Narcissistic Inconvenience

Tags

Domestic Violence by proxy, fear, Mark DeDeaux, Narcissistic Abuse

In 2001, my children were 2 and 4. I had suffered a massive stroke while pregnant with the 2 year old, leaving me extensively and noticeably physically weakened and unstable.

It wasn’t easy having 2 little toddlers to care for alone with such extensive physical handicaps, but I was grateful I had recovered enough to provide them a momma and could still attempt to manage a home for us at all.

We lived in rent-controlled subsidized housing as my only income was $500 per month disability plus whatever temporary jobs I could get that accommodated my disabilities. It was a very nice newer townhouse though and it was in a decent neighborhood where my kids were safe to play outside. My ex, their non-disabled father, was making around $800k or more a year. With his income bracket, I was entitled to a significant amount of child support, but because I feared angering him and I feared him resenting our children if he was forced to pay the several thousand dollars a month support to which we were legally entitled, I gratefully accepted the $200/month he chose to pay and I simply adjusted our lives to live the best I could manage for the 3 of us on the total of $700/month.

He lived about 3 hours away from us at the time and in addition to not taking him to court and demanding enforcement of reasonably appropriate child support, I also drove our children half way to his house for his visits to ease the travel burden on him.

I had an old beat up Honda that my dad had helped me purchase shortly after I’d left my children’s father. My ex had driven my prior car into the automobile graveyard in efforts to preserve his own car from too much wear and tear and when that car of mine died a few months before our first daughter was born, he went out and bought himself a new car, leaving me without a car- not even the old but dependable means of transportation I’d had before we met.

So this little beat up but dependable Honda my dad had helped me obtain was precious to me for our independence. It was how I got to work any jobs I was able for extra money to live on; it was how I, even with severe physical limitations, was able to occasionally safely take my two children under the age of 4 to the park or beach or for an ice cream treat; it was how I helped make their dad’s busy successful career life easier by driving them half way to his house for weekend visits whenever he requested. Sometimes if the fatigue was too great for me physically to safely make this drive with 2 little kids, my dad being a godsend of our lives (and our safety) would not hesitate to make that drive helping their dad out on my behalf.

This had been the practice for as long as I’d been split from my babies’ dad. We didn’t once deny him this extra consideration. We just made it happen every visit he wanted, no matter the burden or inconvenience for us. If I couldn’t do it, my dad did it for me. Period. Zero complaints and zero exceptions.

But once in 2001 when they were 2 and 4, I had serious car trouble. The tie rod on my car was worn bad. I had obtained a repair quote. The price to fix the tie rod was around $500.00! I didn’t have that kind of money obviously. And to make matters worse, the mechanic warned me that it was so close to snapping in half completely that he strongly urged me not to drive the car at all until it was repaired but that if I had to drive it prior to repair to make sure I not drive far, not exceed 35 miles per hour, or drive it on highways. He warned that if the car was going over 35 mph and hit any kind of bump at all, the tie rod would likely snap in half and it could cause an immediate and possibly fatal accident.

My dad helped my children and I so much already, I didn’t want to ask him for this repair money. So, I just didn’t drive with my children in the car around that time unless it was totally unavoidable and I could stay safely under 35 mph. During this time, my dad drove my kids and I mostly to important events. Of course, in this time, my dad did all the half-way to their dad’s house driving with my kids to meet their dad as the route half way to him was over an hour of highway driving.

One week while my dad was out of state on vacation, my ex wanted his weekend visit with the usual additional assistance of being met half way in the middle. He had informed me on a Wednesday that he wanted them that coming Friday for the weekend.

I panicked because my dad would be out of state that weekend. So I immediately went about calling several friends to ask them to drive us if I paid them gas money for the trip or asking if i could borrow their car. On Friday morning, I was still calling friends and acquaintances trying to secure the hour and a half one-way highway ride for my children and me to meet their dad.

Incidentally, their wealthy dad who paid less than one-eighth of the legal child support we were entitled to for his part in providing for our children- money I could have easily used to afford either the car repair I needed or possibly even a newer car altogether- had recently purchased a shiny reliably new SUV for himself.

Around noon on Friday, having been unable to secure any driving assistance for this 3 hour round trip jaunt to make my ex’s life a few hours easier, I called him to explain that I couldn’t meet him half way this time. I explained the tie rod, the mechanic’s warning, the money I didn’t have for the repairs, that my dad was out of town, and my many unsuccessful efforts to get a ride or borrow a safe car.

I’d explained the entire situation to him on the phone struggling to use my face and shoulder to hold the phone and my one hand/arm that still worked since my stroke to fix lunch for our two freshly napped and hungry toddlers. There was a long silent pause when I was finished explaining.

Finally after more than 30 seconds of uncomfortable silence on his part had passed, I simply said, So…. I’m really sorry I can’t meet you half way today. You’ll need to come here to pick them up or we’ll have to reschedule for next weekend when my dad can drive them to meet you half-way….

Still dead silence on the other end of the phone. I was getting frustrated at this continued total silence (an annoying trademark of his) because I had one working hand and could not finish getting my 2 and 4 year old their lunch while on the phone sitting and waiting for him to break this extensive silence in reply to my situation.

So finally after waiting forever again for him to reply and getting absolute silence, I finally spoke again and said, Mark, I’m really sorry I can’t meet you this time. I tried everything I could think of to manage it, but I can’t possibly drive our babies an hour and a half on a highway to meet you today. It’s not safe, but they’re also hungry right now and I need to hang up to finish getting them their lunches, so I really need you to speak and tell me if you want to come pick them up this time or reschedule for next weekend, ok?

Another 2-3 second pause passed. He finally spoke. He didn’t offer to help me with the repair money to fix my car; he didn’t say he’d drive this one time the whole way to pick up our children; and he didn’t say, okay let’s reschedule for next weekend when your dad can meet me.

Nope. When he finally replied, he screamed, JUST PUT THE KIDS IN THAT GODDAMN CAR AND FUCKING MEET ME HALFWAY NOW!!

I’d dealt with his terrifying fury while we had lived together and had literally spent the past 4 years sacrificing and accommodating anything he wanted just to avoid the terror of his anger even while living 3 hours away from him. So when he screamed this, I just started shaking from head to toe.

And after every narcissistic trait he’d shown me from the day I’d met him, I was still beyond shocked he would literally demand I put our two little babies’ lives in actual danger just to save himself a longer than usual drive. He was willing, no demanding, that I risk his 2 and 4 year old children’s lives for no reason at all except his added convenience.

But I feared him. And I constantly feared him holding these things – any little thing he didn’t get his way with- against our kids out of anger toward me. I feared he would resent our sweet little babies these things and their relationship with him might be compromised. I wanted better than that for my babies. I couldn’t stay in a relationship with their dad but I was committed to doing everything in my power to ensure they enjoyed a strong relationship with their dad like I was so grateful to have with my own dad.

So, I did what any well trained narcissistic and domestic violence abuse survivor does, I followed his irate demand and put my two little children in my death trap of a car and drove them the hour and a half to meet him.

It took me just over 3 hours to drive an hour and a half drive going 35 miles per hour all the way. I was a shaking nervous wreck the entire way scared to death of every unforeseeable possible bump in the road.

But I didn’t want my 2 little toddlers to know how terrified and panicked I was on this endless slow drive, so I popped in the Sarah Evans CD they loved so much and we sang at the top of our lungs, while I drove 35 mph on the highway and acted silly in the front seat making them laugh the whole slow ride through hell to make their dad’s life easier that day.

It seemed like forever getting there but I was never more relieved in my entire life than I was that day when we finally got to our destination.

I exchanged the children into their dad’s shiny, safe, brand-spanking-new SUV, and I turned right around and drove 35 mph the entire way for the 3 hour long (hour and a half drive) back home sobbing in enormous relief that I’d gotten them there safely and praying to God my dad would be back home in time on Sunday to meet him half way to pick them back up.

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Trapped Shards

Tags

abuse, emotional abuse, Narcissistic Abuse, parental alienation

Perhaps a big part of the reason malignant narcissists are so successful in their abuse is that it’s extraordinarily difficult to tell the story of these monsters’ insidious tactics.

Stories of bloody noses, broken bones, overt verbal abuse, and harsh sexual violence are obvious and easy to tell.

Stories of looks that inspire terror, 55 tiny little “harmless” digs a day, subtle financial abuse slowly over time, seemingly innocent manipulations, etc, these are far more difficult to tell and explain the damage they do.  And particularly difficult when the average attention span exceeds about 2 inches from any person’s self-involvement.

Who has the care or time to sit and listen to someone explain such subtle and clever intricacies of abuse with multiple layers of impact that build upon one another over time like millions of tiny glass shards.  One little glass shard in your skin seems harmless and such a ridiculous thing to cry over.  5 tiny glass shards?  Really?  Just pull em out, clean the area, and get on with it. 25 tiny glass shards?  Well,  that’s unfortunate, but again, pull them out, clean the wounds, and get on with it. Shit happens.  There’s still just no need to go to a doctor and explain the story of each and every shard, how each individual shard got embedded into your skin, and how painful each one was or wasn’t at the time of entry.  A doctor wouldn’t need to hear those minute and lengthy details and it’s unlikely he’d have the time or patience to listen to it all even if each shard’s story was somehow relevant.

You’re not a whiner.  You’re not a pity whore or desperate for sympathy.  Maybe you even deserved some of those shards?  Maybe you even knowingly went back to the scene after the first 15 shards?

Do’t be ridiculous.  You just pull them out as best you can, clean the area, and get on with it, obviously determinedly hoping to avoid the shard infested area in the future.  You’re not stupid.  You’ll simply choose to stay far away from that danger zone.  If you can’t clean them all up, you’ll walk around it, even if it takes incredible cautious and care.

You’ll just tip-toe around the shards from now on.  And get on with it.

But what happens when you get 10,000 tiny glass shards in your skin?  Still, the damage is relatively minimal.  Just get to the time consuming task of pulling them out, clean the wound, and get on with it.

You might need to see a doctor at this point, but still you aren’t going to load the doctor down with how each and every shard got in there.  It’s senseless.  You just say you had an accident, get the care your wounds need, and get on with trying to clean or tip-toe around the avoid the danger zone again. Surely, you’re not stupid enough to  intentionally walk carelessly in that same area?  Right?  Why bother anyone with the boring story of each and every stab, every piercing of your flesh that subtly pinched or stung?  It’s irrelevant and it’s just dull.

Take care of it and get on with it.

So, what happens when you get 25,000 tiny slivers of glass embedded in your skin?  You dismissed the 5, then the 25, then the 10,000.  Now you have 25,000 and more keep coming even as you’re still pulling the last batch out.  You don’t understand where they’re even coming from at this point.  They just keep coming and now with more speed than you can pull them out.  Confusion settles in.  You doubt yourself because who could be clumsy or stupid enough to keep inadvertently hitting that danger zone of shattered glass?  It seems like a moving target, but you just can’t understand what, how, or why.  You just know they sting and they seem to be gaining momentum the harder you try to avoid them.

After a few years of this, with millions of “harmless” shards embedded as well as a few far less subtle, deeper daggers and stabs throughout that time that have done more significant damage.  Suddenly, you’re actually damaged and the damage is confusingly extensive.  Now, how does one go back to explaining those first 5 shards?

What about after 48 years of it?

How do you expect anyone at this point, even a doctor or friend or therapist, to bother with the time, effort, and extensive bother of listening to the details of every embedded shard, the maddening impossibility of avoiding the danger zone despite constant exhausting effort to locate, repair, and clean up the site?  Really, it’s too far gone to repair or resolve now anyway, so why burden others with that weight?

Who would care enough to be burdened anyway?

You can tell the story of the first 5 shards or maybe the last 20 shards, or maybe you just selectively choose to explain only those random shards that were not so subtle in their damage?  Only tell the worst of the billions?

No one can be burdened with the whole senseless lifelong story of every ridiculous shard you now have piercing your skin.  But there’s too many to ever remove now.  And a handful of 15 minute selective explanations could never even begin to adequately describe the depth of damage or the permanent pain of all the deeply embedded ancient shards still ripping your skin…underneath the surface.  Stabbing you relentlessly, always ripping through your flesh, under the surface…. unseen to the naked eye.

And yet, how would you ever explain the amount of damage without that burden? How do you ever get to them all to remove them and clean and repair the wounds without that ridiculous burden?

Abuse plus denial

Tags

abuse, Domestic violence, Narcissistic Abuse

Narcissistic abuse is a dual edged sword. It will never admit … much less apologize.. for the damage. In fact, it denies and belittles, making you feel even worse, more vulnerable, more crazy, more abused.

More like a victim….. helpless and victimized from every edge….

The first boyfriend I ever had beat me senseless physically . He didn’t emotionally or mentally abuse me though….  Just random, irate, wild physical attacks. I was lucky to have survived a few of those vicious attacks, but still I’d choose that over narcissistic abuse like my mother, my ex, or my children. 

Recently I got very reflective on that first boyfriend. And I texted him to just state my feelings. I wasn’t hoping for anything more than the chance to say how I felt about the abuse and a few things that happened concerning him after my dad passed. I truly expected him to actually deny it ever happened! That’s how distorted narcissistic abuse has made me…

But he just apologized. He didn’t deny. He didn’t belittle or minimize the abuse. He literally just apologized!  He even went so far as to say ” I would pay the devil if I could take back how badly I beat you”.

He SAID that!! 

And I’m just flabbergasted….  I’ve never had anyone hurt me deeply and actually demonstrate remorse or regret of any kind. It’s always been “I didn’t do that” or “sorry you think that’s what I did”. Never EVER just a straight out I’m so sorry for how I hurt you. I wish I hadn’t. 

NEVER EVER! 

I’m amazed at what a difference just the  acknowledgement of truth makes! Much less, the sincere apology. It’s astonishing actually! 

It makes all the difference in the world. 

Narcissistic abuse is hands down the most vile evil abuse there is. 

I’d so much rather be beaten. 

You Want to Hear Something Crazy? — After Narcissistic Abuse

Tags

Domestic violence, emotional abuse, Lies, narcissistic personality disorder

Listen to a narcissist react to a narcissistic injury. What’s the injury? Any path or description that is contrary to the narcissist’s desires or image. You will be able to swiftly see a narcissist’s agenda in how they STRONGLY REACT to your self-expression. Speak up for yourself; act as if you have THE RIGHT to […]

via You Want to Hear Something Crazy? — After Narcissistic Abuse

Lingering Fears

Tags

abuse, Domestic Violence by proxy, fear, parental alienation

I do not fear death. I no longer fear I am unlovable or unworthy. I have those irrefutable answers at last. I no longer fear the persecution of lies, ignorance, or huge misunderstandings.  That’s all been decided, judged, and prosecuted already.

I fear failure. I fear I’ve not thought of something critical and I’ll cause more unnecessary and undue suffering on the people left in this world whom I’d rather die than ever hurt. Literally.

I no longer fear anger.  I don’t have this chronic deep anxiety that deep down I’m going to be like my mother – ruling with rage, cutting sarcasm, and torrential tirades.  I still feel immediate terror when I sense anger anywhere about my vicinity, but with all my habitual begging and pleading for forgiveness of crimes I didn’t commit and/or aren’t even crimes at all, combined with faults I am most certainly guilty of, I feel angry.

I think about people who have been wrongly convicted of violent crimes, like rape or murder, who spend years in prison – sometimes lifetimes even – and I imagine how they must feel sitting in their prison cell for all those years, knowing they aren’t guilty…knowing they’re not perfect either, but that they did not commit these heinous crimes against humanity, but there they sit.  There they sit among hundreds of guilty voices who also cry out, “…but I’m not guilty!”, knowing their sincere pleas of innocence are useless, tiny ridiculous cries, begging for justice, screaming for truth, but drowning in a sea of guilt that continuously whispers, why bother crying out?

I’ve read over the years of cases where DNA evidence exonerates some poor innocent soul who’s served the time already; who wears that noisy scarlet G for guilty, in spite of their innocence.  How angry they must feel! How invisible (other than for persecution purposes, of course), how hopeless, how senseless, and unjust.  I once believed that anger was a useless waste of dangerous energy which serves no efficient purpose except transmitting unnecessary negativity out into the world.  Yet, I can imagine these people feel quite righteously angry indeed!  Yet, in great irony, if they expose their anger or noisily express the travesty of their wrongful conviction, most would just shake their heads and say, see?  Look what an angry person he is!  Look how “he doth protest too much“, only adding fuel to their guilty judgment with every righteous expression of anger, outrage, and shocking disbelief.

Trapped in their cell, wearing the blaring Scarlet “G”, do they even bother getting angry when it serves no purpose except to shine even more certainty on their misjudged guilt?  Can you even imagine for a moment how horrifying that experience must be?

I’ve actually never allowed myself to really feel anger and be okay with that.  I have to say though, uselessly senseless as it may be, I am angry.    I am furiously angry.  I feel angry that my voice is small and unsure, unsteady and without passion anymore. I feel angry that even when I get the words out, now they sound hysterical and imbalanced… rendering them uncountable. I feel angry that I tried so hard, suffered through so much, sacrificed without thought, and pushed myself past  every hurdle life and narcissists threw at me.. just to end up defeated and hated in the end regardless.

A life full of consistent efforts to matter, and consistent efforts to help others and to use my struggles for good. A life of buying into the whole, everything happens for a reason, just use it all for good in the world and good will come around to you…  No.  No that is not true.  I’ve lived a life believing in some non-existent karmic balance in the world, some ignorant notion that if I just keep doing the right thing no matter how hard that is sometimes, then everything will be ok; believing that deep in my heart, while drowning in a sea of evidence and experience which keeps slapping my face insisting otherwise.

Apparently, I’m a special kind of stubborn-stupid.

It’s wasted energy, I understand.  It serves no purpose except to add fuel to the charges, but fuck that!  I am angry.  I am PISSED OFF. And I’m letting myself feel that for once in my fucking life.

I feel frustrated and angry that as invisible and non existent as I am and as senseless and futile as my words, life experiences, and feelings are, that I still exist. I still fucking exist!

I hate my body for functioning. I resent myself when I feel hunger. Why should I have to feel hunger? Why should I have to go grocery shopping or buy groceries? I don’t want to and I don’t even exist on any plane that matters….

I used to love to cook! Even after they first left, I confess, sometimes I’d still cook big dinners and send my kids pictures hoping to spark a memory of my cooking they loved, or maybe fondly recall the many dinners we had where we laughed. It seemed a safe topic to address when all topics and all my words are twisted into daggers and furiously flipped, taken out of context, and unleashed upon me backwards like boomerangs. My feather boomerangs I lovingly toss out there which return as daggers to stab and criticize.

Now, I feel pissed off when I’m hungry and when I can’t push past it anymore, I drag myself to the kitchen and eat a spoonful of peanut butter or anything readily handy that will shut up my hunger pains when they’re driving me crazy.

Maybe those food pictures were manipulative? Maybe I’m selfish to want them to remember being happy with me, loving me, being a family with me…? They’re admittedly gloriously happy, why would I want them to remember those things when they’ll either be twisted to hurt me or twisted inside them as painful reminders of the depth of lies they’ve told and the depth of senseless destruction they wreaked?

I once got an irrationally inordinate pleasure out of- of all things! – lip balm!  I used to get so excited over a new chap stick or lip gloss… and I adored the feeling of applying lip balm on my chapped lips, that moment of quenching that annoying thirst of my lips and how soothing it felt.

Now, I deeply resent my lips when they’re dry. I don’t feel pleasure from buying a new chapstick and I feel just annoyed  when my lips dare to be so dry. I get no pleasure whatsoever from the soothing sensation of quenching that. Why do I even have lips anyway?  And how dare they have needs!

I’m angry that I’ve no one who will stand for me even up when I’m gone. I fear that all my abusers and those who’ve used, deceived, and demolished me for their own purpose and angrily threw me away only when I finally stood up for myself against their abuse, that every one of those people will just say “see? See what she did now? See how far she’ll go to manipulate? I told you so.”

As a child, I wished for death almost as much as I craved and begged for love. And I would play the scenario in my head, mother will be sad that I’m gone. She will see how much I loved her after I’m not around anymore. She might even miss me and realize that she did love me a little… I see now that I’m an adult, how childish and selfish those thoughts were.  I loved my mother in spite of everything.  Why would I have wanted her to suffer missing me?  Suffer regrets she could never rectify?  I didn’t yet know about NPD and that pathological narcissists are incapable of feeling regret, remorse, or love.

Regardless, as angry as I am, I still don’t wish any pain on anyone… not even my abusers or persecutors. I’ve never intentionally wished any of them pain and I still don’t. I don’t believe that their experiencing pain like they’ve inflicted on me would vindicate or bring me any satisfaction.

It wouldn’t.

I have far more anger at those who stood by watching it happen, knowing it was horribly wrong,  and did nothing…said nothing…  And will most likely even express sympathy (real or fake) with my murderers after I’m gone.

And my children… my children who are merely  accessories and pawns in a bigger narcissist’s game than they could ever comprehend. And the more they scream that they’re NOT and throw cruelty at me like they have zero heart and less than zero compassion for anyone weak and unlucky enough to have been abused, the more I accept that what I know is true, even if I’m surrounded by naysayers.  Truth is still truth whether or not anyone believes, respects it, or remembers it.

What’s  kept me from ending my suffering these past 5 years was the very fear that my children MIGHT remember they loved me too late… that they might remember the truths and sort out the lies, that they might suffer even a moment’s doubt about their choices and their actions. I do not have any desire to “show them” what pain feels like nor any wish for them to EVER know even a fraction of a second of the level of pain they and my abusers have created inside me.

While I still ignorantly tried to believe that truth and goodness will prevail in the end, I could not end my own pain knowing that might someday cause them pain even if they can’t or won’t realize that today…

Most of all though, I’m angry that after everything, no one will stand up to say, “another fatality of narcissistic abuse” another senseless victim for parental alienation “.  No one will call it murder by the fiercest and most damaging of bullying… adult bullying via children.

No one will scream, SHE DID NOT COMMIT SUICIDE! SHE WAS DESTROYED BY PARENTAL ALIENATION!

I’m confined to the prison my abusers specifically created for me.. a hell I can’t escape no matter what I do… for my heart will still love and long to be loved by my children.. until my last breath. They created my prison, and like a person on death row for a crime they didn’t commit.. my screams of innocence and demands for justice are just more proof I deserve this prison sentence.

Yes, I am pissed off.

And if my existence and all my lifetime of strenuous efforts to matter, to love like I wished for love, to believe in the goodness of people even when monsters were whacking at my head, to help others like I wished someone had helped me, to hold to faith when it was smaller than a mustard seed.. and hang on hope even when it was the prickly noose around my neck..

If none of that mattered and none of it made any difference in this world, then maybe I do deserve this prison of nonexistence, but if so, then I also deserve the death penalty… a death free from the burden and stigma of suicide, free from the heavy conscience of that tiny remote possibility that my death might hurt someone I love – someone I love who (unwittingly or otherwise) also tightened the noose others placed around my neck.

If I give in to these impossible persecutions, the years of agony, the desperate climb up and past so much abuse just to be kicked back down again… if what they say I am, I really am… then I also deserve to be free from further blame at accepting their truth even when it wasn’t mine to accept or bear.

I fear that my entire life was in vain and now, without a voice or a leg of worth or value to stand on… as a fragile shell of my former spirited, hopeful self…that my death will also be in vain.

These are the only fears I have left.

No Good Deed

Tags

abuse, kindness, tenants

I’ve a deep drive to attempt simplification of the thoughts in my head regarding experiences I’ve endured and the jumbled, shocking feelings associated.  So far I’ve assigned two phrases that encompass my life experience.  I wrote of them in A Single Sentence and in Damned if I do; Damned if I don’t .

Today, I’m adding a 3rd motto:

No good deed goes unpunished.

This has become so abundantly true for me that it’s altered my soul and jumbled my heart.

Someone could write a Netflix series based on how my life has defined this as a cautionary tale of factual and outrageous truth.  However, I’ll just address my latest go around with it here and spare you the redundancy of different characters and different scenarios all leading directly back to this.

I purchased my dad’s house after he died.  It’s a massive historical home built in 1896 and the upstairs has been renovated into two studio apartments.  The previous owners renovated the upstairs like this in order to assist with the huge cost of maintaining a house of this age and size.

Owning rentals and being a landlord is not something I would have intentionally sought out.  I’m aware of my weakness for sob stories and excuses and I’ve always been driven by a fervent unmitigated desire to help others, and often to my own demise.

However, my daddy’s house is particularly meaningful and sentimental to me.  For years, this has been my safe haven from storms, homelessness, and just a point of safety I don’t have anywhere else. So, here I am playing landlady in an attempt to keep a house I can’t actually afford.

Last fall, I had a vacancy and began accepting applications for new tenants. These are simple, small, inexpensive studio efficiency, all-utilities-included apartments, so they rent quickly.  I already had 22 applicants when a very young couple contacted me claiming they were both working, but were homeless and living out of their car for months. 

Oh Lord, here’s my Achilles heel… A downtrodden couple just fighting to get a leg up in this impossible world.  I met with them, showed them the apartment, and really liked their seemingly sweet and quiet natures.  I had far more promising applicants, but I wanted to help these people!  After all, they were both working and so young, I thought this would be the perfect place for them to live while perhaps saving money to buy a house someday in the future.

The trouble began about 3 1/2 weeks after they moved in.   The screaming, fighting, and physical violence tore throughout the halls of this entire old house. It sounded like someone would not get out of this argument alive. They pushed each other up and down the stairs for an hour or so then eventually carried this fight out onto the porch, then to the sidewalk, then right out into the street!

My PTSD from domestic violence and abuse was racing through every nook and cranny of my mind and body, but I tried to calm them. I tried to help.  I tried to separate them so they might calm down.  Eventually, I had no choice but to call the police for help when it continued to escalate and I was shaking so badly and so confused from PTSD, I no longer could get my vocal chords to work or my brain to process my words intelligibly. The police came and it calmed down.

Unfortunately, this became a chronic bi-weekly nightmare going at all hours of the day and night.  My other tenants moved out after begging me to make the unbearable noise and fear levels cease in any way.   I understood completely why they left.  This was taking a huge toll on my nerves and emotions and sleep as well.

The same time the other tenants moved out, the fighting tenants started making excuses for not paying rent. Suffice to say, they didn’t pay their rent in full ever again.  The first month was they were just a “bit short”.  Okay, I let that slide.  They didn’t have food or rent, so I gave them food.  They were out of cigarettes, so I gave them cigarettes.  With every sob story they gave me, I just tried to help as best I could although I was struggling myself.  Then they were late and short and “short” turned into no rent at all, etc., etc., etc…

In February, they brought a “friend’s” pit bull (pets are not allowed) into the hallway and left it there for 12 hours screaming/whining for attention and shredding the hallway carpet.  And I’d had it. I’d tolerated this as long as I financially (and emotionally) could.  After three straight months of no rent, the utility bills and property taxes were falling seriously behind.  I could literally could not afford to keep them here, paying for them plus tolerating the chronic fights.  I finally served them with an eviction notice.

The notice was reacted to by the tenants bellowing in the hallway things like “YOU FUCKING GREEDY BITCH!” and text messages about how my karma was going to be awful for doing this to them (“LEAVING THEM HOMELESS”) for “NO REASON”.

The 7 day notice was served…

The 30 day notice was served..

Court judgment to evict was granted for 30 (more) final days…

Forced removal notice was posted

They refused to leave.

By Monday May 1st, court officers arrived to “forcibly remove them”.  At this point, these two fully capable people, both under the ages of 25, had lived rent and utility free in my home (while terrorizing me) for six full months.

This removal was a nightmare of all the nightmares.  They were forced to put their things in the hallway to prepare for removing it from the home altogether.  As this was happening, I suddenly smelled a strong odor of gas.  I followed the smell upstairs to their apartment and went inside to discover they had turned every gas stove burner on high and shut all the doors behind them.  This easily could have blown up the entire house.

I turned off all the burners and opened all the doors and windows to the bellowing of “ARE YOU HAPPY NOW, BITCH?” outside in the hall.

After a few hours, they were gone.  I was still shaking from the ruckus when a loud and fierce BANG BANG BANG came upon my window.  I looked out the window and saw a middle aged woman, looking furiously angry and demanding she be given access to her son’s apartment to “GET HIS MOTHERFUCKIN GROCERIES FROM THE REFRIGERATOR”.

Food is expensive and I had no desire to keep any of their things or make their lives any harder than necessary, so I opened the door for her to get the fridge contents although by law, I had no legal obligation to allow this additional access.

Upon which this woman, screaming vile obscenities and distorted accusations at the top of her lungs, then attempted to physically assault me and was prevented by a male co-worker of mine who had come to help me through this horrific process and had stayed behind to help  calm me down when it was over. He politely escorted her out the door with her screaming threats and childish taunts at him.

After she was gone, my phone rang from a blocked ID and she left a message threatening that if she “SEES MY GREEDY BITCH ASS ANYWHERE SHE WILL SNAP MY SCRAWNY NECK” among a plethora of other lovely insults and threats.  It seems six months free rent and utilities  wasn’t “ANYWHERE NEAR ALL I COULD AFFORD” according to this lady.

I wanted to help.

Famous last words…  I can only hope I’ll still be able to somehow squeak out when my scrawny little neck is snapped for trying to help.

NO good deed goes unpunished, indeed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Parking Lot Peeing & other Unforgivably Heinous Crimes

Tags

abuse, bedwetting, Lies, PTSD, truths

This one’s a hard one to force out. Even anonymously, I feel nauseated at the thought of sharing such horrifying intimacies of my horrific flaws.
I’m of the opinion though that I must write of it though,  and especially because it’s so hideous and shameful. I must blare it out somewhere in the universe so it can be known that I admitted even the most mortifying true aspects of my unworthiness.

I peed in a parking lot. Actually, I’ve peed in many bizarre places in my life. I’ve peed in bushes, I’ve peed my pants, I’ve peed on dates, I’ve peed the bed. I’ve peed while sleeping. I’ve peed while awake. I’ve peed myself while drunk. I’ve peed myself while sober….

I recently read Sarah Silverman’s biography, The Bedwetter, and I confess,  it’s helped me have the courage to openly (albeit anonymously!) address my personal issue with this. For the first time ever, I realized I’m not the only one who suffers from such unwanted struggles! So here goes nothing…

My bladder sucks! My bladder sucks so badly that I’d be willing to bet the only way it could be worse is if I had no bladder at all. And even then, I could pee safely in a bag I carried around…. so, maybe that’s not actually “worse”.

My bladder is a cruel bitch. However, I refuse to offer excuses about that here. I have zero excuses,  but I very much want a platform to be free to discuss the myriad of bullshit behind my stupid fucking horrible bladder.  It may seem like a black and white issue, but I assure you, it is not. This issue has more shades of grey than those Christian Grey books.  Yet, not once have I had the opportunity to discuss it beyond “yes, I did pee in a parking lot.  Yes, I have a weak bladder”, so fuck it, I deserve to tell the rest of the story behind this confounding, humiliating, and unreliable bladder of mine.

Not that the why’s or story behind this matter for what is or change what is.  What is, just is.

1st shades of grey:

1. I had chronic bladder and kidney infections as a small child.
2. I was the dreaded child to take on road trips because I had to pee every 10 miles and couldn’t hold it very long or very well.
3. I was very slow to stop bedwetting and to train myself to wake in the night to pee.  I didn’t kick this fully until around 6 years old.  (I was very proud of myself when I finally did!)
4. Incidentally, there has been much research which indicates that children in an abusive, scary home struggle with bedwetting and bladder problems longer than the average child.

2nd shades of grey:

1. After I was molested in the 1st grade, I started having night time accidents again and occasional day time accidents as well. This continued well into my teens and was a huge source of embarrassment.  By around 16, I had it mostly under control again aside from occasional accidents which accompanied night terrors.
2. At 17, I was gang raped by three older boys from my school. They not only raped me with their penises, they also thrust random objects inside me.  This did a tremendous amount of damage to my urethra, cervix, vaginal tissue, and you guessed it, my bladder.  The damage was so extensive, the gynecologist suggested it highly likely that I possibly would not even be able to carry a child to term later in life. I also suffered a concussion from this event.
3. After the gang rape, my bladder issues resurrected with full and added force, as did my night terrors.
4. I met my first boyfriend 3 months after the gang rape.  He was charming, fun, and very loving, except when he beat me.  After the initial domestic assault at 18, the assaults averaged once of twice a month.  I dated the man for 2 years.  Throughout those two years, I suffered three diagnosed concussions and the emergency room physician who examined me the last time he beat me, suggested the possibility that I’d had more concussions which were undiagnosed because I didn’t come in for treatment.
5. By my early to mid 20’s, I was back to only the random accidents…usually only accompanied with night terrors or extreme emotionally and psychologically stressful events.

3rd shades of grey:

1. My boyfriend at 24 (my children’s father) was physically abusive on occasion as well. Not as frequently as my high school boyfriend, but every bit as violent when it did occur.  I believe it highly  likely I suffered at least two undiagnosed concussions in the duration of this relationship.  I didn’t go for treatment after these incidents or call the police because I didn’t want to get him in any trouble and possibly be the reason he might lose his job.
2. I had an acute ischemic stroke at 26, paralyzing the entire left side of my body.  Among a plethora of other obvious issues, my bladder issues resurrected yet again.  At this point, in addition to the physical damage, the  night terrors,  and the lifelong effects of PTSD, my brain literally lost its ability to communicate effectively with my bladder.
3. Over time and various neurological and physical therapies, I’m back to #4 in the “2nd shades” section with some added complications.  On most days, I typically can force my brain to communicate somewhat with my bladder, but if I’m quite stressed, especially fearful, or overly fatigued, the communication is difficult at best.  Often, by the time my brain is alerted that my bladder is full, it’s a race to get to the bathroom in time.  Sometimes I can.  Sometimes I can’t. In addition, the residual weakness and imbalance on my left side from the stroke hastens my ability to walk quickly to the bathroom and I no longer can run at all without falling.
4. I still struggle with bedwetting when I have night terrors, which can be brought on by stress, fatigue, or highly emotional or frightening events.  I exist in a state of chronic PTSD since my father passed and my children turned against me.

It’s my fault.  It isn’t my fault.  None of that matters.  It is what it is.  My bladder and my brain have apparently been at odds since I was born and beyond that, life has not been kind to my brain nor my bladder.

Yes, I peed in an empty parking lot once with my 15 year old daughter in the car.  I have also peed in empty fields and woods throughout the 15 years my children lived with me.  Once, I even peed my pants while driving my car on the interstate when I couldn’t get to a bathroom exit in time. My children knew well of my bladder troubles, perhaps not the extenuating causes of the struggle but they watched me for years – me, trying to get to a bathroom in time and terrified I would not make it.  I always tried to laugh this off with my kids out of embarrassment for how deep the struggle really was for me.

My oldest daughter chose to tell her dad, my mother, and her dad’s attorney (and subsequently an entire courtroom via dad’s attorney) only about the parking lot incident; using that as evidential proof that I am an alcoholic.

In court, I did not go into detail about my bladder issue or its extenuating causes.  I was mortified and ashamed and could barely muster up the voice to say, “Yes, I have struggled with a weak bladder all my life”.  In hindsight, I realize it’s good I couldn’t summon up the courage to go into further detail anyway, as things like my stroke, my rapes, and the domestic violence I tolerated were already going to be used as nails in my “bad, bad, worthless momma” coffin anyway.

Lexi has also thrown the parking lot peeing incident in my face every time we’ve talked in the five years they’ve been gone, citing it as clear evidence of how horrible of a mother I really was.   Were I even able to get her to listen to the various shades of grey which surround my lifelong bladder issues (which I’m not able to do), I know she would simply scoff, cut me off mid-sentence, and say I’m just throwing out excuses for being an alcoholic, making myself out as the victim again, and just trying to manipulate her by garnering up pity.

I suppose we could just sum all this up to say, quit making excuses for yourself Chloe and just accept the dirty fucking truth.

The simple truth is, women with heinous crimes like bad bladders should not be allowed to be mothers. 

*Sheerly as a side note: While I carried both my children inside my body, the two traits of mine I fervently begged God not to curse them with were my big feet and my awful bladder.  My prayers were answered.  Neither of them suffer from either of those curses. YAY!  They’re the luckiest ones after all!

Narc swirls and unmistakable patterns

Tags

abuse, child abuse, narcissists, parental alienation, PAS

Brainwashed

I’m seeing a pattern here. 

1. Narcs lie because they get off on it. 

2. A relationship with a Narc ruins your health, both physical and mental. 

3. Narcs sponge off the woman/man they claim to love.

4. Narcs wait until you are completely charmed and reeled in and then start disappearing or mentioning other women, or throwing you off balance.

5. Narcs often take satisfaction when they have driven a woman/man to a mental break-down or suicide. 

6. Narcs are charming and difficult to forget. They give us highs we’ve never experienced, and once they know they ‘have’ us, discard us, or keep us around like a second option. 

7. Narcs never say sorry in a genuine manner, only with qualifying or sarcastic additions to twist the “apology” inside out. 

8. Narcs will ill speak you the way the ill spoke the woman in their previous relationship making themselves out to be a victim. 

9. Narcs are incapable of introspection. They have a small range of emotions such as lust, greed, rage, and sadistic satisfaction at knowing they have the power to hurt others. 

10. Victims of narcs often wonder if karma will get them as they seem to land on their feet. 

11. The truth is Karma has already got them as they are troubled souls having to look for new supplies to feed their broken egos and wounded selves. Their karma is they will never be happy. They will get less happy as they age and their charm starts to look ridiculous and has no impact on potential supplies. 

12. The best thing about having had a relationship with a narc is that we get to examine our own childhood woundings, to reflect, to get insight into ourselves, to understand that we are survivors, and if we are determined and stay the course with the no contact rule, we CAN heal and thrive again. We also learn that the greatest love of all is with ourselves. Once we learn to love ourselves, to stop waiting to be ‘saved’, we will attract amazing people in our lives, not out of need but out of joy. 

13. The other good thing about no contact is it teaches us how strong we can be. If we can go no contact, we can quit smoking, we can quit drinking too much, we can run that 5k, hell we can run a marathon, we can give up bread, we can finish that novel, we can start that business, we can laugh with our friends, we can help those who are less fortunate. We can find ourselves again. 

15. Its a blessing to have survived a narc as we see just how capable we are of loving others, of moving mountains. If we can do it for them, we can do it for us. 

A single sentence

Tags

abuse, blame, challenge, destruction, donestic violence, parental alienation, psychopaths, scapegoat, surviving

Some days I want so badly to scream my story from the rooftops and just throw every sordid (and possibly boring!) detail into the air like confetti .

Other days, I wish there were even one person in my life who knew it all already and I wouldn’t have to struggle with words and sordid (or boring!) facts and stories at all.  I realize at this late stage in the game after all the damage has been done and my eyes have finally and painfully been pried wide open to the truths of it all,that is no longer a feasible possibility or option. 

So I challenged myself to try to wrap the whole thing up in one sentence…just one solitary sentence that might somehow encompass the feel of the whole thing.  The entirety and bitter irony of my entire life to this exact point in time. 

And this is my sentence:

They cut off my wings then crucified me because I couldn’t fly… and blamed me that I couldn’t grow them back from their mangled feathery bloody stub-bits that were  left behind. 

Begging the Devil

Tags

abuse, desperation, fear, Guilt, helpless, hopeless, hunger, mental conditoning, mothers, nutrition, Pregnancy

Fetus at 12 weeks gestation

It’s 1995 and MD, my live-in boyfriend, has checked himself into a 30 day rehab for sex addiction because I’d caught him lying and cheating one too many times and I was leaving him. I was 3 months pregnant with our first baby and had just taken maternity leave from my job as a cocktail server due to hardcore nausea, vomiting, and pregnancy precautions due to other issues. I had no money or income. After the first week with MD in rehab, I ran out of food. 
When it had been 6 straight days with nothing to eat, I was physically weak and had a chronic splitting headache which I assume was due to my hypoglycemia issues plus developing pregnancy. I was sleeping like a bear in hibernation, constantly throughout the days and nights, to escape the maddening cravings for food. It was all I really could do. I had been isolated from my friends when we started dating and here I was unplanned and unexpectedly pregnant by a man who not only treated me worse than dirt on his shoe, but couldn’t keep his dick in his pants or tell the truth to save his life. I had only my precious cat, Porsche, for my best friend, my confidant, my snugglebuddy… Porsche and the tiny baby inside me were my whole world.
 In my excessive sleeping, I’d recently begun having chronic wildly scary nightmares about the affect this malnutrition was going to have on my growing baby. I’d learned from my What To Expect When You’re Expecting book that the first trimester was a critical time for baby’s development. So my subconscious was working full force to descriptively show me in great gory detail all the horrifying possibilities of the damage being with done every famished second that passed.

Determined to find something in that kitchen to eat, whether it was an old beaten up can of kidney beans, an ancient forgotten can of creamed spinach, or whatever, I made a diligent, open-minded search! There was nothing left in the pantry, so I scavenged through the refrigerator like I had on many occasions in the days before, only this time my nightmares had scared me into an open mind for anything…literally. Anything. 
Voila!! I see the leftovers I already picked through the same day MD had checked in to I Can’t Keep My Dick In my Pants rehab center. Now, these leftovers are about 2 weeks old. It’s a tuna casserole I’d made awhile prior to him leaving. I’d seen it before but had been a little scared to eat it because I wasn’t sure how long it stayed edible. I did a haphazard food inspection. There wasn’t  any obvious mold; suddenly it was a casserole gold to my eyes…a delicious feast!!

I didn’t bother heating it up. Fork in hand, I stood right in front of the fridge with the saran wrap pulled half off the glass casserole dish and shoveled a few forkfuls into my mouth. It tasted horrible, dry and bland, but not yet rancid, so I figured it would do the trick.

After these bites of food, I grabbed the needle point I was working on (learning) and sat in a comfy chair in the living room with Porsche, my devoted cat curled next to me. After a while, I got very sleepy and dozed off for a few minutes. Suddenly I abruptly woke. My stomach was churning and flipping and I felt vomit quickly rising. I ran to the bathroom and puked. The vomit was mostly watery mixed with some chunks of tuna and chewed pasta shells. I wiped my face down, rinsed my mouth with some water right from the bathroom spigot and lied down in the bedroom. Still feeling terribly sick to my stomach, my mind started wondering. I had a scary thought: What if the food actually was spoiled and I had just poisoned my baby? If a pregnant woman inadvertently ate something poisonous, would it kill the baby? I didn’t know! 

I started crying from fear and guilt, apologizing out loud to my stomach, rubbing it and saying, please be okay little baby, please be ok? Your momma is so sorry! I felt destitute and afraid for my baby so much that I telephoned my mother. My mother who had been angry, disappointed or downright disgusted with me for as long as I could recall, most likely since the day of my birth. It wasn’t an easy call for help to make. However, my mother married a wealthy business owner when I was little more than a toddler and enjoyed bragging of her luxury and financial comfort. And after all, she was a mother and would at least know if I should call 911 for the baby, right?

So, I phoned her, trying not to let on how hungry I was; I didn’t want her to insult and criticize my baby’s father. I made casual conversation at first. , during which she began explaining her latest car purchase, a flashy little red sports car. After listening earnestly and ooh-ing and ahh-ing over her latest indulgence for long enough that I felt a subject switch was appropriate, and still trying to downplay my desperation, I finally asked nonchalantly about eating spoiled food while pregnant and if that might hurt my baby. She wasn’t sure but she thought probably not, she thought that my body would most likely rid itself of the bacteria and only the nutrients would go to my baby. Okay, I thought to myself, I can eat that last bit of casserole very slowly each day. I felt much relieved… until I remembered there wasn’t much left of the spoiled tuna at all. I walked into the kitchen on the phone and peeked again  at the dinner I’d been so proud to prepare for my boyfriend only a short while ago, which today felt like years, not weeks ago, and saw there was maybe 4 or five tablespoons of it left. Could I eat around 2 shell macaroni’s each day? No, even at that meager amount, I’d run out soon. It wouldn’t last three weeks, even if I could get it down as it spoiled more and more each day that would pass.

I knew I had no choice. My baby deserved food. Even if I deserved to starve to death, this innocent child inside me did not, of that I was certain!

So I sucked up my pride and asked this woman who had carried me inside her body 25 years ago, Would you please send me $50 for groceries ? It’s only three weeks til MD will be out of rehab, I just needed a little help to get through til then.

No, she says. Go get on welfare.

Welfare?

Ok, could I maybe please borrow $25 and pay you back in a few weeks?

No. You can get on welfare.

What? Welfare? I knew nothing of welfare and certainly didn’t feel entitled to it. I was living in MD’s decent 3 bedroom, two bath house! Welfare was for homeless people with 5 starving kids, not a 25 year old newly pregnant college student with a boyfriend in sex addiction rehab. I mean, I didn’t eat much anyway. I only needed bare food necessities for a few weeks….some milk or rice or maybe a bag of apples would do me. I could make that last a really long time! That wouldn’t be fair to ask for welfare! I wouldn’t eat much…At 5’8 “ and 106 pounds, I had already lost 7 pounds while carrying this baby these three stress filled months of domestic violence, mind boggling gas lighting, and cheating. Gosh, I didn’t need much. I don’t want to apply for welfare!! I’d even be fine without food for a while longer if I wasn’t pregnant, in fact I was sick so much lately, I actually preferred not to eat at all. But this growing guilt and stress of what it could do to this tiny heartbeat depending on me for its survival was causing these horrific nightmares of crying babies and distorted newborns. The guilt was eating my brain alive, just like my body was slowly feeding on my muscles to survive. (And in one particularly nasty dream I’d had, my body actually had fed on my fetus! EEK!) I may not deserve diddly squat for putting myself in this situation, but this innocent baby deserves food!!!! It’s not her fault! I just needed enough to give basic nourishment to this baby growing inside of me. I of course said nothing to Mother about these thoughts.

This rejection of even basic humanity and compassion from my mother hurt in a place I’d forgotten existed since I’d been out of her house and on my own….this strange, hollow place of pain, reminiscent of a piercing sharp hunger ache, only it was in my chest. I still don’t know exactly what that acute pain was, I clearly remembered feeling it as a little girl on many occasions, crying quietly to God in my room , begging Him to tell me how I could make myself good enough to be loved by my mother. Make me good enough to deserve love and affection. I’m not much of a prideful person per se, but after the second “no”, I quickly realized there’s no shame or pride involved in the “please help me keep my innocent baby from severe deformity or death” game! At this point I knew for certain, if anything happened to my baby’s health or life from my neglect of feeding it while it shared and depended on my body, I would wish for death. I could never survive that unceasing life-long guilt and shame….letting down this teeny living creature depending on me for its every comfort or survival. No, this, I could never live with. I would lick dirt off someone’s feet right now if I can just get food enough for two weeks! No, in this very moment full of these fears and hunger, sickness and nightmares, I would have gladly done that or anything really, for help.

“Mom, please?” I pleaded.

“That’s what welfare is for…people like you”, she answered with an unmistakable sneer in her voice. That tone of voice people use when it becomes evident that they are getting immense pleasure from the power of punishment in whatever they’re saying at that moment; I mean deep soul pleasure as though they’ve just been granted a fervent lifetime wish. I was all too familiar with this tone; it was a staple of all maternal communication towars me since my earliest memory. Hearing that so clearly in her voice, right now in this circumstance, I thought I might need a shower afterward to wash the filthy joy of cruelty this conversation was obviously giving her and I had this strange hopeless feeling that I had just called up Satan for help and offered to temporarily sell my soul for grocery money.

Ok, I said. I hung up the phone and looked in the phonebook for welfare. When I figured out the correct agency, I called to see if I could just get some temporary food assistance for a few weeks. I applied. I was eligible!! Due to my pregnancy and recent lack of nutrition, it took only a few days til the food stamps came through and I carefully rationed the leftover-leftovers of tuna casserole to get baby and me through those few days. 
In hindsight, I realize my frame of mind here. Like a captive who doesn’t even run for freedom at his first chance. I didn’t even think to call my dad to ask him for fifty dollars or for help at all. Although I now realize how crazy that frame of mind was! He would have gladly sent me $100 or whatever he could afford! And still worried it may not be enough and would have called regularly to check on me, caring how baby and I were doing.

But mother had said no and I knew from experience, no meant no. And if your own mother doesn’t think you or your baby are worth loaning $25 to, then you must REALLY not be worth loaning grocery money to. You and your baby must not deserve help or food. I went instantly into my well-trained “accept your punishment quietly (or you’ll get it worse!)” mode even though I was technically an adult now. I don’t know what “worse” than possibly starving or deforming my unborn baby was, but I was trained VERY effectively to take my knocks and accept responsibility for my situation. No matter what it was, it had to be my fault, had to be exactly what I deserved. So if mother said no then clearly, my baby and I didn’t deserve anything but 4 tablespoons of spoiled tuna casserole for the next three weeks or …welfare…. After all, mommie dearest had said that’s what it’s for – for “people like me”.