The depth of parental alienation syndrome and/or NPD by association


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My daughter, Lexi,  called a few weeks ago. I knew why she was calling before I even spoke to her as I had dreamed she was pregnant only a few weeks earlier, but had convinced myself “it was only a dream”.

She said, “we’re not telling anyone yet”, so don’t tell anyone. Which of course meant everyone already knew, but that she didn’t want me to tell anyone since after a long discussion it turned out her dad, sister, friends, etc. all already knew….  not sure who else  she feared I might “tell”, but oh well.  Of course I’ll not tell anyone.

Who would I even tell anyway?

She cried because she felt her dad was ashamed of her.  She cried really hard about that actually.  I can’t know if that was a manipulative set-up or the truth…  Regardless, I responded only that I was sure her dad was not ashamed, but was simply worried for her and not expressing that well because of his fears.  I’m sure he is ashamed, but I’d never tell her that because he has no business or right to be ashamed of her for that!  He’s a malignant narcissist, of course he’s ashamed of anything less than perfection as  he fears it’ll reflect poorly on him. I wasn’t going to tell her he probably was ashamed though.  As even if she’s sobbing over how much he’s hurting her, I still know that if I even hint of anything negative about him she’ll start screaming at me, tell me how horrible I am, how WONDERFUL HER DAD IS, and hang up and “shun” me again.

So I carefully encouraged her that her dad was just not expressing his feelings about this well and that he’d be fine once some time passed.

As this conversation was happening, I went into my kitchen to grab an iced tea and as I put ice cubes in my glass, I felt sick thinking she’d hear that I was getting something to drink, so I felt compelled to say, I’m just getting a glass of tea.  I can’t know if she might hear me putting ice in a glass and later tell her dad, sister, boyfriend, friends, grandmother, coworkers, whoever, that she could “hear her mom was drinking” if I didn’t clarify that I was getting myself a glass of tea.  And sadly enough, even as I told her I’m getting a glass of tea, I knew that it didn’t matter that I clarified it; she’d still go and say whatever she thought would be more interesting or ugly about me to tell anyone else anyway.

And I just felt sick…physically sick that I am frantically fearful of my own child, her temper tantrums, her lies, her false accusations, her eagerness to talk, think, and believe badly about me…

Being literally petrified of your own child is terrifying.  Most people I’ve feared in my life, I just broke away from and eventually ceased all contact to protect myself from their physical, mental, and emotional abuse.  I’ve still not figured out a way to tear my heart away from loving this child and thinking of her as the incredible, delightful, kind child she once was.  I suppose my heart and my brain refuse to accept she’s what she is today in spite of 6 years of nonstop evidence that she’s in no way that child anymore.  Even though she’s admitted to me she lied all the time to me growing up, I can’t force myself to accept that totally.

So, we had a nice talk because fortunately I walked the eggshells well enough and didn’t say the wrong thing the wrong way, I guess.  I told her I supported her no matter what, whether she moved back here to “be by her boyfriend’s family” or stayed out there, I would do anything I could for her.

The next day I texted her some home remedies for the nausea she said she’d been having and that went okay.

Then the next day, after 2 days of being excited and scared to death to have her maybe back in my life,  I decided to text her a very lengthy text saying she had my full support in everything in her life just as she’d always had, but that I was very scared to be hurt more because I really didn’t believe I could handle much more hurt.  And I said that whatever she feared her dad felt didn’t matter because in my opinion the only shame we should ever carry in this world is how we treat other people – that things like having sex, experimenting with drugs drinking wine, not doing well in school, getting pregnant, whatever it may be – none of that was anything to be ashamed of as long as we treat people well.

She went off on me in an ugly reply text saying that she “just doesn’t text” and she “wouldn’t change that for me” (not sure what that was about?), that I was a “horrible manipulative passive aggressive person who needed to do some yoga and just forgive myself”, and that she’d “never say mean things to HER child like I do”, and then ended it with “no need to reply because I’m blocking you again”.

So, that was that.  I guess telling your 21 year old daughter (who hasn’t acknowledged you exist in over 2 years) that you support her but you’re also afraid to be hurt any further and that getting pregnant isn’t something to be ashamed of, that the only actions in the world that should carry shame are treating people badly is all just too vile and passive aggressive to say to your pregnant child.

So incredibly interesting but sad that that’s exactly- and I mean exactly – how her father would respond to me saying, I’m afraid you’ll cheat, lie, be cruel, abuse, me again to him 21 years ago.  Fury and flip it back on me for being afraid, but never ever taking responsibility or instead choosing to reassure that he wouldn’t hurt me; just beating me up with my fear until I apologized to him for saying I was afraid.

My daughter has one upped him though being 2000 miles away with new technology.  She just analyzes my every word – twisting and turning what I said – then because of her own guilt and responsibility in it all, she flips that on me too, then refuses to communicate at all with me, much less allow me tell her that her hateful interpretations were way off the mark.

Fuck, she doesn’t even give me the chance to apologize for being scared.

I’m broken all over again, but seeing how she replied, I know my fears were valid and can safely assume the entire phone call was to manipulate me and just to see if she still could manipulate me and use me if she ever needed me.  Maybe she was hoping I’d put her dad down or something while she sobbed how badly he was treating her and then she’d have another reason to say I’m a terrible mom.  I didn’t though, so then she had to get mad because I’m afraid of being hurt.

It’s fairly clear her next tactic would be to manipulate, use, and terrorize me through my coming grandchild now.

Lovely.  Just what I need, as if she and her sister haven’t ripped my heart and soul to pieces enough already.





War and Destruction with Lies

Abandoning me, ignoring me into nonexistence wasn’t even enough destruction for their bloodlusty crucifixion.  First, they assassinated every truth that ever defined my life, smearing shit lies all over my character, then they twisted every element of even my most innocent spirit into something hideous, distorting the beautiful pieces of me into something too disgusting to acknowledge.

They did this aggressively and hard for the first 2-3 years, setting the perfect groundwork to never have to work quite so hard at it again.  So that the final 3 of the 6 years just seemed to follow through on momentum alone without any effort at all, like a gigantic snowball made entirely of shit and evil rolling through one person’s hard-earned life.  Being that I was worth so little effort to any of them to begin with, they’d done the hard, uphill work up front so coasting on their lies from there has been effortless and easy.

Annihilating every part of me so effectively that any hint of my existence whatsoever was too hideous to acknowledge…every loving act I’d done over 42 years of life was blackened with lies, every compassion I’d shown others was flipped inside out into cruelty, every effort I’d ever made in all my lifetime to be someone I believed was kind, good, and worthy of love, they belittled and ripped to tiny shreds until nothing was recognizable.

Nothing which was ever true was still in tact when they finished.  It seems if you deny truth long enough, mix it with enough lies, and then just simply walk away, all the lies may as well be true.  In fact after a while, no one even cares to hear those tiny cries of truth.  It’s too easy to shut those out and all that’s left is the shell of a once happy, loving, momma who is now nothing but an unloved, unwanted, worthless barely-functioning crazy woman still spinning in shock and confusion, sobbing and screaming out inconvenient truths into an empty void where they just come bouncing right back off her empty, decomposing life.

Attack unsuspecting truth with arsenals of lies and armies of liars and the truth can be defeated as if it never existed at all.  Any truth that does remain is inconsequential and brushed off like an annoying little crumb from a pristine lapel of lies.

Mowing the grass and other things…


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I think often of my dad when I mow the grass. I remember him mowing it on Shuler Avenue when I was little.

I didn’t get to see him much but I remember hating when I was there and he’d have to go mow the grass . I was too little to help and I resented anything that took away even an hour of my precious time with him.

But that would pass the minute he was finished and he’d come back inside, smelling of freshly mown grass and the sticky heat of summer. I couldn’t wait to get him a glass of water or a cold beer from the fridge to help cool him down after the task. I felt so grown up to serve him. Sometimes I’d pretend I was a waitress and take his order when he came in. I couldn’t write yet, so I’d just scribble on paper pretending I could, thinking I was so clever to make my daddy believe I knew how to write!

Mowing grass makes me think of my beloved lawn on my house on Roosevelt. The yard was huge but it was so beautiful, I enjoyed getting it just perfect so my daughters and their friends and I could hang out barefoot in the grass playing or practicing cheerleading stunts. It smelled of lilacs and roses and fresh grass. I took great joy in completing it even though it was almost a full day’s job. I was so proud of our pretty little house, it’s good energy, and it beautiful yard… to finally provide my kids with our very own home we could decorate as we liked rather than all the rentals we’d lived in where I couldn’t paint or landscape the way we all wanted.

Their dad scammed that from us, although he didn’t pay a dime of his own money for that house. He scammed me with lies then later stole it with deceit, to hurt me and just to prove that “he could”. Just because I was trusting enough when my dad said, “you’re paying for that house with his name on the mortgage; make damn sure you get that agreement in writing”. So when I asked Mark for our agreement in writing saying my dad had suggested we just make sure there was never any confusion as to who was paying for this house and who it belonged to, Mark cried. He cried on the phone saying, “I’m so hurt you’d think I’d ever do something so dishonest to you or our girls like take your house!”

And true to narcissistic manipulation, sure enough, I ended up apologizing for even asking that our agreement be put in writing. I apologized for asking.

Three years later, he lied in court and said it was his, claiming he was buying this house 2000 miles away from where he lives as his “summer home” and he lied in court saying that with the sole intent of leaving his daughters and me homeless to “teach us a lesson” . And after threatening my dad that he’d never speak to him again if he let us stay with him after he’d stolen our house.

He rents it out now.

Sometimes I wonder if the people living in it know how many months my dad and children and I searched endlessly for the perfect home for me to buy for my daughters and I to live in forever. The house I pictured getting my children ready for their first prom in, or imagined when I’d watch them pull in the driveway the day they got their driver’s license, or how I’d imagined waiting for them in the front room to come home from their first date to tell me all about it, or how every time I mowed the grass I’d think of summer parties we could throw with all their friends and twinkle lights around the fence. Or how I’d scraped and saved money from nothing just to buy that little above ground pool for them and their friends to enjoy that first summer we lived there and how much fun we had playing in it and how proud I was to have afforded it even while paying for our home. Or how I couldn’t afford a lawnmower so my dad brought his over every weekend so I could keep the yard perfect. Every weekend he lugged that lawnmower over so I could make sure our yard was immaculate and beautiful so my daughters could be proud of our home

It wasn’t a mansion like Mark lived in when he lied and said it was his. It wasn’t some glorious expensive thing, but it was ours.

I’d scrimped and scraped just to have it; just so my children could have a permanent forever home of their own to be proud of.

To be our home base forever. It was always all ours.

Right up until the day their dad lied in court to say it wasn’t ours.

…Just because he “could”. Just because I had been stupid enough to trust a lying cheating, abusive pathological narcissist.

Trusted a pathetic excuse of a human being who had CRIED at the “insult” to his honor that I’d even ask for our agreement in writing. CRIED that I’d ever even imagine he’d do something so deceitful and hurtful as to take a home he knew wasn’t his… and never had been his…

our home.

To A.R.D.


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To my daughter who said her “childhood was like mine”:


Your momma didn’t allow you to have friends?  You had 4 total “social” events in your entire childhood?

Your momma never helped you with homework?

Your momma never let you have a boyfriend?  Or hang out with boys at all?

Your mom called your fiancé to tell him lies hoping he’d break up with you?

Your momma put you with a babysitter who molested you for 5 years? And another babysitter who molested you for 2 years?

Your momma left you in the car while she fucked a man in a driveway or hotel room who wasn’t your dad or her husband?

Your mom asked you to lie to her husband for her?

Your momma left you alone in a hotel room when you were 7, scared, in the middle of the night, to fuck a man she was cheating on your step dad with?

Your momma couldn’t be bothered to let you be active in school events, like cheerleading or band or orchestra or Girl Scouts?

Your mom threatened to dye your hair when you were 4 because you were born blonde?

Your mom told you you “disgusted her” every time you cried as a child or as an adult?

Your mom beat you with a belt til you bled just for literally saying the words, “Mom, I don’t even know what I did wrong”?

Your mom never held your hand?  Or asked you what was going on in your life?

Your mom spanked or slapped you when you had a nightmare?

Your mom posted a page from your diary on the refrigerator for 6 months?

Your mom let you talk on the phone with your friends?

Your mom didn’t let you choose clothes you liked?

Your mom let you wear clothes that fit you?

Your mom didn’t defend you when you someone hurt your feelings or did you wrong?

Your mom didn’t play games with you at home as a child?

Your mom didn’t read to you?

Your mom never took you to do fun things? Or let you go with friends to do them?

Your mom refused to let you see your grandmother for 10 years because she didn’t like her?

Your mom didn’t cook for you?

Your mom didn’t do your laundry?

Your mom made you clean the entire house every day from the time you were 5?

Your mom yelled at you because your panties were dirty?

Your mom cheated on your dad? Then told you he cheated on her and beat her when you were 6?

Your mom slapped you in the face for buying .25 cent Cracker Jacks?

Your mom told you “Santa would be short this year” so she could have a 2 carat diamond?

Your mom told you you “deserved what you got” when you were in the hospital ICU paralyzed from a massive stroke at 26 years old?

Your mom tried to get you to lie and say your step-dad molested you because she was having sex with someone else’s husband?

Your mom told you when you had 2 little babies and were scared that didn’t know how you could manage to work and care for them from a wheelchair when you were fully disabled by a stroke that you’d just have to “find a way to manage”?

Your mom made fun of your handwriting?

Your mom told you to get on welfare when you literally had no food or money to buy food while you were pregnant?

Your mom bragged to you about all the clothes she had she could never wear while you cried because you only had one pair of pants to wear while pregnant?

Your mom paid for your sister to go to college while telling you to “fend for yourself”?

Your mom told you she couldn’t “afford for you to play  an instrument”?  While married to a wealthy man?

Your mom shamed you for every friend you liked as a child?

Your mom insulted every friend you made as a child?

Your mom grounded you from friends, television, phone, and school activities for 842 days because you played video games once in the 6th grade with a friend when she wasn’t home? Then told you you hadn’t been grounded for the final several months but she’d just “forgotten” to tell you you weren’t grounded anymore?

Your mom told you “well, you must like it” when a man beat you unconscious?

Your mom told you to “just give it a year” when a boy you dated threatened you with a gun?

You were too scared to tell your mom you were gang raped by three boys at 16 years old because you knew she would blame you?

Yeah…we had the exact same upbringing, my child.

You poor thing.

That one nightmare


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That nightmare is back.

This time, it’s been altered to  someone texting me that Lexi has broken something but the texter is interrupted and can’t finish the text.

So, I’m receiving the same text over and over.

Hey, just thought you should

know Lexi will probably be okay

but she’s broken her…

And the texter doesn’t finish…can’t finish?  I’m not sure what the interruption is.  Just:

Hey, just thought you should

know Lexi will probably be okay

but she’s broken her…

In my dream, I grab my phone and start to text back and it comes through again while I’m typing:

Hey, just thought you should

know Lexi will probably be okay

but she’s broken her…

Over and over and over until I wake up sick to my stomach, panicked, and grab my phone in real life to see if it really was just a dream.  Confirm there’s no text….ahhhh…a brief flash of relief that it was just a bad dream.

Doze back off then:

Hey, just thought you should

know Lexi will probably be okay

but she’s broken her…

And repeat.

It’s bizarre how the body can’t tell the difference between nightmares and reality.  My body responds as if it’s all happening, even after I wake up, check my phone again, and decide to just get up for the day because I can’t take feeling that fear again.  But my body continues to react as if in crisis.  It reacts as though my child is in danger, hurting somewhere in this world, and I’m helpless to do a damn thing about it.

Fuck, I can’t even text her just to say, hey baby girl.. thinking of you…you ok? to reassure my terrorized brain that she’s just fine.

Well, I could text her but that only validates my nightmare further because there will never be grace enough to reply to a frantic momma plagued by the worst things a mother can imagine.

So, I sit and send her love out into the universe..hoping she feels it, begging  the void that she’s just peacefully, happily, sound asleep…safe, happy, and maybe, just maybe, just for a second in her sleep feels my heart wrapping its warm love and light around her, keeping her safe, making sure she feels all the love I never did. All the love I thought I showed her in her life, but apparently did it all wrong…hopefully, she feels it this way, now, even while she just sleeps…even if just for a brief moment in her subconscious.  Feels the infinite strength and safe surrounded in my love.

But my body is not to be assuaged. It continues to act as though it’s in battle-fight or flight mode…only flight and fight are both impossible. So it stays trapped in gut-churning, knees shaking, hands trembling terror incapable of convincing itself it was just a nightmare.

And I think to myself, okay, this is hell, but at least it wasn’t the one where she’s being gang raped in the room next to me and I can hear her screaming, momma…momma…MOMMMMMAAAA… but I can’t get to her.

At least it wasn’t that one.  Right?


me n lex babyme n lex carraige timeop to edit





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Nightmares by Raquel Kortizo

They’ve come for me again.

A prison camp by day

A torture chamber by night

hovering over my existence,

infiltrating my thoughts,

piercing my heart with raw fingers


tearing at the pieces of my brain

pulling and stretching the parameters of pain


As if I’m not helpless enough to stop the pain and misery during waking hours.

As if I’m not worthy of any peace whatsoever..


They broaden the definition of relentless.


Even felons of horrible crimes can serve their time and be released.  Yet, I who committed no crime nor have ever once inflicted any intentional or knowing injury upon any other creature.  Any. Other. Creature. Ever.

I, whose only method of fighting back my entire life was to walk away.  Incapable of actual battle, I walked away from every assault without raising a single fist.   Jesus, I rarely even raised my arms to protect myself from the blows.  My typical response to any type of assault was duck and cover-too scared to even lift my arms to ward off the blows, knowing if I didn’t just accept whatever came my way, it would only come back worse later.

Okay, so maybe the worst I ever did was run. Yes, a few times I didn’t walk away. I ran….  duck, cover, then walk or at worst, run…but I never fought back.  I never engaged in the warfare or returned assault or injury.  My worst return-fire was to run.

Regardless, I was sentenced to life.  And I can’t help in hindsight but to suppose the sentence was the harshest because I never fought back.  Perpetrators typically size up their victims first and choose the most defenseless – the one least likely to fight back- the most powerless of victims.  They’re irresistibly easy to conquer then destroy.

And once they’ve assessed that you’re too weak, scared, naive, ignorant, or insecure to even fight back, their power is truly limitless. They know you’re too harmlessly pathetic to even defend yourself.

Yes, pathetic.  Even most animals will attempt to fight back when backed in a corner and assaulted.  Not me.  Nope.  I crouch down, hang my head, squeeze my eyes shut tight, and wait for the fury to cease long enough to maybe try to run.  But still too stupid to run if they’ve first convinced me it’s my fault and my just dessert too.  Then, I just crouch down, take all the blows, wait for my punishment to be over…then apologize, beg forgiveness, and try even harder to be earn their love and try to be better enough to deserve a lighter punishment next time…knowing I’ll never attain perfection enough for the punishments to ever stop altogether…knowing I’ll always make another mistake somehow, but hoping I learned my lesson enough that time to figure out a way to be better each time.

A sentence thrust upon me without cause, without law, without a judge or jury, save my perpetrators themselves.  Hell, I didn’t even know I was on trial until after all was said and done.

Like a rapist being his own judge, witness, and jury of his own trial against his victim.

They sentenced me to life in hell, not even merciful enough to execute me outright, just a life term of endless, inescapable torture.

Betrayal from all angles, in every imaginable manner of betrayal.

They broaden the definition of betrayal.

Like shooting fish in a barrel.

Like hunting caged animals.

Like waging a war of morality and then bringing bombs and armies, knowing your opponent is only one person and will arrive armed only with words and truth…a clear conscience, an ignorance of the depth of your hatred, naive after everything to the extent of your evil.  All while your chosen “opponent” is totally unaware there even is a war at all.

Like pretending to love a wounded animal and giving it just enough time and space to believe for a moment it’s safe, just to make skinning and devouring it easier.

I say they’ve returned.


As if they ever left at all.

The nightmares never leave now.  Hell is my life now.

Hope is the only thing that still returns briefly…

just to mock me, then leave again.











Existential Chicken Noodle


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Digging through cabinets, I think chicken noodles, maybe?

“Yes, chicken noodles”, I answer myself.

I glance at my own hands, pulling the chicken from the freezer.  I think of my daddy’s hands.  There aren’t words in any language to define how much I suddenly want to make chicken noodles for him and my daughters. I think of a zillion times he cooked for me, how happy that made him, how he loved cooking.  …and how I’d so much loved cooking for my daughters too.

I wish I had counted every meal he made for me in my lifetime.  I couldn’t ever begin to count them.  Suddenly, I ferociously want a number…I want the exact fucking number!  I want the number and I want to race through the house screaming that number at the walls…






I’m angry at how easily I could count the times I cooked for him.  I’m not going to let myself stop and count those, though.  Not in my head, not on my fingers, not today…not ever. No.

…spilt milk and all…

Why did I not cook for him more? I angrily ask myself as I wash my hands. I need to tell him.  He needs to know these things.  He must know them.  It’d be too unfair if he never knew.  And my life overflows with futile, senseless, non-budging, disgusting unfairness already.

This simply cannot be one more.

I walk into the living room, lean against the entryway, and look directly where his chair always sat.  I can’t look in that spot and not see his gigantic grin, his unstoppable energy to do for others, how genuinely delighted he was when I was happy, how he beamed with pride at watching me succeed at a job or just watching me be a momma to his grandbabies.  He effortlessly defined joy.  And I don’t know where he went from me.  I don’t know how I’ve lost him from my soul.  Once upon a time, I was so much like him in that way…

I briefly wonder when was the precise moment I stopped being who I was and became who I am.  I ponder who it is I am today and how he would have hated seeing me be this.   I reflect on how his entire last 30 years were spent encouraging my happiness, supporting my struggles, lifting me up from the daily battles of physical handicaps, balancing my single-mother struggles, assisting me with impossible financial situations….

He had fought so tirelessly hard, yet so cheerfully, for me in all of it.  He would be devastated to see this – all of this… now.  Everything he’d devoted himself to – everything – up in existential smoke.  He’d dedicated so much of himself to not this. And, I realize I never once saw him devastated or beaten…not once.

Not. Even. Once.

I tearfully apologize to him. My heart spilling over with the ache of regret, missed chances, missed conversations, missed opportunities to cook for him, and the tragic lack of even one final I love you before there would never be another.  Ever.

I look back down at my hands.  Things like manicures and pretty fingers have become so senseless, yet I’m appalled at the rapid aging of my hands from just the past six years.  Are these even my hands?  I’ve not accomplished a fraction of what he did and my hands look hideous.   I hear him smiling saying, “Heyyyyy bay-bah…?  Let’s go get you a manicure!” with that confident excitement of an innocent child he always had when he knew he could fix something…make it better…bring joy and Band-Aids to someone he loved.

And he always loved me. Always.  So great big and so out loud that its absence is an indescribably painful emptiness.

I think of his hands and how aged they’d seemed the last we spoke…and how deeply it had bothered me I hadn’t had any lotion in my handbag that day to moisturize those loving, worn and wearier-than-I even-knew hands.

I tell him he deserved better from me; he deserved more somehow.

He deserved so fucking much better than that and far, far, FAR better than this.

I’m making chicken noodles on a cold and dreary day, Daddy.

I can’t wait to see your smile when I bring you a plate.

Call it Murder


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crucified . entrecieletterre.

Two things.  For nearly six years now, I’ve held onto two little shiny glimmers.

  1. Maybe love, truth, and maybe even kindness will end up winning if I stay strong, stay hopeful, and always remember the truth.
  2. If not #1, there’s no one in my world who would ever stand up and say to the guilty parties, “You did this.  You did this to her.  You knew it would destroy her.  You knew it was wrong to do.  You knew.  You knew.  YOU KNEW!  And you did it anyway.  And not out of love for your children, not out of any righteous stance or deserved punishment.  You did it out of sheer selfishness and bitter jealousy which you cultivated over her lifetime into a bottomless black well of vile hatred. You not only did this, but you’ve allowed two innocent children to carry the load of your filthy sick hatred and be its vessel of her destruction.

You knew and you did it anyway.    No one will say that.  NO one will stand up for what’s right.  The  perpetrator’s will be crying the loudest, milking up the glory of their destruction while simultaneously sopping up every shred of sympathy for themselves they can get their greedy little sick desperate hearts on.

I no longer care what their sad inner struggles are or were. I no longer have the sympathy and compassion for them that something awful made them this way.  I no longer care what demons they fight in their soulless existences.  Like murderers or rapists, they know what they’ve done is wrong.  They knew as they did it.  They knew every step of the way.  None of it was accidental or inadvertent.  They tell themselves what they’ve spent ix years convincing the rest of the world, that they did it for my children and odds are they’ve been telling their stories for so long now that their twisted sick minds actually believe their own lies at this point.

That used to make me feel sorry for their sickness – the level of mental illness which allows them to tell so many lies to so many people that they most likely truly forget they were even lying to begin with.   As frustrated as I was with the damage their lies caused me over my lifetime, I still felt compassion for what a sad existence that was – to be so desperately drenched in lies that you could no longer tell what truth was.  What a sorry and sad way to have to live.

I used to feel sorry for them that their selfishness and their bitter egos were so ginormous that they’d never be capable of love or genuine connection.  I used to tuck my children in at night and then actually pray for those vile monsters.  I actually felt guilty that I had so much love with and for my children…love they’d never ever be able to know or have.

I felt guilty that I could experience and have that and they never would. After everything they did to me, I still felt sorry for them…  I still wanted them to know love and joy and happiness.  I still cared about their happiness.

And they’ll say all sorts of things after I’m gone.  God (if He exists) alone knows what lengths they’ll go to after it’s finally over and their hatred has won the final game.  But, they’ll soak it up…every last fucking ounce they can get from it…they’ll soak it up.

My mother showing up at my dad’s funeral, after destroying his entire life, and sobbing like a wounded animal.  My ex cheating on me and beating me up, then crying in marriage counseling about how his dad hurt him and he didn’t want to be who he was….even as he continued being and doing exactly that.

All about them.

All about their bitter hatred. 

Just like a serial killer showing up to their victims’ funeral, crying….offering condolences to the family that really hurts. They’ll soak up every last second of what their victory over me can get them.  Bottomless pits of sheer selfish evil.

And no one will say a word to them.  No one will set the record straight or call them out on what they’ve done.  No one will stand up for me or my children.  No one.

No one will call it what it was.  Soul robbery.  Destroying another human being to try to have the only thing they don’t, can’t, and won’t ever have  because all that they already have is never enough.

Murder.  Murder via pathological narcissistic abuse.  Murder motivated by greed and selfishness. Murder via parental alienation.

It was murder.

And my children were their weapons of destruction.