone.
When my father slapped me repeatedly for "offending" him when I was 8 - and the physical part of it was actually minimal: the look of disgust, hatred, and contempt that was behind the dropped mask was the scary part - I told my mother "Now I love you more." I guess it was a plea: "Please accept me, please be on my side, I realize he's insane, won't you show to me that you do too?" She rejected this plea. She looked scared, anxious, guilty. Later, I heard her feebly say to him "You may have gone too far," and he just told her to shut up. And that was that.
She betrayed me. She showed me I could never count on her, I was always to be on my own.
And when I was 20 or so, and she said to me "You're growing up to be a really decent person" - well, that wasn't the whole scene. I censored it the first time I wrote it down. She said: "I was so worried for you, but you're actually growing up to be a really decent person after all." I had no idea what that meant, but it made me uncomfortable at the time. Why was she worried? Because she knew I was growing up amid dysfunction? Or because I drank a lot as a teen - she complained about this to my aunt at the time, worried about me? And how did she know I was becoming a decent person? That also made me uncomfortable at that moment. What did she know about me, apart from the fact that my grade average was good and I was the student representative? Nothing.
Right now, I'm angrier at her than at my father. She Saw something was wrong, but was too weak to protect me. Instead, she sacrificed me and used me as a shield.
She told a colleague I'd "saved" her from having to visit her awful MIL every night, and she was happy my father, her husband, now finally seemed more interested in his FOC.
I wasn't born to save anyone or any marriage.
I wasn't born to live silently on a shelf at home and perform for others in public as the happy, vivacious, spoiled rotten child. No wonder I was sometimes too loud and sometimes too shy - I had no idea what was expected of me and how to accomplish just that.
I was born to live.
Then I started remembering some things slowly. Now I feel the need to reassess some of the things I'd written before.
I remembered that, contrary to what I said in The Torture Chamber for Babies, my mother never took that incriminating comic - in which babies were being brutally beaten and whipped to teach them not to cry - to her colleagues. My poor brain imagined that one.
This is what happened: I drew it while I was at her work. I remember that distinctly now. I suppose I felt safe enough, at a public place full of psychologists, to create a cry for help, however veiled. The scene that I remembered came after this: slightly concerned looks, and complimenting my drawing abilities - and that was that. I'd given my mother too much credit. Of course she wouldn't have shown this voluntarily to anyone.
When my father slapped me repeatedly for "offending" him when I was 8 - and the physical part of it was actually minimal: the look of disgust, hatred, and contempt that was behind the dropped mask was the scary part - I told my mother "Now I love you more." I guess it was a plea: "Please accept me, please be on my side, I realize he's insane, won't you show to me that you do too?" She rejected this plea. She looked scared, anxious, guilty. Later, I heard her feebly say to him "You may have gone too far," and he just told her to shut up. And that was that.
She betrayed me. She showed me I could never count on her, I was always to be on my own.
And when I was 20 or so, and she said to me "You're growing up to be a really decent person" - well, that wasn't the whole scene. I censored it the first time I wrote it down. She said: "I was so worried for you, but you're actually growing up to be a really decent person after all." I had no idea what that meant, but it made me uncomfortable at the time. Why was she worried? Because she knew I was growing up amid dysfunction? Or because I drank a lot as a teen - she complained about this to my aunt at the time, worried about me? And how did she know I was becoming a decent person? That also made me uncomfortable at that moment. What did she know about me, apart from the fact that my grade average was good and I was the student representative? Nothing.
Right now, I'm angrier at her than at my father. She Saw something was wrong, but was too weak to protect me. Instead, she sacrificed me and used me as a shield.
She told a colleague I'd "saved" her from having to visit her awful MIL every night, and she was happy my father, her husband, now finally seemed more interested in his FOC.
I wasn't born to save anyone or any marriage.
I wasn't born to live silently on a shelf at home and perform for others in public as the happy, vivacious, spoiled rotten child. No wonder I was sometimes too loud and sometimes too shy - I had no idea what was expected of me and how to accomplish just that.
I was born to live.
Saturday, November 17, 2012
What I didn't have
More homework I got: list the things you never had as a child. And try to feel it, too.
1) I didn't have a strong, supportive, gentle mother. I didn't have a mother who really loved me or liked me or seemed interested in me or talked to me or supported me emotionally in any way. Instead, I had an absence, a weak woman who might have had some feelings for me at some point, but I'll never know because she betrayed me and sacrificed me to her extremely narcissistic husband for the sake of peace.
I didn't have a mother I could trust or feel safe around or look up to or feel warm about.
I can now imagine people like my aunt or Ruth or Tundra Woman in this role and tear up at the recognized difference. Now I don't have a mother who might talk to me and offer advice, wisdom, support; who might be a good grandmother to my kids and babysit and help out sometimes. I don't know if this would have happened had she stayed alive, but somehow I just can't really imagine it.
2) I didn't have a kind, understanding, wise father. I didn't have a father who really loved me for who I was or was interested in finding out who that might be. Instead, first I had an insanely controlling father who demanded nothing short of worship from me while appropriating all my achievements, and then I had a totally rejecting father who had had enough of me and couldn't show me off any more and discarded me before I could reject him. Now I don't have a father I can count on to want me good and not harm me or my family if it should happen to suit him. He will sometimes give us money or material things.
I didn't have a father I could trust to love and protect me and be proud of me and one I could be proud of.
I now allow myself to imagine all the older men I've liked and respected over the years in the role of my father. Crazily enough, I sometimes even "accused" myself of having a crush on them - although it wasn't actually true - because that was safer than realizing I was looking for a good father figure because the original sucked.
3) I didn't have unconditional love from my parents - the safe knowledge that whoever I was and whatever I did, my parents wouldn't stop loving me. In fact, withholding love was my father's favorite weapon, and I never even thought my mother loved me. My mother had many problems with how different and unladylike and awkward I was, while my father had problems whenever I wasn't interesting, original, or smart enough to impress the commoners all around us. Either way, I couldn't win and the pressure was high, but I still chose my father's rules because it meant I could be dark and eccentric and drink.
4) I didn't have ownership over my own body and possessions. And no right to privacy, if they didn't feel like it. My diaries were read, my room searched. If they felt like it, however, I could be alone in my room reading for hours every day. Or out until 5AM drinking. Bliss. It depended on their current mood.
5) I didn't have permission to express or even feel my own feelings. I was forbidden to cry as a child because it a) showed their parenting in a bad light and b) bothered and irritated them. If I cried, I'd be given something to cry for, and then I a) again wasn't allowed to cry and b) realized the only way to "win" and find a semblance of peace and freedom would be to never react to anything in any emotional or "weak" way. I believe my father stopped beating me with a belt when I stopped showing any reaction to it.
6) I didn't have unconditional support for any good thing I might choose to do with my life. I had lots of open "support" in public places where my father could show off (taking me to classes, being at recitals, school board, thesis defense) and little outside of that.
7) I didn't have permission to attach to other, sane people. My father, who was utterly incapable of even faking closeness and love, was insanely jealous of me loving anyone else. Luckily, while he was at work, my mother's stepfather often took me out to tag along with him, at the behest of my grandma, who was the one officially babysitting me - but she was also quite narcissistic and grew tired of me quickly. He didn't. He kind of liked me. And I adored him. I even had the courage to list him as the person I loved best when people asked that silly question. I seem to recall my father shooting a look of hatred at my grandpa on one such occasion.
8) I didn't have warmth growing up. From anyone. Those who could have given it to me weren't allowed to.
9) I didn't have permission to share anything negative about my family with anyone. Including myself. This made me detach from myself. This prevented forming actual honest relationships with others.
10) I didn't have the right to be myself. Not only were they unable to love me for who I was, but, as they had no idea who I really was, I was constantly treated and talked to as someone else - weird, inexplicable characters accused of weird, inexplicable flaws, thoughts, and feelings. I remember constantly feeling shocked at who they seemed to think I was - and this changed in a matter of seconds.
1) I didn't have a strong, supportive, gentle mother. I didn't have a mother who really loved me or liked me or seemed interested in me or talked to me or supported me emotionally in any way. Instead, I had an absence, a weak woman who might have had some feelings for me at some point, but I'll never know because she betrayed me and sacrificed me to her extremely narcissistic husband for the sake of peace.
I didn't have a mother I could trust or feel safe around or look up to or feel warm about.
I can now imagine people like my aunt or Ruth or Tundra Woman in this role and tear up at the recognized difference. Now I don't have a mother who might talk to me and offer advice, wisdom, support; who might be a good grandmother to my kids and babysit and help out sometimes. I don't know if this would have happened had she stayed alive, but somehow I just can't really imagine it.
2) I didn't have a kind, understanding, wise father. I didn't have a father who really loved me for who I was or was interested in finding out who that might be. Instead, first I had an insanely controlling father who demanded nothing short of worship from me while appropriating all my achievements, and then I had a totally rejecting father who had had enough of me and couldn't show me off any more and discarded me before I could reject him. Now I don't have a father I can count on to want me good and not harm me or my family if it should happen to suit him. He will sometimes give us money or material things.
I didn't have a father I could trust to love and protect me and be proud of me and one I could be proud of.
I now allow myself to imagine all the older men I've liked and respected over the years in the role of my father. Crazily enough, I sometimes even "accused" myself of having a crush on them - although it wasn't actually true - because that was safer than realizing I was looking for a good father figure because the original sucked.
3) I didn't have unconditional love from my parents - the safe knowledge that whoever I was and whatever I did, my parents wouldn't stop loving me. In fact, withholding love was my father's favorite weapon, and I never even thought my mother loved me. My mother had many problems with how different and unladylike and awkward I was, while my father had problems whenever I wasn't interesting, original, or smart enough to impress the commoners all around us. Either way, I couldn't win and the pressure was high, but I still chose my father's rules because it meant I could be dark and eccentric and drink.
4) I didn't have ownership over my own body and possessions. And no right to privacy, if they didn't feel like it. My diaries were read, my room searched. If they felt like it, however, I could be alone in my room reading for hours every day. Or out until 5AM drinking. Bliss. It depended on their current mood.
5) I didn't have permission to express or even feel my own feelings. I was forbidden to cry as a child because it a) showed their parenting in a bad light and b) bothered and irritated them. If I cried, I'd be given something to cry for, and then I a) again wasn't allowed to cry and b) realized the only way to "win" and find a semblance of peace and freedom would be to never react to anything in any emotional or "weak" way. I believe my father stopped beating me with a belt when I stopped showing any reaction to it.
6) I didn't have unconditional support for any good thing I might choose to do with my life. I had lots of open "support" in public places where my father could show off (taking me to classes, being at recitals, school board, thesis defense) and little outside of that.
7) I didn't have permission to attach to other, sane people. My father, who was utterly incapable of even faking closeness and love, was insanely jealous of me loving anyone else. Luckily, while he was at work, my mother's stepfather often took me out to tag along with him, at the behest of my grandma, who was the one officially babysitting me - but she was also quite narcissistic and grew tired of me quickly. He didn't. He kind of liked me. And I adored him. I even had the courage to list him as the person I loved best when people asked that silly question. I seem to recall my father shooting a look of hatred at my grandpa on one such occasion.
8) I didn't have warmth growing up. From anyone. Those who could have given it to me weren't allowed to.
9) I didn't have permission to share anything negative about my family with anyone. Including myself. This made me detach from myself. This prevented forming actual honest relationships with others.
10) I didn't have the right to be myself. Not only were they unable to love me for who I was, but, as they had no idea who I really was, I was constantly treated and talked to as someone else - weird, inexplicable characters accused of weird, inexplicable flaws, thoughts, and feelings. I remember constantly feeling shocked at who they seemed to think I was - and this changed in a matter of seconds.
Wednesday, October 17, 2012
Hard Work vs. Easy Work
There are two ways to break the cycle of narcissistic abuse in your family.
You can do the hard work - realize your parents were abusive in some ways, understand how this has affected you, take a long deep hard look at yourself, your thinking, your feelings, your relationships, change, stop defending, start truly loving. It takes years of being bare, exposed, helpless, lost. You're likely to carry some problems and some fleas forever, but you're determined to be open and honest and vulnerable about this.
Or you can do the easy work - realize your parents were abusive in some ways, do things differently because you're better, feel good about yourself as a great parent because you don't even do x to your kids, and your parents did xyz to you. You're still largely narcissistic, although not as abusive as your parents.
Only today did I realize that I didn't have to think of these two "options" in black-and-white terms.
Both actually deserve credit - to differing degrees.
My parents consciously refused to engage in some forms of abuse, manipulation, and parentifying that their parents used liberally. I remember this. I picked up on it. I can now give them some credit for this.
Which doesn't mean they weren't narcissistic enough to majorly screw me up. But I'm still happy I didn't have to be raised by exact carbon copies of my extremely narcissistic grandparents.
You can do the hard work - realize your parents were abusive in some ways, understand how this has affected you, take a long deep hard look at yourself, your thinking, your feelings, your relationships, change, stop defending, start truly loving. It takes years of being bare, exposed, helpless, lost. You're likely to carry some problems and some fleas forever, but you're determined to be open and honest and vulnerable about this.
Or you can do the easy work - realize your parents were abusive in some ways, do things differently because you're better, feel good about yourself as a great parent because you don't even do x to your kids, and your parents did xyz to you. You're still largely narcissistic, although not as abusive as your parents.
Only today did I realize that I didn't have to think of these two "options" in black-and-white terms.
Both actually deserve credit - to differing degrees.
My parents consciously refused to engage in some forms of abuse, manipulation, and parentifying that their parents used liberally. I remember this. I picked up on it. I can now give them some credit for this.
Which doesn't mean they weren't narcissistic enough to majorly screw me up. But I'm still happy I didn't have to be raised by exact carbon copies of my extremely narcissistic grandparents.
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!
Monday, October 8, 2012
Plato's cave
Charity's original hurtful comment made me realize what we're really all doing here.
Born to narcissistic parents, we grew up without love. We didn't even know what it was or that we lacked it. Just like prisoners in Plato's cave, all we knew were shackles and shadows. We were lied to and told that was all there was, and the fire that created the shadows was the only light that existed.
Then we either realized we were in shackles looking at shadows (if we learned about NPD) or we caught a glimpse of the sun (if we had a real human relationship with someone real) and we decided we wanted to live outside in the sun. So we started our journey out, helping each other on the way and sharing directions. Supporting each other out as the sun hurts our unaccustomed eyes.
And then, someone will say "Stop whining! My shackles are tight and I have to lie on the cold floor starving and I'm being tortured, and you're shackled to a soft bed and have plenty to eat! I wish I could be that lucky! You should be grateful! Get back in here!"
And it makes me at least feel guilty and ashamed. I shouldn't be whining. I shouldn't be blaming. I shouldn't be angry. I should be grateful my parents didn't torture me, starve me, rape me, or try to kill me. I am.
But that's completely beside the point. It's not about listing abuses, or complaining, or blaming. Narcissists do those things in order to control others by making them feel guilty. I'm not interested in doing that.
I'm just interested in telling my truth: I was born in a dark cave, and I'm getting out into the sun.
Born to narcissistic parents, we grew up without love. We didn't even know what it was or that we lacked it. Just like prisoners in Plato's cave, all we knew were shackles and shadows. We were lied to and told that was all there was, and the fire that created the shadows was the only light that existed.
Then we either realized we were in shackles looking at shadows (if we learned about NPD) or we caught a glimpse of the sun (if we had a real human relationship with someone real) and we decided we wanted to live outside in the sun. So we started our journey out, helping each other on the way and sharing directions. Supporting each other out as the sun hurts our unaccustomed eyes.
And then, someone will say "Stop whining! My shackles are tight and I have to lie on the cold floor starving and I'm being tortured, and you're shackled to a soft bed and have plenty to eat! I wish I could be that lucky! You should be grateful! Get back in here!"
And it makes me at least feel guilty and ashamed. I shouldn't be whining. I shouldn't be blaming. I shouldn't be angry. I should be grateful my parents didn't torture me, starve me, rape me, or try to kill me. I am.
But that's completely beside the point. It's not about listing abuses, or complaining, or blaming. Narcissists do those things in order to control others by making them feel guilty. I'm not interested in doing that.
I'm just interested in telling my truth: I was born in a dark cave, and I'm getting out into the sun.
Friday, May 11, 2012
My narcissistic father IS my real biological father
I finally did a DNA test - my father is my father. I have no other fathers but him.
The family story my aunt told me must have taken a wrong turn somewhere - I'm sure they did use ART to conceive me and that the "donor" bit got attached to the rumor somehow. Perhaps they used IUI or IVF and then I was born, looking nothing like my father or his family. Could people have thought I wasn't his? Could it have occurred to him too? Some things are still just too bizarre to be explained in any other way.
I spent a year on an emotional rollercoaster for no good reason. I made an absolute idiot of myself.
But there was something good about it: the idea of a possibly sane father out there who might be like me and who might like me enabled me to feel. I gave myself permission to love this non-existent man and grieve for him. I had never grieved the father I couldn't have. I hadn't felt any real emotions towards my father (or mother) for decades. I had blocked all emotions.
Now they came back - for a person who doesn't exist. It proved how vulnerable and, really, pathetic I am. I longed for one man in particular to be my real father - because he was nice and enjoyed my company and liked me and shared my interests and gave me books of poetry and short stories. Which was much more than I ever had with my father.
It was so easy to let myself believe this. To have a tangible reason why he couldn't love me. Why he resented me. Why I had to be sooo grateful just for being allowed to exist (I'm sure they had to use IUI or IVF and I did cost them something - at least, the shame he had to endure in front of the doctors) and why "You look like your mother" was so often thrown at me (I guess that was my entire sin - I didn't have to be another man's offspring to be resented, only not be his carbon copy - I really look nothing at all like him or his family).
I made myself believe I could expect nothing from him or his family - they owed me nothing. This made me remember how cold they were towards me.
But they owed me love and support, no matter who I looked like. My father should have loved me. He owed me that.
I might take some time off to process all this. I'd spent a lot of time obsessing over something that wasn't even true. There are other, real things to focus on, and although right now I feel drained and exhausted and deflated, it can only get better from here if I focus on my daily life from now on. I hope.
The family story my aunt told me must have taken a wrong turn somewhere - I'm sure they did use ART to conceive me and that the "donor" bit got attached to the rumor somehow. Perhaps they used IUI or IVF and then I was born, looking nothing like my father or his family. Could people have thought I wasn't his? Could it have occurred to him too? Some things are still just too bizarre to be explained in any other way.
I spent a year on an emotional rollercoaster for no good reason. I made an absolute idiot of myself.
But there was something good about it: the idea of a possibly sane father out there who might be like me and who might like me enabled me to feel. I gave myself permission to love this non-existent man and grieve for him. I had never grieved the father I couldn't have. I hadn't felt any real emotions towards my father (or mother) for decades. I had blocked all emotions.
Now they came back - for a person who doesn't exist. It proved how vulnerable and, really, pathetic I am. I longed for one man in particular to be my real father - because he was nice and enjoyed my company and liked me and shared my interests and gave me books of poetry and short stories. Which was much more than I ever had with my father.
It was so easy to let myself believe this. To have a tangible reason why he couldn't love me. Why he resented me. Why I had to be sooo grateful just for being allowed to exist (I'm sure they had to use IUI or IVF and I did cost them something - at least, the shame he had to endure in front of the doctors) and why "You look like your mother" was so often thrown at me (I guess that was my entire sin - I didn't have to be another man's offspring to be resented, only not be his carbon copy - I really look nothing at all like him or his family).
I made myself believe I could expect nothing from him or his family - they owed me nothing. This made me remember how cold they were towards me.
But they owed me love and support, no matter who I looked like. My father should have loved me. He owed me that.
I might take some time off to process all this. I'd spent a lot of time obsessing over something that wasn't even true. There are other, real things to focus on, and although right now I feel drained and exhausted and deflated, it can only get better from here if I focus on my daily life from now on. I hope.
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
As if I'd killed your father
Whenever my narcissistic father said or did something that shocked and angered me when I was growing up, and, of course, not being allowed to actually say anything, I just looked at him in dismay, he'd say:
"Why are you looking at me as if I'd killed your father?"
What a bizarre thing to say, right? I knew what this was supposed to mean: "I, your father, am the most valuable thing in your life, and killing me would be the most heinous thing anyone could ever do to you, so whatever I might have done to you is tiny in comparison and you'd better remember how precious I am to you right now."
But it has an eery double meaning. In a way, he did "kill" my father when he made sure I'll never know who my real father is. I wonder if he realized that when he said it.
"Why are you looking at me as if I'd killed your father?"
What a bizarre thing to say, right? I knew what this was supposed to mean: "I, your father, am the most valuable thing in your life, and killing me would be the most heinous thing anyone could ever do to you, so whatever I might have done to you is tiny in comparison and you'd better remember how precious I am to you right now."
But it has an eery double meaning. In a way, he did "kill" my father when he made sure I'll never know who my real father is. I wonder if he realized that when he said it.
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
Poetry for narcissistic parents
I wrote this for Vicarious Rising's awesome poetry contest (check it out) and I wanted to share it with everyone who might get a chuckle out of it. I hope VR won't mind.
Poem to my ungrateful, unloving, callous “adult” daughter
Your birth was hard, oh precious one
I tried to hold you in
And you yourself seemed not to want
Your journey to begin
When you escaped my warm, soft womb
You wept and wailed and cried
Isn’t life hard? Wasn’t it nice
When you were still inside?
When you were young you needed me
Again for me you cried
You said “I love you, Mama” then:
Apparently, you lied.
Because now that you’re all grown up
You don’t think I’m so nice
You don’t obey my every wish
Or heed my wise advice
You don’t light up when I come to
Surprise you at your door
When I hang up, you don’t beg me
To talk a little more
Your husband and your snotty friends
Stole your love away
Don’t have children, this I know:
You will rue the day
A distraught mother
The mother goddess
Poem to my ungrateful, unloving, callous “adult” daughter
Your birth was hard, oh precious one
I tried to hold you in
And you yourself seemed not to want
Your journey to begin
When you escaped my warm, soft womb
You wept and wailed and cried
Isn’t life hard? Wasn’t it nice
When you were still inside?
When you were young you needed me
Again for me you cried
You said “I love you, Mama” then:
Apparently, you lied.
Because now that you’re all grown up
You don’t think I’m so nice
You don’t obey my every wish
Or heed my wise advice
You don’t light up when I come to
Surprise you at your door
When I hang up, you don’t beg me
To talk a little more
Your husband and your snotty friends
Stole your love away
Don’t have children, this I know:
You will rue the day
A distraught mother
The mother goddess
When you were tiny, I fed you –
Not at your every cry –
(You always were a drama queen)
And, hey, you didn't die.
I gave you clothes – I'll grant you this:
Those hand-me-downs were old
(You weren't as pretty as I was)
But you were never cold.
Remember, once, when you were small,
With your toy trains I played!
Like these above, so too this debt
Can never be repaid!
And most of all, I gave you life!
You owe your life to me!
And those that grant the gift of life
Must always worshiped be!
It isn't fair! I gave you life
And then you went astray!
I should be granted this small right:
To take that life away!
Life-bestowers have demanded
Human sacrifice.
For this goddess your eternal
Bondage should suffice.
Your loving mother
An Estranged Child Sees the Light after Having Been Pestered Mercilessly by Persistent Narcissistic Mother
You gave me life. Blood, milk and tears.
With care you nurtured all my fears.
You taught me well not to rebel
Alas, I chose the road to Hell.
I thought I could survive alone,
Without your love, all on my own.
I wanted you to leave me be.
How blind I was! But now I see:
A mother’s love will never cease –
A wayward child will not find peace.
I understand I’m less than dirt:
Please let me back under your skirt!
Your Lowly Repentant Prodigal Child
Honor your parent
Honor your parent
- Respect and love are owed to him
Who gave you all you’ve got
Who made you, kept you, and always
Loved you – no matter what
Who always had a home for you
Though you were always free
Who always listened to your words
Of thanks, or rage, or glee
Who always had his wise, good ways
But let you find your own.
- You mean my narcissistic dad?
- Oh, Hell, no! God alone.
(An imaginary conversation with a priest)
(An imaginary conversation with a priest)
Monday, April 9, 2012
Secret Birthday Party
Yesterday, on Gregorian Easter (Happy Easter to everyone celebrating according to the Gregorian calendar!) I decided to throw a little secret birthday party for myself (my real birthday will be on Good Friday according to the Julian calendar and thus not a good day to celebrate).
I invited only my aunt and cousins, and my husband and kids were there. I even had a tiny cake and blew candles. I decided to be surrounded only by the people who love me unconditionally for my birthday. It was the best birthday ever, and it wasn't even my birthday!
My aunt was able to clarify a little mystery to me: I'd been wondering about my NF's "sea change" - why he's been so much "nicer" and "more supportive" to us since his latest return from the seaside this last October - quite simply put, my now enlightened aunt has stopped listening to his tirades about me compassionately. She used to think of him as a somewhat eccentric and sentimental old cook who can be lent a shoulder to cry on. She now shuts him up and defends me fiercely. He no longer has the support he needs to be openly abrasive and critical. He has no one to play martyr to. Talking to some people actually makes a difference!
I can't express how grateful I am to her for this. And for knowing that there's a "grown-up" who loves me unconditionally and I'm even related to her!
She also told me, when I admitted I have an irrational fear of him that I rationalize through various disaster scenarios of things he might do to us, that he'd never do anything like that - he lives on being seen as the perfect father and grandfather by others and those scenarios would expose him as someone much different.
Also, she says, should anything happen - I wouldn't be alone. She'd defend me.
I invited only my aunt and cousins, and my husband and kids were there. I even had a tiny cake and blew candles. I decided to be surrounded only by the people who love me unconditionally for my birthday. It was the best birthday ever, and it wasn't even my birthday!
My aunt was able to clarify a little mystery to me: I'd been wondering about my NF's "sea change" - why he's been so much "nicer" and "more supportive" to us since his latest return from the seaside this last October - quite simply put, my now enlightened aunt has stopped listening to his tirades about me compassionately. She used to think of him as a somewhat eccentric and sentimental old cook who can be lent a shoulder to cry on. She now shuts him up and defends me fiercely. He no longer has the support he needs to be openly abrasive and critical. He has no one to play martyr to. Talking to some people actually makes a difference!
I can't express how grateful I am to her for this. And for knowing that there's a "grown-up" who loves me unconditionally and I'm even related to her!
She also told me, when I admitted I have an irrational fear of him that I rationalize through various disaster scenarios of things he might do to us, that he'd never do anything like that - he lives on being seen as the perfect father and grandfather by others and those scenarios would expose him as someone much different.
Also, she says, should anything happen - I wouldn't be alone. She'd defend me.
Friday, March 16, 2012
out of the mouths of babes
My daughter said these things, mostly unprompted, since the watercolor incident:
"I really wanted to let him paint, because I wanted to see what he'd paint - but I didn't tell him not to spend all the paint, because I thought he knew he wasn't supposed to do that." (You'd think, right?)
"I know I don't have to give him anything I don't want to and I don't have to listen to him. I listen to my grandma (my sane MIL) because she's not like Grandpa N - she loves me and I love her and I like to listen to her."
She gets it. On her own. Wow. That's both kind of scary and kind of reassuring.
Scary because it's so obvious he's not like other, normal people who can love and be loved, that a 5-year-old gets it. And I didn't, for so long.
And reassuring because at least I know I haven't conditioned her not to trust her gut. I must have done something right. Or at least better than him.
"I really wanted to let him paint, because I wanted to see what he'd paint - but I didn't tell him not to spend all the paint, because I thought he knew he wasn't supposed to do that." (You'd think, right?)
"I know I don't have to give him anything I don't want to and I don't have to listen to him. I listen to my grandma (my sane MIL) because she's not like Grandpa N - she loves me and I love her and I like to listen to her."
She gets it. On her own. Wow. That's both kind of scary and kind of reassuring.
Scary because it's so obvious he's not like other, normal people who can love and be loved, that a 5-year-old gets it. And I didn't, for so long.
And reassuring because at least I know I haven't conditioned her not to trust her gut. I must have done something right. Or at least better than him.
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
Sad and sick to my stomach
My "father" came over yesterday evening. We hadn't seen him in weeks and he'd missed us, he said.
Then my kids ate a Kinder Surprise egg I'd bought them and the toy inside was a paintbrush with a tiny amount of watercolors.
My older daughter loves this toy.
But, apparently, so does her "grandpa". So he just takes her notebook and her paintbrush and her watercolors and starts painting with them!
"Don't take that from her!" I tell him.
"That's all right, Mom. I let Grandpa N paint with them." My beautiful, kind 5-year-old says.
"There's very little color there", I insist. "Give it back to her before you spend it all."
"It's OK, I let him." My daughter is persistent.
He doesn't react at all. He's acting like an engrossed toddler.
"Grandpa, let me paint now", she says when he's finally done.
"You can't", he says. "There's no paint left."
She's visibly sad, but says "Never mind."
My heart breaks. But I don't know what to do.
Could I have prevented it? Should I have?
I told her later she never has to give grandpa N anything that belongs to her if she doesn't want to. She repeated that she wanted to.
I'm buying her a real set of watercolors today. Can't shake the overwhelming feeling of sadness about this relatively small incident all day. Like something very important is irretrievably lost and nothing can ever replace it.
Like something died.
Then my kids ate a Kinder Surprise egg I'd bought them and the toy inside was a paintbrush with a tiny amount of watercolors.
My older daughter loves this toy.
But, apparently, so does her "grandpa". So he just takes her notebook and her paintbrush and her watercolors and starts painting with them!
"Don't take that from her!" I tell him.
"That's all right, Mom. I let Grandpa N paint with them." My beautiful, kind 5-year-old says.
"There's very little color there", I insist. "Give it back to her before you spend it all."
"It's OK, I let him." My daughter is persistent.
He doesn't react at all. He's acting like an engrossed toddler.
"Grandpa, let me paint now", she says when he's finally done.
"You can't", he says. "There's no paint left."
She's visibly sad, but says "Never mind."
My heart breaks. But I don't know what to do.
Could I have prevented it? Should I have?
I told her later she never has to give grandpa N anything that belongs to her if she doesn't want to. She repeated that she wanted to.
I'm buying her a real set of watercolors today. Can't shake the overwhelming feeling of sadness about this relatively small incident all day. Like something very important is irretrievably lost and nothing can ever replace it.
Like something died.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Remembering my mother
So, I had genital warts when I was 18. I'd had sex with two guys before that, mostly owing to an unwillingness to say "no" and be abandoned yet again, not because I'd really wanted to.
(My very first time was when I was sent on a skiing trip alone. I didn't want to go alone, but my father spent days working on me until he finally persuaded me to go. "The fresh air will be good for you," he said, "and you'll make friends there." So I did. There was a bartender who was kinda nice to me and bought me a few beers and pretended to be hurt by a joke I made once and asked me for sex, which at that point I felt I just couldn't refuse because I owed it to him.)
Despite overt protestations of "You can tell us anything and we'll help you" (because that's what good parents are supposed to do) on their part and "Of course I'll tell you when I become sexually active" (because that's what mature children of good parents are supposed to do) on my part, I hid this from both my parents and went through treatments on my own. I just didn't want to make myself vulnerable to them by telling them. I thought I wasn't telling them because "I didn't want to disappoint them."
But then it became apparent that I'd have to have surgery under general anaesthesia because they'd spread to my cervix. So I bit the bullet and told my mother.
She was... cold. Glad I wasn't pregnant, at least. Took me to a doctor and was clearly ashamed of me in front of her and all but apologized to this stranger in my name for getting myself into this mess.
In contrast... the doctor was wonderful. Warm, supportive, gentle. She looked me in the eyes many times and smiled. I now understand she probably understood my parents were less than supportive and was sending me a message of sorts. Even then I understood how twisted the situation was. Here was my own mother, apologizing to a stranger that I was so wayward and disgusting (not in those words, I forgot the words, I remember the feeling), and the stranger is clearly giving her the message that this was no big deal, that it happens to young people a lot, that it's unpleasant and that I should be accepted and supported, not judged.
There were painful treatments before the surgery. This good doctor was nice and warm, my mother was distant and cold. The doctor was amazed by my lack of reaction to the pain. I was simply operating under the assumption that I'd deserved this and now just had to endure it, period.
I didn't like having my mother around. At all.
The funny thing is, I was never once told that young sex, or premarital sex, or unprotected sex, were issues to my parents at all - that I'd be doing something they'd consider wrong if I engaged in this and would then deserve to be punished. They joked about sex all the time. It sounded like this cool, acceptable thing to do.
And it wasn't about the sex, I now realize. It was about causing a problem and bringing shame on the family. Embarrassment.
Then I was to have the surgery. The day before, I was nervous and wanted to cycle with a friend to the lake to relax a little. My mother forbade me and shouted at me: "Do you want the doctor to see something squashed down there because of the cycling and think you've been doing things again?" Then she forced me to scrub my feet hard in very hot water (of course I was clean - but I'd been walking barefoot and they weren't perfectly nice and tender).
They day after the surgery I was in pain and woozy.
But we were supposed to visit her sister. It was our weekly barbecue. I asked them not to go.
She was the one who said we had to.
After all, there was no plausible excuse not to go.
I don't remember if my aunt was told the truth about my surgery at some point. But I do remember barely being able to sit at that barbecue, pretending I'm fine, and vomiting afterwards.
This was my mother, not my father. The one who was supposed to be the "nice" one.
This entire thing was a very bad experience that I've been trying to forget. So I sort of did. Along with my mother's behavior through it. I just accepted that I'd been punished for "bad sex" and went on.
And then other women in my life had the same - or similar - issues. And they felt no shame or guilt. They talked about it openly. Their mothers were, of course, there for them, emotionally supported them, told them it was OK, they were OK, everything was going to be OK.
I even witnessed the same aunt my shame was to be concealed from openly support her own daughter in sexual issues.
We were different. I was different. I was not allowed mistakes. There were no clear rules, mind you - just, roughly, bring shame to us and you'll face a wall of cold punishment; bring pride to us and we'll appropriate it and boast about it.
Nothing about morality or conduct or being human.
And whatever I did, no love.
This was difficult to remember and reassess.
I'd just labeled it "mistakes of my youth and how my parents still didn't disown me."
New labels? See labels underneath: "mother," "narcissism."
She was just the less dominant one. But, in some ways, she was worse. She was the one who had problems with how I acted and who I was and how I dressed and what I believed - because it wasn't proper, ladylike, or conventional. She was the one who saw me as somehow all wrong and needing to be fixed.
My father at least let me be eccentric and pretend to rebel a little against the world - as long as he was not part of that world in any way.
They were both narcissistic parents in their own different ways. I have to face it. No "at least I had a good mother" or "at least she was affectionate and nurturing when I was a baby."
She was the one who insisted that early childhood was so important and then insisted she was very nurturing then. With the being left to cry until I passed out, I'm not buying any of it any more.
No "at least" any more.
(My very first time was when I was sent on a skiing trip alone. I didn't want to go alone, but my father spent days working on me until he finally persuaded me to go. "The fresh air will be good for you," he said, "and you'll make friends there." So I did. There was a bartender who was kinda nice to me and bought me a few beers and pretended to be hurt by a joke I made once and asked me for sex, which at that point I felt I just couldn't refuse because I owed it to him.)
Despite overt protestations of "You can tell us anything and we'll help you" (because that's what good parents are supposed to do) on their part and "Of course I'll tell you when I become sexually active" (because that's what mature children of good parents are supposed to do) on my part, I hid this from both my parents and went through treatments on my own. I just didn't want to make myself vulnerable to them by telling them. I thought I wasn't telling them because "I didn't want to disappoint them."
But then it became apparent that I'd have to have surgery under general anaesthesia because they'd spread to my cervix. So I bit the bullet and told my mother.
She was... cold. Glad I wasn't pregnant, at least. Took me to a doctor and was clearly ashamed of me in front of her and all but apologized to this stranger in my name for getting myself into this mess.
In contrast... the doctor was wonderful. Warm, supportive, gentle. She looked me in the eyes many times and smiled. I now understand she probably understood my parents were less than supportive and was sending me a message of sorts. Even then I understood how twisted the situation was. Here was my own mother, apologizing to a stranger that I was so wayward and disgusting (not in those words, I forgot the words, I remember the feeling), and the stranger is clearly giving her the message that this was no big deal, that it happens to young people a lot, that it's unpleasant and that I should be accepted and supported, not judged.
There were painful treatments before the surgery. This good doctor was nice and warm, my mother was distant and cold. The doctor was amazed by my lack of reaction to the pain. I was simply operating under the assumption that I'd deserved this and now just had to endure it, period.
I didn't like having my mother around. At all.
The funny thing is, I was never once told that young sex, or premarital sex, or unprotected sex, were issues to my parents at all - that I'd be doing something they'd consider wrong if I engaged in this and would then deserve to be punished. They joked about sex all the time. It sounded like this cool, acceptable thing to do.
And it wasn't about the sex, I now realize. It was about causing a problem and bringing shame on the family. Embarrassment.
Then I was to have the surgery. The day before, I was nervous and wanted to cycle with a friend to the lake to relax a little. My mother forbade me and shouted at me: "Do you want the doctor to see something squashed down there because of the cycling and think you've been doing things again?" Then she forced me to scrub my feet hard in very hot water (of course I was clean - but I'd been walking barefoot and they weren't perfectly nice and tender).
They day after the surgery I was in pain and woozy.
But we were supposed to visit her sister. It was our weekly barbecue. I asked them not to go.
She was the one who said we had to.
After all, there was no plausible excuse not to go.
I don't remember if my aunt was told the truth about my surgery at some point. But I do remember barely being able to sit at that barbecue, pretending I'm fine, and vomiting afterwards.
This was my mother, not my father. The one who was supposed to be the "nice" one.
This entire thing was a very bad experience that I've been trying to forget. So I sort of did. Along with my mother's behavior through it. I just accepted that I'd been punished for "bad sex" and went on.
And then other women in my life had the same - or similar - issues. And they felt no shame or guilt. They talked about it openly. Their mothers were, of course, there for them, emotionally supported them, told them it was OK, they were OK, everything was going to be OK.
I even witnessed the same aunt my shame was to be concealed from openly support her own daughter in sexual issues.
We were different. I was different. I was not allowed mistakes. There were no clear rules, mind you - just, roughly, bring shame to us and you'll face a wall of cold punishment; bring pride to us and we'll appropriate it and boast about it.
Nothing about morality or conduct or being human.
And whatever I did, no love.
This was difficult to remember and reassess.
I'd just labeled it "mistakes of my youth and how my parents still didn't disown me."
New labels? See labels underneath: "mother," "narcissism."
She was just the less dominant one. But, in some ways, she was worse. She was the one who had problems with how I acted and who I was and how I dressed and what I believed - because it wasn't proper, ladylike, or conventional. She was the one who saw me as somehow all wrong and needing to be fixed.
My father at least let me be eccentric and pretend to rebel a little against the world - as long as he was not part of that world in any way.
They were both narcissistic parents in their own different ways. I have to face it. No "at least I had a good mother" or "at least she was affectionate and nurturing when I was a baby."
She was the one who insisted that early childhood was so important and then insisted she was very nurturing then. With the being left to cry until I passed out, I'm not buying any of it any more.
No "at least" any more.
Friday, January 20, 2012
I was just a pawn in his power games
Wow. Just realized this.
When I was born, the daughter of my mother and an unknown donor, a fact no one was supposed to know, my 'father' usurped me. My mother wasn't allowed to nurse me, feed me, bathe me, clothe me, spend time with me. He was the only competent one.
Nurture was all he had, and he wanted to show her that, although I was biologically her child, and she got what she wanted after so many years of begging for it, she could never really have me. I would be 'his' child where it counted - I would be taught to worship him alone. I knew at a very early age I wasn't supposed to love my mother if I wanted to please him - and she never once supported me in any tentative moves I made towards her at moments when it was clearer than usual that he was not a stable individual.
Everyone knew he was the most loving, caring, doting father. This proved he was my real father, and then some. But it also proved to her that she lost the battle he created.
I was his. Not hers. He won. Neener neener.
Then she died.
And it was then I ceased to exist for him, except as a target for abuse. I'd tried to explain this in different ways, like getting married - but this was much later and actually the consequence of his escalating verbal abuse - I wanted to get out as soon as possible.
I was no longer useful as a pawn. He'd definitely won, so he didn't need the pawn any more.
That didn't stop him from telling people everywhere how concerned he was about me, having lost my mother and all. It didn't stop him from making heart-rending statements like "I am now both a mother and a father to her" (he was neither). It didn't stop him from still presenting a sentimental, doting, loving facade to the world.
But he stopped presenting it to me.
When I was born, the daughter of my mother and an unknown donor, a fact no one was supposed to know, my 'father' usurped me. My mother wasn't allowed to nurse me, feed me, bathe me, clothe me, spend time with me. He was the only competent one.
Nurture was all he had, and he wanted to show her that, although I was biologically her child, and she got what she wanted after so many years of begging for it, she could never really have me. I would be 'his' child where it counted - I would be taught to worship him alone. I knew at a very early age I wasn't supposed to love my mother if I wanted to please him - and she never once supported me in any tentative moves I made towards her at moments when it was clearer than usual that he was not a stable individual.
Everyone knew he was the most loving, caring, doting father. This proved he was my real father, and then some. But it also proved to her that she lost the battle he created.
I was his. Not hers. He won. Neener neener.
Then she died.
And it was then I ceased to exist for him, except as a target for abuse. I'd tried to explain this in different ways, like getting married - but this was much later and actually the consequence of his escalating verbal abuse - I wanted to get out as soon as possible.
I was no longer useful as a pawn. He'd definitely won, so he didn't need the pawn any more.
That didn't stop him from telling people everywhere how concerned he was about me, having lost my mother and all. It didn't stop him from making heart-rending statements like "I am now both a mother and a father to her" (he was neither). It didn't stop him from still presenting a sentimental, doting, loving facade to the world.
But he stopped presenting it to me.
Friday, December 23, 2011
Enabler narcissism clarification
I apparently claimed all enablers are narcissists too. I'm not sure I truly wanted to, but it came out that way and I kind of stand by it.
All narcissists have a void at the center of their being. For some narcissists the void is filled by being the main person in everyone's world, while for others it's filled by being the most righteous one, the martyr, the obedient one, the one in the stronger narcissist's shade - and not a real person living and breathing and loving. Just defining oneself far less assertively than one's dominant partner, but still living ON one's definition of oneself and what others might think of it INSTEAD of truly living, if you understand what I mean.
And it's still narcissistic (in being black-hole-empty and living-in-the-mirror) although it's not overtly, dominantly, abusively so.
All narcissists have a void at the center of their being. For some narcissists the void is filled by being the main person in everyone's world, while for others it's filled by being the most righteous one, the martyr, the obedient one, the one in the stronger narcissist's shade - and not a real person living and breathing and loving. Just defining oneself far less assertively than one's dominant partner, but still living ON one's definition of oneself and what others might think of it INSTEAD of truly living, if you understand what I mean.
And it's still narcissistic (in being black-hole-empty and living-in-the-mirror) although it's not overtly, dominantly, abusively so.
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