Don’t Anymore

I wanted so much to be everything for everyone and I ended up being absolutely nothing to anyone.  I sacrificed.  I sucked it up.  I took the high road when I was wronged.  I ignored when people took advantage of me and assumed they didn’t intend to.  I gave everyone the benefit of the doubt – that people are inherently good – that if I was a true and decent human being and went that extra mile to show I cared, to show my loyalty or my love, that I would someday matter somehow.

And here is where it brought me.  I’m certain there’s not a soul alive on this planet with living family and friends who could possibly matter less than I.

Since my daughters are adults now, I want them to know that I don’t have sex anymore.  I don’t drink anymore.  I do none of those things they vilified and crucified me for.  I wanted so much for them to know…to know that I don’t anymore.  Anything. For the first time in five years, I don’t even want them to know that in hopes that they’ll love me again.  I just wanted them to know before I’m gone that I don’t anymore.  I tried to tell them in a message, hoping they might at the least feel satisfaction or validation  that I’ve been adequately punished and destroyed for what they deem my unforgivable flaws, but I know that’ll just be misconstrued.

Add it to the ginormous pile of my good intentions that were twisted into something ugly.

What I did not bother trying to say is:

I also don’t play anymore.  I don’t connect with people anymore. I don’t laugh anymore.  I don’t dance anymore or hope anymore…or love anymore.

I don’t hug people anymore or ache to write anymore.  I don’t even wish to be loved anymore.

I don’t go to the beach anymore.

I don’t date anymore or create exciting new meals anymore.

I don’t sing anymore or enjoy the music I once passionately loved anymore.

I don’t bother to stand up for myself anymore.   I don’t long to be heard …I don’t even like to speak out  loud anymore.   Somehow speaking feels ridiculously futile and senseless, like a huge waste of time and energy.

I don’t assume the best of people anymore.

I barely consider myself human anymore.  I must not be.

I just don’t anything anymore.  The pain I’m in inside is so fierce, so relentless, and so crippling it hurts to be touched – physically or emotionally.  The fear in me of betrayal and rejection like my family has done …or more hurt of any kind on top of this agony.. is so strong it terrifies me to allow anyone, past or present, anywhere in my vicinity.

I’m alive.  I know I exist only because the pain is there every minute to harshly remind me that I’m still breathing.

I’m alive but I’m not living.  I don’t live anymore.

All the things I painstakingly learned to love about myself, I don’t anymore.

Yesterday, a random person predicted my death as July 7, 2017.  Funny, all I could think was, oh my gosh, I HOPE so…

And then immediately when I felt the flash of hope that it will indeed be over soon, I quickly remembered I don’t hope anymore.



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choicesSometimes I doubt myself.  I doubt everything I know is true.  I doubt what happened, I doubt what was done, I doubt the evil intention.  I know so much I’m my father’s daughter because he refused to see evil in people also. He was just smarter about it somehow….

Sometimes it’s so bad that I need reassurance that the color orange is, in fact, orange.  Does this mean I’m crazy?  Sometimes I wonder… But the memories, the details, the proof is out there (for most of it, at least).  Still, I desperately need just one person to affirm the obvious – what’s true.  I don’t mean like a narcissist, to just tell me what I want to hear, but the truth of the obvious.

Maybe someone could say, You’re right, that is orange or Having sex as an adult is not a sin and it doesn’t mean you are a bad mom or if you want to drink a bottle of wine after you tuck your teenaged kids in bed, that’s not a crime and it doesn’t make you a bad mom.   The silly little things that I know in my brain are just basic logic, but my experience has made them bizarre in my head and I long for reassurance of the obvious.

This is the legacy a narcissistic mother leaves.  You can’t be sure the sky is above unless someone, anyone, reassures you, Yes, that IS the sky up there.   But then you’ll grow up to have children and they’ll hate you for your insecurities, your lack of “self esteem”.

So, the biggest things narcissistic parents leave us desperate for – love – validation – reassurance – are the very things we can’t accept.  The legacy is strong.

Sometimes I wonder – and that’s ridiculous, I know – but I do.  Sometimes I wonder what my life might have been if I’d lived with my dad as a young child; if I’d not gotten the job in college that placed me on my ex’s narcissistic platter.  I had an abortion once….the love of my life…but I was young and he smoked pot and I actually was scared back then of having children with someone who smoked pot!

Instead, I had children (daughters!) with an abusive man who is sexually preoccupied with young girls; a narcissist who could not let them love me, who could not co-parent, even after I trusted that his sexual predilection for young girls wouldn’t harm our female children and DID NOT prevent or prohibit his relationship with them based on that or anything, but he in GREAT IRONY, mutilated me for having sex as an adult woman, within an adult relationship.

Sometimes I wish I’d understood pathological narcissism earlier in my life.  Maybe I wouldn’t have been quite such an open, easy target?

Sometimes, I’m proud of myself that my conscience is clean.  Sometimes, I’m angry at myself because if I’d been more narcissistic or sociopathic, I would never be in this awful position.

Sometimes, I feel badly that my children are so misinformed, deluded, and manipulated, that they don’t even  realize that their Papa would be so deeply ashamed of them, while refusing to see that I am my father’s daughter.

Sometimes doesn’t matter.  Yet, my mind still goes there…

Sometimes I really want to write about my dad’s air conditioner, but I get swallowed up in pain, injustice, lies, and agony….


Unacceptable death


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album w. beer at picnic

My dad ❤

It’s a rainy, reflective Saturday afternoon here in my dad’s big old house and I can’t help but think of the many rainy Saturday afternoons my dad probably sat here, watching golf or westerns or gospel videos on his big tv.  It’s a safe bet that he’d call me or the girls at least once (or maybe 5?) times to just say, “Hey bayyybeee” in that deep southern baritone voice of his.  I’d guess these would be the rare days when one of the three of us hadn’t asked him to do something for us, take us somewhere or buy us some desperately wanted thing we “direly needed”.

I feel sad when I think of how many of those times I wasn’t really doing anything important, but I’d hurry off the phone after a few minutes of chit chat.  I really don’t believe my dad knew lonely though.  He stayed so busy golfing and taking care of us til the very last end that he never could have felt unwanted or very much alone.  We needed him too much.  I believe he felt sad when mother left him for her boyfriend.  I’d imagine he might have felt lonely then, but I’d guess it was more sad and heartbroken than actual loneliness.

The last few months of his life though, in hindsight it was almost as though he knew it was almost time to go.  He wasn’t sick or anything, he just started seeming more eager for company. And he suddenly started being irrationally worried about me.  Almost as though he feared I might get in trouble somehow and need him and he might not be able to be there this time…

My dad was not a perfect man by any means. There were a few times in my life he really disappointed me.  We only saw him once a month or so growing up, but often he’d get a babysitter and go on a date… And I’d be bummed because I wanted every second possible with him.  Sometimes my dad would drink too much, usually while playing old country music songs and reminiscing about mother. This made me uncomfortable because mother talked so horribly about him that it broke my heart to see how much pain he was in about their divorce.  In hindsight, I realize my mother was leading him on and sleeping with him long after she left him to marry my step-dad, so no wonder he was so torn apart for so long about it.

Once, he took us to one of his clubs where he socialized and drank frequently and got rip-roaring drunk.  He got so very drunk that around 10 pm when we got in his car, he just sat there with his head slumped over the steering wheel – not saying anything.  I was scared.  I’d seen my daddy a bit drunk a few times but never slumped over his steering wheel in total silence!  After awhile, I felt so scared I said, Daddy are you okay? He didn’t reply.  Daddy?  Daddy??!?  Finally he mumbled, “go back in there and get Bob for me, ok?”

Now, I was really scared!  I ran as fast as I could back inside to get his best friend and drinking buddy, Bob Taylor.  Bob was also very drunk and started teasing me, laughing “What’s wrong? Your dad too drunk to drive y’all home?”

I didn’t think it was very funny and I didn’t think that was very nice to say.

But Bob’s girlfriend got us home and daddy apologized the next day.  You couldn’t have given me a million dollars to tell mother that had happened!  I would have bit my own tongue off before I told her anything she could possibly exaggerate and run around putting my dad down about.

No, my dad said he was sorry and I never thought of it again.  It never happened again either.  Unlike mother, my dad wasn’t ever afraid to apologize or admit when he was wrong.

My dad was an imperfectly perfect human being.   He never made me feel bad when I made a mistake.  instead, he made me feel loved by forgiving me and never bringing it up again. He didn’t throw things in my face repeatedly or act as though he was beyond reproach because he was my dad.  He was human.  He was wonderful.  He was patient (usually!).  He was generous, kind, loving, and forgiving.

My dad never once made me feel like he didn’t have the time for me…not even when I was being ridiculous or when I was depressed and talking nonsense.  He never shamed me or made me feel ashamed to be me.

Toward the end though, I treated him like I didn’t have the time.   And look at me now, with not a single person in the world who has the time for me.  All those important friends I had…catering to my children…too worried about this or too busy with that….

Where’s all that stuff now?What did those “important” things add up to be? Nothing.  And certainly nothing of any importance compared to precious time with my dad. I’d give anything for 5 more minutes to just hear his voice, to sit and drink a beer with him, watching tv and chatting about this or that…

I suppose I deserve to know what it feels like to be treated by the world as though I don’t exist at all or as though everyone’s just too busy for me.  I did treat my dad like that sometimes and he, of anyone in my entire life, did not deserve that.

My dad was most incredibly amazing.  I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to accept or reconcile that he’s gone.

Lions & Tigers & Triangulation, OH MY!


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Recently heard from my step-sister that my step dad is in Hospice care now. He’s 93 and has Alzheimer’s, so it’s hurtful to think of losing him but it’s not a huge surprise that his time draws nearer.  I was so happy to hear from my sister and grateful that she felt safe to turn to me with her hurt and frustration. 

I just offered support and understanding to her. Other than telling her how much I love him and what a truly good man he is, I just listened. I know if she’s coming to me, she must really just need someone safe to talk to… not someone to dump their thoughts and feeling into her though. Sadly, she lost her mother a few years ago as well. She had  such a beautiful mother. 

Selfishly, I wish so much I had someone in this world  to talk about this man. I love him so very much. He represents so much to me in my life and my heart. He’ll be gone soon… 

Chatting with my step-sister was heartbreaking. Mother toiled endlesslyto destroy  and/or  prevent any real relationship among him and his five children from his first marriage. And she continues to do that today, as he’s on his death bed. I know now as an adult with deeper understanding that mother never loved my step-dad, Jim. (Narcissists are incapable of love anyway.) He represented financial security for her and being 25 years older than she, I’m sure she hoped and planned on his passing away years ago. 

It is so pathetic and sad that this woman continues to stand between this honorable man and his children. Now, as his hourglass runs quickly out of sand…

My mother is an expert at triangulation and has successfully utilized the methods all my life. Here is an article on various ways narcissists use triangulation to keep themselves well guarded and protected from any possible exposure of their manipulative games using people as pawns. The 4 most common non-sadistic methods of triangulation

She’d already “won” him from his children. That was won decades ago. It’s senseless and cruel to continue the effort to keep them divided. It shows me again, how once a narcissist has set their sights on taking everything from you, they never, ever turn loose until the object (of their narcissistic supply) literally has no use whatsoever left for them or until their target is thoroughly beyond defeated. Knocking their target down in the mud isn’t nearly good enough, they continue to kick and grasp and bully until said target is utterly destroyed. 

This woman has shamed, emasculated, bullied, manipulated, and humiliated this kind, hard working, honorable, self-made man for over 30 years now.  It’s so disgusting that even as a very young child, I felt sorry for this strong, silent, otherwise manly man.  Long before I could put my finger on why I used to feel nauseated when over-hearing their “conversations”, I always felt sad for him. He loved her so much… so completely … so unconditionally…   He could deny her nothing, literally nothing. And she used that love and devotion to destroy everything else he’d ever had in his life. 

He was always on her side, no matter how evil or awful or blatantly wrong she was. This didn’t always fare well for me, but I always admired and respected his loyalty and love to her. And earlier on, he seemed to always want to make her abuse up to me with little secret kindnesses, like hiding packs of my favorite gum in places he knew I’d find or sneaking lemon drops (my favorite!) into my room. 

When I wanted so much to play the flute, mother said, No, I’m not wasting money buying you a flute, You’ll just lose it or decide you don’t want to play it next month. But Jim stepped in and said, Darlene, let her try it. I’ll buy the flute for her. ( It was all his money anyway, but still…!) And he won that one. Subsequently, I played that flute for 3 years and competively won 1st chair placement  of all 11 flute players in the band for 2 of those years.

Mother never listened to me play no matter how excited I was when I was successful with it, but Jim used to say, Let me hear you play something.  And I was so proud to play for him when I’d finally mastered a difficult piece. 

I still feel shocked that he stood up to her on that. It didn’t happen ever again, but I always felt so deeply grateful for him going out on that scary limb for me that day. 

It’s horrendous that my step-sister was robbed mostly of having her father as a real and actively participating father in her youth and now she’s being left out (as much as mother can manage ) of these final days as well.

Mother, true to textbook narcissistic personality disorder, had an affair on Jim, taking us, her two daughters aged 7 and 9 st the time, to hotel rooms, vacations, and dark driveways to wait while she rendezvoused with her married lover. A man who also happened to be a business rival of my step-dad’s. When she was caught, she blamed my step-dad’s children for the affair…. ultimately, making my step-dad apologize TO HER for her having “been driven to have sex outside their marriage.” This was only two years into their marriage. 

When my step-dad’s first wife (raising his five children completely on her own after my mother had taken her husband) got a job at the local country club,  mother found out and HEADS DID ROLL! She raged and threatened, screamed and bullied my step-dad and the country club management until they fired his ex-wife from that position. 

My mother insisted Jim invest all his money in property with her name on it, so that she could control and inherit every possible dime of his hard- earned money rather than his five children when he passed away.  So blind, controlled, and brainwashed is my step-dad after all these years with her, that he even told his youngest daughter, There will be no inheritance for you when I die. I’m investing it all into property in Darlene’s home town.

All this… after spoiling her financially and emotionally for all these years, choosing her over his own kids because she demanded, and her making a complete fool out of him having affairs. 

No one could ever say my step-dad did not love that woman, though; that he did not do every single thing within his power to please and indulge her and prove his undying and unconditional love and devotion. 

It’s a sad shame that she never loved him back; that even to this day she carries on affairs behind his back for years now, rarely sees him in his nursing home and only calls occasionally- after all she’s busy running around with her boyfriends in her hometown 3 hours drive away. 

And still, as disoriented as he now is, he is devoted to her first and foremost over every person in his life that actually does love him and could care less about his money. This is the exact devotion my children now have for their dad. Narcissists can’t love, but they leave no room whatsoever for those who love them to be loved by anyone else either.

She turned him against me years ago of course, so just like my dad and my children, I’ll never get to say goodbye to him.  He’ll never be allowed to know the truth of me or of her or know how much I truly love him. 

He deserved so much better. His children deserved so much better.

Narcissists don’t just destroy their targets and suck the souls from their supply sources, they destroy every single thing in their paths and even in the peripheral along the way. 

Narcissists take no prisoners and leave no crumbs of possibility behind their people-playing manipulative schemes. They leave nothing but sheer desolation and absolute destruction in their wake.

Desolation Cries for Company


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There was a new bounce in his step. Mr. Stefani stood a little straighter, and his face expressed an almost smile. Intriguing. I had treated elderly Mr. Stefani, suffering progressive heart failure, for approximately a year. It was an exercise like table tennis. I told him how important it was to take medications on a regular basis – he […]

via Desolation cries for company — Friend to Yourself

so much nothing


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So ironic that this house of my daddy’s I now live in is more like the “House that Built me” than any other place I lived growing up…even though I didn’t move here til I was 18. My daughter, Lexi loved this song, but she felt it about our house that her  dad took from us “for our own good”.  And regardless of where my children go or whom they choose to love, this house is the only one we have left that “built us”.

He stole that one because he “felt it best” along with all my personal memorabilia…so, we have this one…my dad’s…

I find myself frequently asking for signs… I’ve no clue what that even means, but I ask hourly.  I don’t believe in anything so much anymore, so I don’t even know what I’m asking to send me a sign…

I’m still here.  I have all the ingredients to escape, still feel confident my absence might be best, no one has stepped up to say Oh please don’t, my mind hasn’t changed (if anything it’s more determined and decided)…  Today, I contacted a realtor about listing my dad’s house…this beloved, ancient manor of memories… and immediately after contacting the realtor, the song that most reminds me of my dad started playing on the radio.  It’s a very old song, so I was surprised to hear it play.  And I ask myself, is that my sign?  If it is, is it a sign of yes or a sign of NO DON’T DO IT?  I wouldn’t know.

I have no other safe places.  I belong no where.  I guess I never have.  I only belonged wherever my dad was or where my children were.  None exist anymore for me, so it’s this house.  This house, where my dad helped me learn to walk again at 26, where both my daughters learned to walk for the first time, the place of so many Thanksgivings, so many birthdays, Christmases, family dinners, family giggles…  The only place I ever felt a sigh of relief when I walked in the door, knowing I was safe, knowing I was loved, knowing everything would be always ok no matter how bad it seemed….a real life refuge.

I didn’t actually grow up here. Although, I sort of did.  My daddy bought this house when I was 18.  My first boyfriend beat me here several times.  Two primary doors were replaced by him from when he busted them down.  I moved away to live with my aunt awhile to escape him and came back to be with my real first love/best friend.  And there are so many wonderful memories here of how he loved me, how he was my best friend ever.  There’s an ancient father’s day card, tucked away in a drawer, that he gave to my dad, so sure he was that he and I would be married.  He and my dad got along very well, except for my endless long distance phone calls to him when he went away to college in Chicago.  Long distance!  It’s such a foreign concept now.  In hindsight, I feel so badly for my dad.  It was actually cheaper to drive to Chicago to see him than those 4 hour long distance phone calls were!

My dad had every right to be furious, every right to not even allow me to use the(his!) phone after countless outrageous phone bills I couldn’t pay for!  He did get mad…often…but he never once beat me or shamed me or punished me or kicked me out for being so childishly selfish.

Every single thing inside this house has meaning to me.  The chips in the paint over the hall? Those are from the bouncy swing we got for Lexi when she was only 4 months old. Oh, and how she’d bounce!  Bounce and shriek with laughter…  She was the center of the world right then!  Then, Savannah came and I was so handicapped that I couldn’t hold her as much as I did Lexi…  but we had the bouncy swing and she’d shriek with joy.  And even as I’d watch her, single handicapped mother of two amazing girls, worrying about what our life would be; worried about what they’d need and if I could provide it always, my dad would just laugh watching her bounce and I didn’t know what our lives would be, but I knew it would be okay whatever it was, so I’d laugh with them too, no matter the depth of my uncertainty and fear.

Anyway,  that’s why the center of that entryway has some chipped paint that was never repainted.  In the tiny drawer of the library?  There’s a child’s tiny notepad where my dad must have been helping Savannah when she was learning to write and Savannah first wrote the word “Mommy” and her own beautiful name.

In those fun little drawers, there’s also the first portable Britney Spears playin’ CD players my dad got for my kids when they wanted them but I couldn’t afford to buy them.  One was red and one was yellow.  The yellow one is in there, haphazardly left behind at some point when my daughters transitioned to iPod music.   Those fun sized drawers hold baby sized hair ties and barrettes, some fairy tale storybooks, some 25 cent bubblegum machine jewelry that made their faces light up, tiny little child-sized sparkly nail polishes… they are a virtual nostalgic treasure chest!

A million teeny-tiny worthless, priceless little whatnots that no one on the planet would think a thing of throwing in the trash, but which flood my heart with happy, useless, hurtful memories.

So much nothing that means so much.  I bought this house when my dad died.  I confess it was only because of my dad’s memory and hoping that my children might someday feel happy that it was still in our family, holding all those memories of their childhood and their papa.  They have no need for nostalgia, nor memories…  so I really just wasted the money wishing on a star, hoping to preserve a million happy memories that my children have committed to forgetting.

I still feel like this is my refuge, even while the memories simultaneously refresh my hope and destroy it.

Hell Day #6


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What does any partially (in) sane erased Momma do on Hell Day #6?

She makes the best damn banana smoothies ever.. and pretends her amazing, beautiful children made them for her.

By the way, the secret is FOUR bananas , a splash of pineapple juice(I didn’t have any fresh pineapple to use), frozen vanilla yogurt and a splash of cream, fill blender with ice and blend. 

Yummy. Thank you, Lexi Lou and Savannah Banana! This is the best banana smoothie EVER! 

I can’t feel totally sorry for myself today on my 6th year straight of being entirely ignored and erased by the little people I grew and birthed out of my own body.  Every year for the past few Mother’s Days my Aunt sends me a dozen gorgeous fragrantly delicious red roses.

It’s a gesture so kind, I can only cry with gratitude every time I open the card and it says,
Happy Mother’s Day Love, Aunt Desi.

I try not to let the day get to me- after all, it’s a manufactured holiday-not like birthdays or major holidays, but it does get to me…still. Mostly in the memories. And it’s everywhere anyway: the television, social media pages, radio… It’s impossible to ignore. 
So I’m treating myself to the most delicious banana smoothies ever and sniffing my beautiful roses thinking how happy my children are without me and how much I would never want them to be anything but happy. 

The Truth Behind the Agenda


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From my Book – From Charm to Harm and Everything else in Between with a Narcissist! @ Narcissists are masters at putting a spin on the truth, using extreme manipulation, and playing mind games to get what they want. They play to win and get the rewards from the investment they put into scamming […]

via The truth behind their AGENDA – Narcissists are MASTERS at putting a spin on the truth, using extreme manipulation, charm, and playing mind games to get what they want from people and life. That is what they are doing in this so-called relationship with us. They are ALWAYS  sourcing out whomever they can to get what they want in every life situation. People are all pawns in this game of theirs – nothing more and nothing less. — After Narcissistic Abuse

Lingering Fears


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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.


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.

I Diagnose Myself a Scapegoat 

vehemence & emergence

What is a Scapegoat?

To put it plainly: a person blamed for the wrongdoings, mistakes, or faults of others.

18161120_1116843025128570_9135844155300249600_n(1).jpgWhat does that mean exactly? 

It means that if you are someone’s scapegoat, you are going to be the reason someone else did or said something, or the reason something happened, or more broadly YOU are the problem.

The scapegoat is given a tremendous amount of power, but ends up feeling weak, shameful, pitiable, guilty, or that they are evil, bad, or wrong. In come cases, wrongness becomes inseparable from the way they see themselves: they can mistake what others say for their true identities.

In families, the scapegoat tends to be the person the family collectively identifies as a source of their dysfunctional behavior. The idea being that if the person to blame for familial disruption is somehow fixed, then the family will be fixed.

History of the Scapegoat

From Biblical…

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