A Teeny-Tiny Slice of my Crazy Cruel Pie of Life

Tags

abuse, Cluster B Personalities, Cruelty, discarded, estranged, Lies, NPD, Parental Alienarion, Pathological Narcissism, silent trearment

Just thought I’d share a teeny tiny little piece of the “crazy” pie of my life these days. Btw, just so I leave nothing vitally pertinent and ugly about myself out of the slice of crazy pie I’m sharing here, my other pathetic unforgivable faults in addition to my disgusting “low self esteem” are drinking wine at 3 am in my living room while talking on the phone to an ex boyfriend after my dad died, and having sex 9 years ago with said ex- boyfriend after we had broken up! 

Pathological narcissism y’all… it’s not a joke or a trendy insult. It’s devastatingly real and frighteningly, senselessly cruel. #WelcomeToATinyGlimpseOfMyNightmareThatNeverEnds

Pathological Narcissism

Shhhhh… just STFU about it!

Tags

child abuse, choking, Domestic violence, emotional abuse, end the silence, financial abuse, narcissistic personality disorder, parental alienation, starvation

Shhhhh….

I am so fucking sick of being told to be quiet… of hearing, just let it go, of advice from ignorant people clueless of Narcissistic  Personality Disorder and Parental Alienation, child abuse, and domestic violence or how far reaching the torture goes no matter how hard you fight to recover, accept responsibility even if it’s not yours to own, forgive, bounce back, heal, let it go, and move on. 

One man today actually compared this to a bad date. You know, when he goes on a bad date with a gold digging bitch, he doesn’t make a fuss. He just takes them to an expensive restaurant and leaves after they order an expensive entree, then just never talks to them again.  It’s that easy. Just be quiet and move on!

Yeah, that’s such an accurate analogy of trying to heal from narcissistic abuse and reclaim and rebuild your life after mass destruction! Just walk away from those people. Just don’t let them in your life . It’s THAT simple! 

You need to just let it go and move on quietly with your life. 

 Meanwhile, I was quiet growing up abused, then I got free and decided to work on myself and my own shortcomings and faults rather than blame Mommie Dearest for how fucked up my head and heart and self esteem was. I quietly moved on. Straight into the arms of another pathological narcissist just like her. You know why? BECAUSE I JUST LET IT GO AND “MOVED ON”… because every fucking stupid mindset I’d learned came full circle back to everything my sociopath mother had spent my life convincing me: I’m unworthy of love. Love is only real if it hurts. But I must have deserved it. I’m only lovable and safe when I’m quiet and don’t complain and accept my due punishments, whatever they are.  I just have to try harder to be better and if I try to be perfect then maybe I’ll have earned a tiny right to be loved and accepted, maybe I’ll get lucky enough even to see a flash of kindness if I’m really super convincingly quiet and accepting…a second of kindness perhaps for my fake persona that I have to wear convincingly in order to be loved at all…even cruelly “loved”.

Why can’t you just let it go?  Ummm… like I let it go when he pinned me down on the floor and spit on me and choked me when I was 3 months pregnant after he came home from being out all night screwing another woman and I dared to ask him where he was because I’d been up all night scared he was injured or dead ? 

Like I let it go when he spit on me and my infant child as she nursed at my breast for asking what a woman’s clothing receipt had been for?  After he had told me months earlier that he “needed me to start holding him accountable for his actions ” if he was ever going to “learn how to be faithful”? 

Like i let it go when he admitted to his sex addiction counselor that he even though he’d told me I was crazy and paranoid for months, that yes, indeed, he had been cheating the entire time and then coming home to abuse and belittle me after he did it?  And confessed that he was so scared we were having a girl because he might be sexually attracted to her or her friends once she was a teenager?

Like I let it go  that I didn’t have food for almost two full weeks when I was 3 months pregnant with our child and that wasn’t his problem because he was in sex addiction rehab and was “dealing with hurtful childhood memories” that had caused him to be an abusive cheater all his life?

Like I let it go that I asked Mommie Dearest to loan me $25 for groceries when I was 3 months pregnant and hadn’t eaten in almost 10 days and she told me, that’s what welfare is for…?

Like I moved on and left him asking for nothing but my child and my freedom to prevent her from seeing a man ever treat a woman with the disdain, disrespect, and cruelty like her dad treated me? 

Like I just moved on and didn’t enforce child support so that he could have an easier time seeing his kids in another state? So that I wouldn’t make him resent and punish his kids for having to pay child support to their mother for them? So I struggled and fought to raise two kids by myself without his physical or financial help while he bragged that the amount of money he made was “obnoxious “… while I was trying to decide if I could splurge on name brand macaroni and cheese for the kids this week? All so his life would be easier and I could convince myself I could keep my kids safe as long as I didn’t rock the boat or upset him or force the issue of responsibility, truth,  or child support? 

Like I just walked away and “moved on” when my mother came to my hospital room in the ICU when I wasn’t able to speak or move on my own after a massive stroke and told me I “deserved what I fucking got”? 4 hours after having a brain blood clot, going without oxygen for an hour, and finding out I was pregnant, all while lying on an emergency room table not even understanding what in the fuck was happening ? 

Like I let it go and just moved on that when I was hospitalized for three full months unable to walk or feed myself or sit up in bed on my own, neither my children’s father or my mother (who love these kids sooooooo much) stepped up to help with my 18 month old baby at home? That my 60ish dad had to take care of my baby himself alone? Plus take care of me too, like an infant when I was released 3 months later?  That no one but my dad stepped up to help during a severe physical trauma while I was pregnant  and the years of physical rehabilitation it required afterward just to develop the skills movement and brain cells to reconnect in order to just be able to pick up my child and hold her in my arms? 

Like I just walked away and “moved on”  to find another place to live after my children’s father deceived me into trusting him and then deceitfully stole my house that was never his and that he hadn’t paid for at all?  Like I just replaced everything we’d ever owned after he told me I had “30 days to get the kids and me back to our home, forcing me to choose between everything we’d ever owned and the home we loved so much … just to go ahead and take our home anyway when we arrived 3 days later in plenty of time of his threat? So then my children and I forfeited everything we owned in the world and still he scammed our house from us anyway because I’d trusted him earlier to have his name on the deed even though we weren’t together? Because I’d stupidly trusted that he cared if his children had a roof over their heads more than his fury to punish us for not doing what he wanted us to do? Which was allow the very abuse I had left years earlier to protect our children? 

How many times are you supposed to walk away and just “move on” from the horrific abuse and terror and devastation these people go out of their way to inflict upon you, your life, and everything you love…. EVEN WHILE YOU’RE QUIETLY JUST “MOVING ON”? 

The abuse never stops. Somehow they find a way to keep hurting you as long as you live and you’re quietly trying to just stay out of their radar of torture and cruelty? 

But for fucks sake, start talking about it and it’s not 5 FUCKING minutes before I’m defending MYSELF for perpetuating the “drama” by not just shutting the fuck up about it and moving on…Again .. and again… and again… from their destruction, lies, and abuse. 

Where the f*ck is it anyway?

Tags

Abuse by proxy, child abuse, Cruelty, Darlene Higgins, Domestic violence, gaslighting, heartless, Lies, Malignant Narcissism, manipulation, Mark DeDeaux, monsters, narcissists, parental alienation, Predatory, Sick Fucks, Thieves, triangulation

To whom it may concern:

I’m somehow to try to understand that the people who have destroyed my life, my mother, Darlene Higgins, and my children’s father, Mark DeDeaux, are hurt and angry at the destruction they allege I created in their lives.

Apparently, these people of whom I have zero (read zilch, nada) recollection of having done any damage or inflicted any pain upon were able to convince my children of what a horrible, awful, undeserving, worthless human being I am.

I haven’t seen either suffer or lose material property, or finances, loved ones, jobs, or their dignity at my hand.  I’ve not been at all aware of this “destruction” which has caused their hate for me.  Hate so big that they relentlessly poisoned my children against me, apparently because of the awful things I’d done to them?  These things I’m totally unaware of and can’t find a single memory of…

I’ve wanted to understand the hate, the burning desire to punish, the massive cruelty…  God, I’ve wanted to understand.

Being that I’m that person who once got angry at a virtual stranger and merely said ugly words to her… and still carried the memory, guilt, and remorse for those words 20 years later.  Being that girl who accidentally ran across this virtual stranger twenty years later and immediately apologized for this misdeed I enacted upon her so many years earlier.  I apologized to a woman who didn’t even recall what I had said, so futile and apparently non-damaging was this “heinous abuse” I heaped upon her of which the guilt I carried twenty years later still.  I guess the “cruelest” I ever intentionally was, was not only enough to cause all those years of remorse and regret inside me, but not even close to enough for this woman to even recall.  It is flabbergasting to try to wrap my head around the awful things I must have done to my mother and my ex to make them both hate me enough to destroy me.  How can I not recall what I did?

I recall being a child.  A desperate for love, desperate to please, pathetic for approval little girl.  I remember that.  I remember praying every night that God would show me how to earn and deserve my mother’s love. I remember not getting any answers and I remember trying everything my little mind could think of :  I just had to be perfect.  And after all, my mother was perfect in my eyes, so I could be perfect too, right?  I came from the goddess of perfection so if I tried hard enough and never quit trying to be pretty, funny, smart, polite, obedient, loving, sweet, and deserving, I could get her love. I remember that not working.  I remember lying to protect myself from punishment and getting in big trouble.  I remember telling the truth because my mother “hated liars” and still getting in big trouble.  I remember trying to be pretty and getting in trouble.  I remember trying to be intelligent and getting in trouble.  I remember not lying for her when she cheated on her husband and getting in trouble.  I remember painting my nails and getting in trouble.  I remember shaving my hairy  legs like every one else in my gym class did and getting in trouble.  I remember forgiving my friend for being mean to me and getting in trouble.  I remember sticking up for myself with others and getting in trouble.  I remember not sticking up for myself to others and getting in trouble.  I remember being noisy no matter how hard I was trying to be quiet and getting in trouble.  I remember trying harder to be even quieter and still getting in trouble.  I remember missing my daddy and getting in trouble.  I remember a babysitter giving me a piggy back ride and getting in trouble.  I remember writing my aunt a letter telling her how much I missed her and getting in trouble.

I also remember sneaking to use the phone to talk to friends and getting in trouble.  I remember sneaking boys over on Halloween to play Atari and getting in trouble.  I remember having vaginal discharge in my panties before my period and getting in trouble.   I remember trying to overdose on alcohol and getting in trouble.  I remember having people over when mother was out of town and getting in trouble.  I remember getting a C in geometry and getting in trouble.  I remember asking for help with my math homework and getting in trouble.

I remember using the wrong tone of voice and getting in trouble.  I remember having the wrong look on my face and getting in trouble.  I remember defending my sister and getting in trouble.  I remember not defending my sister and getting in trouble.

I remember letting my first boyfriend beat me and getting in trouble.  I remember smoking cigarettes and getting in trouble.  I remember not eating for 12 days while pregnant and being told to “go get on welfare”  I remember caring about the father of my child and getting in trouble.  I remember getting sick because I was pregnant again by the same man and getting in trouble. I remember wanting to have the same last name as my two children and getting in trouble.  I remember almost dying and getting in trouble.  I remember the psychiatrist who was supposed to tell me I was worthless defending me and telling mother she had serious parenting and mental illness issues and getting in trouble.

I’m not sure what I’ve forgotten.  I’m truly clueless as to which of these awful things I did as a child made me deserve hate and cruelty; made me deserve to have my whole world ripped from me; or made me deserve to take the only love I had in the world.  I’m not sure of the damage I did with these horrible acts.  I must have done some serious damage, though to spark the punishments I received and continue to receive.

I would like to apologize for my worthlessness, for my awful acts which caused unbearable pain and destruction to my mother, but I can’t figure out where/what/how I caused any damage to her. I would gladly take responsibility for being born, breathing, being a child, being immature, being lost, being desperate for love except that I did not cause any of that.  Please tell me what to apologize for?  Once upon a time I was just an innocent child begging and desperate for my mother’s love and acceptance.  I suppose I could apologize for stopping the begging?  Only, I never stopped begging or trying.  My mother decided at my second pregnancy that I no longer existed.  I begged for a few weeks after that and finally had to stop begging because I was trying to raise two children with a handicap all on my own.  I had to accept that nothing I ever did would make me worthy of her love or else I would have killed myself and left my two children with no mother at all.

In spite of the hatred you had toward me, I remember wanting my children to have the chance at you loving them. I remember Christmases and Thanksgivings alone so that you could be a grandma even though I didn’t have a mother.  I remember my dad suddenly and unexpectedly dying and thinking she would care about me maybe then. I remember trusting her out of desperation again (like when I was a helpless child) and her filling my children’s heads not only full of shit, but fabricated half-truth shit…not even shit that was mine to own and take responsibility for.   I remember meeting your first husband at the funeral (the one you told me all my life “beat you”) and feeling uncomfortable that after hating and punishing me for accepting and allowing myself to be abused by men all my life, that she would bring this man who “beat” her to my dad’s funeral.  If I punched him would she love me?  or would she hate me more?

I remember her hating everyone who made me feel loved.  I remember her hating anyone who made me feel hated.  I never understood what I needed to do/be/say/feel to be loved.  I still don’t.

But most of all, I don’t see where all these horrible things I supposedly did ruined her life? Or even hurt her?  Or how I knew what might hurt or upset her on any given day, as it changed so fast and often, I could not make sense of it.  I would like to apologize and own my mistakes because I acknowledge I’m fucked up and worthless, but I honest to fucking god don’t know how I caused damage, except for being born, being a child, being confused,  being desperate for love….  I wasn’t born with those things and I didn’t want them, how do I apologize for them?  And if I do, will I finally deserve your love?

To the father of my children:  What did I do to destroy your life?  Please dear God tell me because knowing you has ruined everything I ever dreamed of.  I lost my hopes, my dreams, my dignity, my health, my possibilities, my house, my lifetime memorabilia, and ultimately my children…. Because?  What was it I took from you?  What did I destroy and damage so much for your life?  I gave you two children.  I gave you 24/7 total access to them.  I gave you holidays with them.  I gave you carte blanche to their lives and their hearts. I gave you good stories to them about our past (which were lies).  I gave you my last hope of my childhood innocence.  I gave you my health.  You took my house and every happy memory I had from before or since I knew you.

What was it I took from you?  Where is the misery I caused?  What did I do to you?  Yes, I left you.  I left you after you destroyed (what I then thought was total destruction at least) and tried to save my children from growing up watching their mother be treated like a worthless, useless piece of shit.  Yes, I did do that.  And I still gave you 24/7 carte blanche access to their lives, their love, their time.

Please tell me what I took from you?  Please tell me how I’m an awful person? Please tell me where the damage I did is that destroyed your hopes and dreams, your health, your past, present, or future?  PLEASE????? Please tell me???????????

Because I’m not prideful or stubborn about being wrong or making mistakes like some I know.  I actually prefer to address and acknowledge my errors, and apologize, especially if they’ve hurt someone or damaged their life in any way.  I would love to apologize for all the things I did but I can’t bring myself to apologize for trying to live, for breathing, feeling, or wishing to be loved rather than abused.  I would love to say I deserve every bit of what I’ve gotten.  The strange thing is, these people can’t seem to tell me what cruel, awful, unforgivable things I’ve done to them.  Not a single thing.  Not now and not in my entire life.  Yet their hatred flows and flows…and no one seems to think that’s abnormal except for me.  Apparently, I’m the awful person because I can name what’s been done to me…to my children…to my health…to my life…  I can name every single thing.

To the father of my children:  you were lucky after all you had done to me that I even was willing to move to Vegas with our children and give you that chance.  From the first week, our children were crying about your treatment of me and them.  They hated it and I wasn’t going to subject them to everything I left you to protect them from.  You didn’t pay for our house in advance.  You didn’t lose any money.  We lost all of our lifetime belongings, the innocence my children had for what kind of man they’d been raised to believe their father was, our car, and our home when you stole it “for our own good” in spite of the fact that you hadn’t been paying for it.

So if my big “crime” against you was leaving you back in 1997, again in 1998, and a third time in 2009 in Vegas after “only 3 months”, that’s bullshit.  The third time my youngest came home from a day with you bawling and putting herself down was the final straw for me. That, after my oldest had cried her heart out the first weekend we’d arrived and was devastated we came all that way and you’d planned a weekend rendezvous with your latest flavor of the month for the day after we arrived from moving our lives literally across the country, leaving the only home and friends and family and foundation we’d ever know in our lives,  because “you wanted your children closer”.  Then told me “her heart was NOT broken” and that she could just “get the fuck over it” and she’d cried her heart out nearly every single day after that, hurt and miserable at how you treated us and at moving away from her friends and family at your whim just to be treated this badly by you , as well as watched you insult and belittle me, her mother,  for what I wore inside my own house to clean on a 102 degree day in the desert, even though you’d entered our home unexpected and uninvited…apparently just to hurl insults at me and our daughters for the type of clothes I was wearing to clean in.

I will never apologize for your choices.  You had choices to hurt us or not to.  You had choices to treat us with the respect we deserved for uprooting our entire lives for you or not to.   You, on the other hand, gave us only two choices: the choice to stay and put up with being disregarded, devalued, and mistreated or leave and protect ourselves from more.

That was on you and I will not apologize for it or own responsibility for how much it “hurt you” that we left.  You gave us no choice.  None.  You cared only about your latest girlfriend and having all of us in your control at your beckon call or whim to play daddy…or not to play daddy.  I didn’t do that “to you”.  You did that to us.  All three of us.  Savannah and I definitely got the worst of it, but it hurt Lexi too, watching you do that to us

Although you like to play neurologist and tell people why I had a stroke when you’ve no clue why I had the stroke because even my actual neurologist couldn’t discover why I had the stroke, you know nothing.  And you surely didn’t step up to the plate afterward when I was severely handicapped and rehabilitating so I could give birth to a healthy child and be well enough raise our children while you climbed the ladder to your success.  You didn’t step up to the p[late to lend a hand with our children.  You were too busy chasing money and women.   Darlene didn’t step up to the plate.  Only my dad stepped up to the plate to help us.

And for the record, the cause technically given for my stroke was stress.  I’m sure in no small measure stress which stemmed from years of abuse at the hands of the very people who run around crying what an awful person I am.  Stress from the fear of having to tell Darlene who hated your guts that I was having a second child with you.  Stress at once again not having a mother to hold my hand through my pregnancy.  Stress at being dependent on you as the co-parent to my two children.  Stress at the disappointment of not giving my children or myself the one thing I most wanted for them: a mother and father raising them together in their home…a happy, loving home with both their parents for my children.  Again, due to your choices of sex addiction, cheating, and abuse.  Darlene’s hatred of you and shunning me from her life because of my relationship with you in addition to your abuse, lies, and cheating in our relationship was the stress I had that caused me to have a stroke and become disabled for the rest of my life.  I do not owe you an apology for that.  I did not do that “to you”.  Once again rather, you assisted in doing that to me.  Leaving me with two options only:  to stay with you and let my children grow up watching their mother treated horribly or to leave and protect myself and my children from growing up in that environment.   As usual, you were the one with the ample choices.  I will not take responsibility for how that “hurt you”.

Stress from a literal lifetime of abuse at your hand and the hand of my mother are what caused my stroke.  I do not owe you or anyone an apology for that.

I have to wonder how your life is exactly what you wanted.  Darlene’s life is exactly what she wanted.  Yet, I’m the bad guy who’s worthless and awful, with some string of alleged “crimes” done against you people…the very people who have taken everything I ever worked to have.  My family, my health, love, jobs, future, hopes, and dreams.

Please do help me to understand how I’ve done any damage whatsoever to your lives?  Where is the abuse I heaped upon you?  Where is the place where I screwed you over to get better for myself?  Where is the fucking place that you needed or wanted me for anything and I did not show up?  Where in the fuck is it?  Where in the fuck are these damages done for my plethora of heinous crimes against either of you that you claim as you ripped my heart from my body, my children’s love from my life, and my life belongings, my home, my happiness, my hope, and my only joy left out of the desolate destruction of life I had left in the wake of you both?

Where the fuck is it?

I don’t know much, but I know Crystal Gayle!

Tags

8 tracks, adultery, child abuse, Darlene Higgins, narcissists

 

Someone might wonder how a woman around my age could know every Chrystal Gayle song ever written . I’m actually too young to know every lyric, beat, stanza, and song title of any of her songs, much less every  single one by heart, by cold dark middle-of-the-night memory….

On a dark night in 1977 or 78, I sat in the plush back seat of my mother’s huge  new fancy red and white Cadillac my step dad had recently bought for her, in the pitch black of night, with my older sister sitting to my left,, listening to this 8-track play over and over and over…and over… And over again…. While waiting for my mother who was busy sitting in a car ahead of us in a strange driveway in a strange man’s car for hours upon hours. Of course as a child, one doesn’t question why we children had to sit in a car for hours like that in the middle of the night while our mother begged and pleaded, manipulated and seduced a strange man in the  driveway of his house: a house, I’m fairly certain, he lived in with his wife and children …

This, coming after yet another huge argument between my step dad and mother earlier this same night, where mother’s adoring new-ish husband (of three) pleaded with her not to go and then ultimately pleaded with her not to take us with her where she was headed (to chase down her married lover who had a wife and young children of his own).

I’ll never forget how odd it felt hearing my strong, confident, hard non-stop working , quiet-type step dad beg.  And not just to beg at all, but to actually beg his wife, 25 years younger than he, to at least leave her children with him for the night while she ran around late into a dark night on a school night chasing another married man .

I was in the 3rd grade in Mr. DeVore’s class’s at Pike Elementary School in Cambridge, Ohio.  I loved school and I loved Mr. DeVore!! He was my favorite teacher so far! He had 2 daughters of his own and he was such a kind and gentle man, I often imagined he must be married to a beautiful, soft, loving woman with whom he had two very fortunate girls around my age who were probably loved every day by both of their parents. I imagined how they probably played games, laughed, learned cool stuff even at home, and got to have both their parents love them every day  and kiss them good night every night .

As I sat in the pitch black of night in mother’s fancy new car, after another huge ugly and sad fight with the man my mother had left my own daddy for only a few years earlier, while my mother left him earlier with the same sad, defeated look I’d seen years earlier on my own daddy’s face, I worried about getting to bed in time for school with Mr. DeVore in the morning. I thought about where Mr. DeVore’s two girls must be right that very same minute…safely tucked in their own beds after goodnight kisses from their real mom and real dad, sleeping peacefully until school time.

…while I was listening to Chrysyal Gayle sing the same songs over and over and over and over…

Why have you left the one you left me for? Has she heard, like me, that slammin door? Did you leave for good or just get bo-orr-orrred? Why have you left the one you left me for?

I can quote every song from that night because I spent hours sitting in darkness in a car alone with my 9 year old sister listening to these songs play so many times I lost count. This particular song stuck in my mind because my mother had just this night left the man she left my daddy for. Or so I thought after the fight and her sitting for hours in another car all night long while we waited for her and while my step dad Jim sat at home worried, sad, defeated, and had even begged mother to leave the kids at home for the night; at home , with our second dad after she’d already thrown away our first daddy too. And like our first daddy, this one had asked he if we could stay with him too. And once again, she had said no.

This time, I hadn’t been asked what I wanted or who I wanted to spend the night with. And I never opened my mouth to say I wanted to stay and sleep in my own bed with Mr. Bananas, my favorite mini stuffed monkey, to go to sleep and then to Mr. DeVore’s class in the morning that I loved so much to go to every day.  I was too scared of mothers furiously angry screaming and Jim’s begging… Even at 7, I knew and remembered this very scene all too well, Just like my first memories of life at all with my daddy and she. I knew better than to open my mouth at all, much less ask to stay with my step dad!  Oh, I knew better than to  say a word or God forbid, ask a question!

So I didn’t say, Mommy where are we going? Mommy, why are we leaving so late at night? Mommy, why is gentle, soft spoken Jim crying and begging you to “at least leave us kids” even though we aren’t really his own kids even? Why are we driving so fast down these old country roads? Why are we sitting alone in a running parked car for hours on end listening to these songs over and over while you sit in a dark car in front of us with a strange man who is not your husband OR my daddy?  I didn’t ask, Mommy will I still get to go to Mr. DeVore’s class tomorrow? Will I sleep in my bed? What time is bed time tonight? Isn’t it way after my bed time? Will I get to hold my favorite stuffed animal Mr. Bananas tonight ? Why was my step-daddy crying ? Will I ever see him again?

I knew better than to ask any one of these questions. And anyway mother wasn’t even in the car to ask them if I’d been brave enough to ever do so .

I got to know Chrystal Gayle really well that night though. And I knew her eyes must be brown like mother’s (not blue like mine) because she kept crooning  over and over and over again,

Don’t it make my brown eyes, don’t it make my brown eyes, don’t it make my brown eyes bluuuuuuuuuuuuuuuue….

And I really understood how much she, like my mother, must really really hate blue eyes!!! Gosh, she REALLY didn’t want her beautiful brown eyes like mother’s to ever turn blue like mine!! She kept saying that over and over and over.  I quietly wished for brown eyes too, every time the song came back around to play aain and again…and again… I wished for brown eyes like the lady singing this song and my mother and my sister even were lucky enough to have.  I understood then that the prettiest girls in the world must have brown eyes.  Mine were blue.

I didn’t know where I would sleep or when, where my daddy was or if I would see him again , or if I’d ever see Mr. DeVore or Mr. Bananas again… I didn’t know if my step-dad was all alone in the dark still crying in that beautiful house he had built for my mother, his wife  or why I had to sit in this car for so many hours… But I definitely knew Chrystal Gayle did NOT want her brown eyes to ever be blue !

Thanks Mommie Dearest. You and Chystal Gayle were a real source of morals, safety, comfort, and security for me as a young child!

What does it do?

Tags

abuse, hatred, narcissists, sociopaths

What does it do? It’s not so much the physical abuse… The ptsd duck-n-cover deer-in-headlights chronic stance. No, it goes so much beyond that.

I remember vividly hearing about how if “my daddy hadn’t been so poor I’d not even be here “. I remember my sister telling me I was never anything but a “germ trying to kill our mom”. I remember these and so much more, but I guess I always thought they were just mad at me because I’d been bad or something. As a child I couldn’t imagine I was something that awful .

But I was.

I recently found out from “mother’s” relatives, that she went around begging for the money for an abortion.

Ok . Yeah I always heard I “shoulda been a aborted” but I actually always thought that was just a mean thing to say when you’re mad at a child. After everything, I still didn’t believe that was true. Even after she TOLD me it was true…

I didn’t believe. No way. Even though my mother was odd and unloving, there was no way! I’m a little girl! NO one hates their littl girl just for being born! There’s no way!!

Well, it’s true. I’m a meant to be abortion without the money for one. 

It gets crazier. According to my mother, she was in three car accidents while pregnant with me ! I’m not sure how I survived. I’m certain I wasn’t supposed to. After all my mother took the anti abortion pill???) and had three car accidents, begged for abortion money, and hated my financially “poor” daddy.

Hmmmm…

What do you do when you know you were never supposed to be?

When you know your daddy was just “too poor” for the abortion your mother desperately wanted? I don’t even know.

Why would anyone care? I get it. Shouldnt matter. Yet it does to me.  

I miss my daddy . He was the wealthiest human being I’ve ever known, wealthy beyond measure by my standards!

My very last birthday

Tags

birthdays, depression, evil, narcissists, parental alienation

It’s my third birthday… as an orphan.
The woman who gave birth to me hasn’t acknowledged my birth since sometime around 1991. My daughters have their heads shoved up my ex’s ass so far, they’re encouraged not to acknowledge my existence. And my daddy, is of course, dead going on three years now.
I still remember that last birthday in 2012 just a few weeks before he suddenly and unexpectedly dropped dead. I remember he had called me after my work to ask me to come over and watch music videos with him. I said no, that I wasn’t feeling up to being around people. Then he offered to come over to my house and drink a birthday beer with me. I was depressed about my life and said, ” no thanks daddy.”
Oh what I’d give to have that moment back right now!!!! That was going to be the last birthday anyone would be around to care it even was my birthday. Or worry that getting older was maybe sad for me. Well, my last birthday when anyone would really think of me at all.
My dad always took my daughters and I out to eat on my birthday. He’d usually get me my favorite perfume or something I loved! Gosh, I sure was lucky to have such an amazing father for all those years!
Growing up with mother, I’d almost always pretend to be sick on my birthday so I could stay home alone and cry and miss my dad while they all went out to eat.
I’ve pondered about that often as an adult. Wondering why I only felt safe to pretend to be sick on my birthdays. I always wanted to be alone so I could cry into my pillow and talk to God about sending my daddy to save me. I used to think because it was my birthday, God might actually hear me and grant my one birthday wish from every year…if I prayed really hard…
And somehow I never had the strength to fake a smile for mother on my birthday like the other 364 days. Somehow, it just seemed like the one fucking day a year when I should be allowed to feel whatever the hell I wanted to feel.. In the privacy of my bedroom, of course…pretending to be sick so no one had to “deal” with me having emotions.
… It makes me wonder. I guess mother wasn’t too awful, she would “let me” be sick every year on my birthday without yelling at me. I realize I DID feel “special” enough to her that she’d let me get away with that at least one day a year without repercussions. Somehow I always knew I only had this one day for that. As long as I kept completely to myself and cried quietly, she left me alone that day… But I got it for that day! I was allowed to stay in my room and miss my dad and talk to God about my real wishes….silently.
Now, I guess I can keep doing that every year without repercussions. 
So… I’m in my room tonight with my dog, openly missing my daddy, crying as much as I want, and wishing it was my last birthday… The last one I had before I became an orphan.

I confess. I am now taking antidepressants again. The “free fall” of unmedicated depression wasn’t any different than being medicated. And I’m still here. I’ve googled “overdosing on antidepressants” and realized that’s not really a viable option.

Plus, I happen to know just how much satisfaction my narcissist ex and narcissist mother would get out of my suicide. While simultaneously, of course, getting all the sympathy in the world for their tragic “loss”. While also having the satisfaction of knowing they both raped my soul and my life to the point that I couldn’t take any more.
Ugh..
Soooo… I guess it’s another day of antidepressants tomorrow. If anything, just to not give them the “sympathy card”. The thought of that disgusts me too much.
Those two elements combined mean I’ll probably be waking up to face another day tomorrow morning.
Happy last birthday to me.

RIP… and Fuck You!

Tags

adapting, childhood, Daddy, depression, desperation, dysfunctional family, estranged, fear, frustration, grief, history, hopes, invisible, jealousy, life, nostalgia, sadness, trust, unacceptable

Death comes in so many forms and wears many different disguises.  I just lost another dear friend.  That’s five in only two years.  I really can’t wrap my head around this, much less my broken, tender heart.  It seems I can’t catch my breath from one til the next. I know people die and that’s a part of life.  I know, I know, I know….  I guess I just never imagined that it would start at this age.  I really always figured maybe around 60 or so, I would have to start dealing with multiple and/or possible frequent deaths. Wrong.

At the same time as this, I was fortunate that my first love who first introduced me 27 years ago to this man who passed happened to be in town when Andy passed.  Or, so I thought it was fortunate at first, when I found out Wednesday morning…

I can’t figure out if it’s just me or if I happen to be surrounded somehow by non-sentimental people.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m not judging them for that.  If anything, I am deeply jealous of their disconnection from emotion or maybe it’s just that they have a “healthy” disconnection/connection to their emotions while mine is not?

Death makes me cling almost fervently to the people I love: those I once loved, those I currently love, those I love as friends, loved as lovers, even those I love as good acquaintances for who they are in this world.  It has hit me like a vehement sucker punch to the heart that beyond the distance life creates naturally as people grow up, mature, and develop lives totally separate from the people who were once a daily piece of your life – which feels like a death when you reconnect with them and you experience that awkwardness that distance, time, and change has inevitably created…that canyon between you that formed while you were just going about life.  I mean, the friendship is still there… sort of…  Or, is it not really friendship?  Maybe it’s just that space you once shared together of memories and good will?  More like a mutual honoring of the past that’s gone and dead and stands in the exact spot where the actual friendship, as a living, breathing, growing thing of its own once stood?

Several phrases have grabbed me through these past two years and feel particularly poignant to me with this loss I experienced while also reconnecting with my first best friend ever who also happened to be my first lover as well:  “Not friends – just strangers with memories.”

 

And the other I can’t recall or find because although I posted to Facebook to remember and use for later (which is now), Facebook’s new idiotic “selective” post recollection is freakin preventing me from finding it unless I want to spend all day hunting for it through the “hidden” areas of my timeline. FUCK YOU FACEBOOK!  YOU STUPID IDIOTS…WTF?! Good Lord, that is frustrating as hell!

Anyway…  I feel like a freak because losing my daddy really made me realize that I don’t have forever with the people I love.  It made me want to cherish them more and commit to making more efforts to keep in touch and keep communication ongoing and regular.  Strangely, it apparently did the opposite to every other person in my life and in my daddy’s life.  The other people closest to him withdrew from me(my children) or shit on me (my children and the rest of my blood relatives).

And now, again, I feel like I want to hold close to these friends from my past whom I’m reconnecting with on George’s visit here.  I feel sentimental and enthusiastic to institute a new, solid bond like we once had.  I realize that we all have separate lives now as adults so it can’t be the same…but you know, just establish that the connection, history, emotion, and experience is significant and matters enough to not want to resume the disconnection with this person, but to establish that it’s too important to let it slip back into the borders of oblivion (infrequent and rather formal texts now and then saying “how are things” or the yearly “happy birthday” contact).

So, in my little ways, I have tried to do this and met with an apathy which really hurts.  Hurts like a death.  Like it says to me, our bond as a primary, living, and cherished thing is dead.  I’m content with our surface contacts and will wait til you die to think of making an effort to cherish what we share(d) between us.

Is there something wrong with me?  Am I the only person who feels the pang of regret at allowing distance from those whom were once so important to maintain and grow bigger?  The only one who feels the overwhelming bigger picture of loss and thus, the deep desire to at least make an effort to express the importance, the love that lingers, and hope to reestablish something less fleeting with this once so-important relationship?

I recognize that I’m typically more sentimental than the average person.  I know that’s a fact…but I’m just surprised at a deep level that I seem to be the only one I know whom feels this when a death occurs.  That, to me, feels like apathy for the relationship – past, present and future.    And then, I can’t help but think to myself if the relationship and the connection is NOT worth that….then was it ever really of the importance it once seemed to hold at all?  I mean, I’ve come to realize that if you are willing to dismiss a person you once loved so completely, then it’s most likely you never really loved them at all.  Of course, I’m not talking about the toxic people you must remove yourself and emotions from for self-preservation, sanity, and mental health; I mean, the ones you loved so dearly and you parted or separated just due to life and circumstance.  I’m talking about those people who once said things to you like, I would die for you…you’re the best friend I ever had…or, you showed me what love/friendship/happiness really is.

Does this not remain for most people?  Do pieces of that – important pieces- not remain in the hearts of most people?  Am I truly just a sentimental, freak of nostalgia?

As the numbers of those whom I love, past and present, continue to stack up in this, I’m really reflecting on has anything ever mattered?  Does it just die in all ways for most people?  Like, yeah, I’ll feel sad when they pass away, but not sad enough to hold onto the bonds we share or give them a little more time and attention than I have been prior to losing this most recent friend or loved one…?

Does anyone in this world really mean it when they say they love you?  Do those words carry any depth beyond just that moment in time anymore?  For anyone but me?

RIP Andy.  I regret letting our lives distance as it did.  I’m sad you are gone and I hadn’t made an effort to stay better in contact with you over the past few years.  You were a bright spot of encouragement and genuine friendship in my world so many times.  A friendship I cherished enough that I wish I could go back a week ago and make an effort to reconnect and catch up with you and your world…and be sure to let you know exactly what you meant to me. And that you meant enough to me to not let life keep growing the divide without making an effort to bridge it. You were my friend. Thank you.

I hope you can read this from wherever one goes after death…and I hope that place is the Heaven I believe in.

And, I guess…to all those whom are still alive that I cherish and hate to think of you passing away…those who seem apathetic toward this concept.  If this isn’t important now, then I don’t know why we’d bother to reconnect here and there anyway.  What’s that even for?  And maybe, just fuck you.  if I don’t matter much at all now, not even in the wake of losing a childhood friend , then I couldn’t have mattered much back when you told me so often I did.  That makes me sad and it hurts, so yeah, fuck you.

The scariest of all to me in this sad realization, is that if none (and I mean none) of the past relationship ever had any real importance, then how do I not filter every new and blossoming relationship or friendship through that knowledge? I mean, if I already know nothing lasts forever for other people …not even love or friendship…then what is any of it worth as people say the words “I love you” or “you matter to me” important even as they speak and claim they feel them?

Exposing your children

Tags

black sheep, child abuse, childhood, children, DENIAL, depression, desperation, dysfunctional family, estranged, fear, frustration, grief, history, hopes, invisible, life, loss, loveless, manipulation, mean mothers, Mother, nightmares, parent issues, rain, sadness, sociopath, the ex, trust, unacceptable, unforgivable, unforgiven

I’ve reflected a lot on the “exposing your children to your narcissist abuser” issue. As stupid as it sounds (and it IS sheer ignorance), I was shocked to find that meme!   To know that someone else in this world made even that critical, senseless, ridiculous error after living a lifetime of abuse, just astounds me. In the same way that I’m still frequently overwhelmed with disbelief (literal “OMFG” moments) when I read someone’s words that explain situations, feelings, events, etc. that I truly not only believed were unique to MY life, but also never discussed because describing and explaining the sometimes subtle nuances of narcissistic abuse feels impossible.

…Then you read words that actually sound like they’re coming from your own life…your own thoughts…things you’ve never discussed…and thus, couldn’t possibly be copied! It’s a real contradiction. I always feel shock first at identifying so well with someone’s words, then I feel guilt that those words from that persons torturous hell actually make me feel validated on so many levels. Then, I feel horrified that ANY other person experienced ANY thing like my life and I’m overcome with gigantic waves of compassion for that person and my heart hurts for them and my head rages with their injustices.

It’s a strange process.

As far as the exposure issue, I don’t feel, for myself, that’s forgivable. I sadly have realized it’s one thing I may never totally absolve myself from. And worse yet, it makes me furiously angry at God! Madder at God than maybe anything else I’ve been mad at God for.

My narcissist mother made this choice easy for me. I can actually thank her for that. Yes, I was still living mostly in denial (desperately trying to blame myself for all the senseless pain she inflicted in my lifetime and the life handicaps that result from that). I was still praying for the miracle that it WAS my fault, I could fix me, and she would someday maybe love me.

She made that easy. Her cruelty during my first pregnancy was blatant. Or perhaps, it was the same as it always had been and I simply was becoming more aware with wisdom, experience, therapy, and age? In spite of that blatant cruelty, I still desperately begged…and begged…pleaded and jumped hoops, essentially shoving my head so far up her ass in the desperate need for a mother’s love while experiencing all the fears a soon-to-be mother experiences. In short, I had never wanted or need a mother more than I did while pregnant. The sheer terror of being a mom, knowing how to be a mom, and ironically the fear of ensuring I didn’t repeat my mother’s example…all made me pathetically desperate for her love and acceptance.

And as any true narcissist will do, the more they sense that power of your desperation, the more cruel they become. And she did become more cruel; more openly, hatefully shamelessly cruel. Which of course, pushed me in said desperation to REALLY step up my efforts to be loved by her. Which is a snowball effect of endless insanity right there. The harder I begged, the crueler she became…the harder I begged…the crueler she became…and on and on and on…

I stupidly never intended to keep her from my child. Even when my sister gave me a blatant, chilling warning of what would happen someday if I didn’t. I STILL kept praying maybe we would FINALLY bond in motherhood. FINALLY!  I might have a mother at last…and my daughter might still have a grandmother!  YAY!  There was hope!

No. she used it all to hurt me more even while I was finally the adult who could be and should have been safe at last from her terror…independent and ready to become a mother myself. At the time when she finally no longer held ANY power over me (other than that desperate for a mother’s love thing), I willingly HANDED that monster all the power to continue hurting me.

I called her when my narcissistic sex addict fiancé (identical to my mother) was cruel or abusive. She would antagonize and aggravate those feelings. I called her when I was reflecting on my fears of being a mother. She would pick, pick, pick at those fears…deepening them into absolute gaping terrors. I called her when I was scared of my baby’s safety in my womb, she would encourage that fear and add a few more for good measure. I called her over trivial little struggles pregnant women have, like, Mom…I stood in the shower today and cried because I couldn’t reach to shave my legs….knowing Mark (Narcissist fiancé) would tell me how disgusting I was because I was fat(i.e. 8 months pregnant) and couldn’t shave my legs. My mother said, “Most husbands would be happy to help with that. It’s too bad no one loves you enough to help you with that.”

I called her when my cheating violent fiancé went into 30 day sex rehab treatment and I had no food. After almost four straight days without food, I started having nightmares about my starving fetus. I would literally picture those kids on the Ethiopia commercials inside my womb, crying and begging for food.   So I finally felt scared and guilty enough to swallow my pride and call my mother to ask if she’d send me $40 for food for the remaining 3 weeks my fiancé would be away dealing with the fact that he couldn’t keep his dick in his pants or stop beating me up after he put it inside yet another chick. My mother said, “Oh, you don’t have any food? That’s too bad. That’s what welfare is for. Go apply for welfare.” I said, “I only need a little bit of food, Mom. Mark will get food when he gets released. I feel bad applying for welfare.” She said, “People like you are why welfare was created. I don’t know what to tell you except to apply for welfare”. I got really quiet because I didn’t know what to say to this and so she changed the subject. She started telling me how she and her wealthy husband had bought too many Omaha steaks that year and they had had to give a TON away to his employees. Following that up with, “I thought about sending you some, but you don’t eat very much red meat, remember?” Which threw me into confusion because I had been a part time vegetarian TEN YEARS earlier for about 6 months.

I then had to spend the next year hearing my step-father talk about what a real piece of shit my fiancé was because a “decent human being wouldn’t let a dog go hungry, much less a pregnant woman”…and always wondering how he could say that with a straight face, never realizing that mother certainly hadn’t told him I called her asking for money for food when I was pregnant and hadn’t eaten in nearly a week! After all, he would have wanted to help me! We couldn’t tell him that kind of thing…we were “blaming that on Mark”. So, I blamed that entirely on Mark too….all but forgetting that excruciatingly painful and humiliating “go get on welfare…I can’t believe we bought too many Omaha steaks” conversation I’d had with her. After all, it was only Mark’s fault.

Fucking cruelty. And I let that monster around my children.

Outrageous audacity and gratitude lists

Tags

adapting, Audacity, black sheep, children, DENIAL, depression, desperation, Disability, dysfunctional family, estranged, fear, frustration, Gratitude, grief, history, life, loss, loveless, manipulation, mean mothers, nostalgia, parent issues, sadness, the ex, Tragedy, trust, unacceptable, unforgivable

The outrageous audacity of some just sets my throat into gag-mode and it’s no exaggeration to say, I’ve just thrown up a little in my mouth.
And when a person or event has successfully forced bile to rise in my throat, well, it’s goodbye Grace. I simply can’t balance grace with horrifically disgusting audacity. I just can’t. Or perhaps I just won’t. Who knows? At any rate, Grace who prefers not to pass judgment; Grace who wants to spread peace and love around with tiny bubble decanters to provoke joyous giggles in others; Grace who smiles through her pain and has become an expert in never letting the depth of her pain show; Grace who feels her mission on earth is to practices radical kindness and unconditional acceptance…Grace jumps out the window tossing maniacal laughter out as she flies, and bellows, FUCK YOU!
Narcissistic sociopaths should be burned like witches from the Salem era. First though, they must be strung up by meat hooks, whipped and taunted while their long line of soundproof ear-plug wearing victims take precious spray bottles filled with rubbing alcohol and lightly mist their wounds. La-dee-da-dee-daaaa…. Frolicking nonchalantly among the hanging perpetrators of gross injustice and catastrophic cruelty…mist…mist…tsk…tsk…absolutely unaware of the piercing shrieks of pain they’re inducing. What was that I heard? Ahhh…sweet would be the blissful silence among the filthy bastards as they take a spoonful or two of their own cruel and inhumane medicine.
This would be akin to the depth of absolute uncaring, unconcerned, audacity these mother fuckers maintain as they rip your world into tiny pieces, piss on those pieces, set them on fire, and then go bitch about how ungrateful their victim is…what an incessant whiner their little sacrificial lamb is. For God’s sake, why can’t their victims suck it up, burn alive and be grateful for the experience. WHY? After all, this experience couldn’t possibly be any worse than the irritating hangnail the Narc had just last week! Right?! The betrayal and emotional torture the Narc has imposed upon their victim(s) was nothing near the depth of hut the narc felt that one time he was 6 and got vanilla frosting on his surprise birthday cake rather than the chocolate he’d preferred. Now, that was pain….pain to cry about for years to come; pain great enough to hold the blame for every slander of reputation, slice of innocence, and pound of flesh he took from others over his next 40 years. No one else’s “pain” could possibly compare to these delicate infractions the Narc was put through all his life. No, the only acceptable complaining or whining is the Narc’s. After all, his pain is just so much more intense and unbearable than anything any one else has endured…ever…ever before or ever since. In fact, I suppose a Narc can’t even comprehend that other’s feel pain at all since they can’t grasp existence outside of himself. And a sociopath might have the emotional intelligence to understand others do in fact feel pain, but hasn’t the conscience or soul to care one whit. The Soc is way too busy frantically feeding off power he gets from inflicting pain on another against their will.
Oh yeah….bile in the mouth. I got sidetracked for a moment there trying to wrap an adequate description around these two earth roaming, life demolishing monsters.
Can you imagine for a moment this scenario:
Your dear, dear long distance partner/significant other has been involved in a tragic accident. Due to no fault of their own, he or she has abruptly and absolutely lost the ability to walk, talk, feed themselves, go to the bathroom alone or wipe their ass. He/she is alive though, and is successfully regaining the ability to talk and breathe again without outside help. It’s slow going, but it’s going. The prognosis is long term paralysis and a high unlikelihood that they’ll ever live independently again. Your friend also is the single parent of a 20 month old child and has another child on the way.
In addition, this dear friend of yours, has a sociopathic narcissistic mother who flew several states in “grave concern” to arrive at the hospital just shortly after being moved from the ER into a private room. This delightful, loving mother arrives as you are holding your SO’s hand…maybe you’re grateful they are alive, maybe you’re feigning concern, maybe you’re grateful that you get to leave this antiseptic hospital after you’ve done your duty and get back to your life, having others to take care of your 20 month old as you continue frolicking through your own life, just as before…I don’t know why you’re holding their hand, but you are.
Arrive Sociopathic mother on the scene, who coldly says to you, I’d like a few moments alone with my child. You happen to know your SO has a strained, at best, somewhat abusive relationship with this woman, but you’re just grateful you get an excuse to get out of this duty-filled environment for a moment. You release the hand and exit the room.
Sociopathic mother then sets her handbag down on the hospital bed, and leans in somewhat close to whisper in a satanic tone of voice, “You deserve what you fucking get”, grabs her bag, looks to her third husband sitting in the corner chair and says, “Let’s go”.
Fast forward a few weeks later. You’ve made the three hour drive to visit again. It’s perfect in that it’s close enough that you can do this duty on your day off from your job and not have to inconvenience your schedule much at all. This time, you know your SO is struggling with depression, fear, anger, and frustration. You know this. So, you thoughtfully decide to set about helping them with a gratitude exercise. Yeah, they’re still struggling a little with their ability to speak, but this is still an appropriate exercise, right? I mean really, it’s a thoughtful and kind thing to do!
You enter after driving your car, from your house, and off for a day from your job. After you leave here today, you’ll go visit your 20 month old daughter, hold her, maybe play with her a bit…you know, those things you might do with your very young child when you only see her a few weeks a months…
Your SO is painfully aware that they may not ever drive a car again, work a job again, live independently again, or God forbid, even play normally with or care for their daughter ever again. But, you’ve got this covered. You’re going to take these precious moments hereto assist with a gratitude list! That’s exactly what they need…to count their blessings and remember to be grateful! And gosh, aren’t you, in all your health and problem-free normal life, just the person to remind them of this blessings, no matter how disguised or buried…?!
And you are just pissed off to no end to find that this cranky, angry, partner of yours is pissed off and has no interest at this time in doing a gratitude list. Ahhh the nerve of such ingrates! This is, in fact, such an outrageous travesty of character, that 13 years later, you’re still telling the story to your new “significant other(s)” about the audacious ingratitude of your former SO.
There’s just nothing at all wrong with this little scenario, is there? Well, except for that ungrateful bastard.

There is no grace in truth

Tags

depression, desperation, fear, grief, history, hopes, invisible, life, loss, loveless, mean mothers, nostalgia, parent issues, sadness, suicidal

I struggled so hard all my life to believe I was loved.  Hell, to believe I was even lovable at all.  My mother, who introduced me to the distinct feeling that I was so hard to love and such a horrible human being, then criticized me fiercely for allowing abusive people in my life, didn’t actually do any of that, so I have to wonder how I learned to believe that “love” should  feel like abuse?  Surely, I wasn’t born thinking that, right?

The cruel ironies of my life are that I always wished I didn’t exist.  Always.  The few brief moments I didn’t wish that were when my children wrapped their arms around me, when DK loved me, and when my dad and I talked.

And now, I’m stuck in existence without any of those three things.  My existence doesn’t matter to a single soul in this world, but I’m stuck existing.  If I died right now, no one would even know for days…my landlord would probably come for the rent and find me eventually.  A few people might wonder why they can’t reach me, but that would be a fleeting thought at best and they’d go on with their day/life.

It is bizarre to think that I HAVE to exist while my existence doesn’t matter.  The only thing of interest about me to anyone at this point would be my death.  My daughters and their father, my mother and my sister, they would all eventually find out and have to act briefly as though it mattered to them. Simply because it would appear far too cruel and callous to respond with, “So what? She was nothing to me anyway”. They’ll have to hide their sigh of relief that the burden of me is gone at last.  And then go about recreating the truth of it all to make it more bearable for them that they didn’t care.  It will be easier then, since the last witness who actually knew the truth will be gone.  Poetic license for EVERY one!!

I won’t be buried with my father…or my children.  I’ll die the same way I spent my life – alone and unwanted.

My mother cheated on every husband she had, was cruel and hateful in general, and lived a pretty wild life while young…yet she deserves love.  My children’s father cheated, used drugs and used people, hurting others and living only for himself 99% of his life….yet he deserves love. Hell, Jeffery Dahmer’s family even loved him! Ted Bundy was loved by some.  People with the most horrible souls  imaginable still had love and  mattered to somebody, somewhere…

Then there’s me.  An imperfect soul who’s only wish in life since my first memory was to know love, be loved, feel love….and sincerely treated others, even strangers, as though maybe my kindness might be the only they  would know in life…and for that, I’ve been crucified and insulted, misunderstood and labeled.  My love and kindness was hardly perfect, though.  No, I always wished I could be more forgiving and less selfish.  Did Mother Theresa care if anyone loved her back?  Probably not.  She was content just to pour love and kindness out without needing any to be returned. I’ve tried to love like that, but I’m not Jesus or Mother Theresa.  My very soul aches to be loved…to matter…to also make others feel they are loved and matter in this world. Why can’t I be less selfish? Why does love and affection feel like a need to me?  Why can’t I be content just giving it to others?  What is wrong with me that I also wish to have it for myself? And why can’t I fix that about me?

The more I hope to matter…the less I do. And today, there’s not a goddamned thing I can do or say to anyone to try to get them to believe I  matter.

The say no one can love you unless you love yourself.  My mother took away any chance I ever had to love myself and then set the pace for this empty life for me.

I don’t even know how I got this physical disability…seems so odd because according to others my stroke wasn’t “that bad”.  I don’t know why I have all this excruciating pain inside from childhood memories…seems weird because according to others I had a “good, loving” childhood just like everyone else.  I don’t know why I’ve always been desperate for love…seems weird since according to others I’ve always had it in “abundance”. I don’t know how I have memories of so many people telling me what a wonderful mother I was…seems weird since according to others I was never a good mother.

The stroke I had, the work I did to overcome that, learn to walk and talk and function again as a person and a mother, praying that I could overcome the disabilities enough to parent my children alone and to not be simply a burden in this world, but be able to contribute….none of that happened in anyone’s mind.  Only my dad and I know all the details of that and he is  gone and the rest of the people who witnessed it, just change the story to suit their purpose, robbing me of the truth of that experience.

My childhood is the same.  I know what happened in my first 17 years of life, but the other people who were there change it all to suit their purpose…robbing me of that experience and how hard I worked to push through it.

Raising my children, being the best mom I knew how even though I never had a loving mother,  making the choices, right and wrong, to be the mother I never had, suffering through the pain of watching my child be sick or scared and wishing with my whole heart I could take that on myself to protect them.  The mistakes I made that I regretted, the times I prayed I was doing the right thing when I just didn’t know for sure, the boo-boos I kissed, the bad dreams I chased, everything…right and wrong, good and bad that I did…none of that is real because the only witnesses to the truth of all that have changed the story to suit their purpose.  So none of that was real. I’m robbed of even that.

I swear if someone could get away with trying to say I didn’t even give birth to my children that would then become the next bizarre “truth” I’d have to live with…while knowing it’s a blatant lie. I would remember the pain of childbirth…and wonder how I could remember it so vividly …when according to others, it never happened.    Hell, I’m truly shocked no one has attempted this distortion yet!  They’ll probably wait til I’m near death and THEN tell me I never gave birth to any children in my lifetime, leaving me confused and bewildered as to how I can possibly recall doing it twice and those 15 years I raised those children alone…they’ll say, “poor sick thing, can’t remember the truth of anything about her life anymore.”

I was never abused, I was never a good mother, my stroke wasn’t “that bad”, I had a million friends and millions of childhood joys… It’s so very strange I can’t recall ANY of that!  I was petrified of my mother(I’m talking sheer terror here)…I wonder why, since she was so kind and loving to me.

And yet, I clearly remember the pain I endured the first 17 years of my life.  I recall vivid examples of things that really happened. I still feel the pain of it all even. I recall wishing I could play with other kids or have sleepovers more than once every three years, wishing I could go to dances or go on dates.  I recall praying fervently that I could have a life like other kids seemed to take for granted.  I even recall wishing I could make a mistake and get punished for a week or two like everyone else I knew, instead of a year or two like I always was.  I remember crying my eyes out quietly in my room, desperately wishing someone loved me.  Yet, if I’m to believe the witnesses, apparently I WAS having these things…in abundance even…and just didn’t know it.

I remember every  wonderful thing I did as a mother and every  wrong thing I did as well.  I remember the struggle of learning to walk and breathe, eat and go to the bathroom, wanting to hold my daughter but being unable physically to pick her up when I had a massive stroke. I remember yelling at my kids on days when I shouldn’t have.  And NOT punishing them at times when I should have.  I recall all of it.  And yet it never happened.  My stroke wasn’t “that bad”.  My childhood wasn’t “that bad”.  According to the witnesses I had all of these things I was praying EVERY day for….wonder why I was praying for them so hard every day then?  I must have been insane all the way back then too.

Because none of it happened.

What does it even mean when your entire life was something you don’t remember or even know?  That’s so confusing on a reality level.

Your pain is not your pain.  Your struggles were not your struggles.  Your successes were not really successes. Your good qualities never existed.  Your every memory is incorrect and false and somehow you have to force yourself to accept other people’s misconstrued memories of events…even though you can’t recall ANY of that because otherwise you’re just creating conflict…further proving how much you just sucked your whole life.

Everyone can tell whatever story they like.  They can make the villains the heroes, the good people the bad…they can tell it any way they want and THAT will be accepted by all (all who matter at least) as the “truth”.  No one’s interested in the actual truths…why should they be when they can just recreate everything to make themselves more comfortable with it all?  I wish I could do that.  I wish I could recreate my every mistake or pain or wrongdoing in life and color it something else entirely so I wouldn’t suffer any more from it all…so I wouldn’t suffer the pain of guilt or regret.

How do you do that?

But then again, that only matters about people who do matter in this world.  When your existence doesn’t matter to ANY one, then what difference does the reality or truth of your life even make?

It doesn’t.

And the sorriest part of this whole pathetic pity party of a post is that it’s just true.  Wish I could smack myself into seeing that none of this is the case, so I could shake off this garbage and embrace some good and hopeful truths.  Truth is, this is true. And my wild fantasies must not be working today because try as I might, I can’t find that alternate reality where this isn’t the naked reality of it all.