Category Archives: narcissistic abuse

Sep18

I hear the band playin’…

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Please remember, always click on the blog heading for the updated version as I often edit after hitting publish…

The cat woke me around six a.m. His bowl was empty. This is my favorite time of day, just as the sun is coming up. But I hadn’t slept well and I really didn’t want to get up. My son was already in the kitchen getting ready for his work day. He’s been staying here since his relationship broke up. Feeling he had no other choice, he left her with the house they bought together, her teenagers, the dogs they adopted, his dreams, and oh yeah, much of his self worth stayed behind, too. He has continued to be as supportive of them as he possibly can be, physically, emotionally, and financially. This has required considerable patience on my part (let alone my friends and therapist) – but then, I don’t want to be the mother-in-law who thinks her son can do no wrong. I’ve had one of those.

The day he called and asked if he could come here I felt a huge sense of relief. Finally. Watching the abuse he seemed determined to cope with was nothing short of painful. He was mimicking the scapegoat role I had so effectively demonstrated for him my entire life. Everything about us must be wrong because God knows we never did anything right. But perhaps some healing could finally happen. We are a multi-generational family of survivors – survivors of alcoholism, physical and verbal abuse, and blatant narcissism. Our awareness continues to grow as our healing unfolds.

He’s been here longer than either of us expected; the better part of two years now. It has not been easy. But most days I am grateful for this time to get to know him as an adult, to spend time together investigating family history, to address our mental and emotional dysfunction, to have the opportunity to do the healing work we both need and deserve. I’m in my seventies, he’s in his forties, and for the first time in our lives we are safe. We have a safe place. I wonder where that will lead us.

Most mornings I am up hours before him or any hint of daylight. I feed the cat first (the boss of me), make coffee and head back to my cosy room with a book. If I haven’t fallen back to sleep, I hear him in the kitchen but leave him in peace. Well, I leave me in peace, because let’s be honest – I am far too easily irritated when my thoughts are disrupted before I’m ready to talk. But this morning I wandered out and made us both coffee. Here’s why he is one of the few people (okay, maybe the only person so far in this life) I’ve ever been able to live with: he is funny. He is blessed with my mother’s sense of humor. My brother had it, too. I was not so blessed. He is funny right from the get go when his feet hit the floor. Wow that is impressive!

My auDHD does not allow me to think that fast. So when I caught myself scowling this morning, I circumvented my crabbiness by saying, “Help me out here, please. My face is stuck,” revealing my frown. I had just sat down at my laptop. He simply replied with a directive: “Hello, Dolly by Louis Armstrong.”

Little did he know it would bring tears. I was ten years old the year my mother took me to see the musical at the Fisher Theatre. It starred Angela Lansbury. God, growing up in Detroit in the 1960’s was magical. As a privileged white child, of course. But back then what did I know…

Aug26

going home…

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When my son was 15 I began teaching him to drive. At that time you could get a “student permit” one year before you were old enough to get your license, but then you could practice driving as long as there was an adult in the car. Driver’s training was a required class for all sophomore high school students. That year for Mother’s Day my card contained a Backseat Driver’s License, officially signed by then Secretary of State, Mac U. Nervus. My son is nothing if not funny! I carried that in my wallet for years, and I do not know what happened to it. Probably wore it out.

My son is a good driver, which I cannot say about my former husband. He reminds me of the cartoon character Mr. Magoo. He was declared legally blind about the age of 2 and wore thick “Coke bottle” glasses taped to his head throughout childhood. And with a ‘Little Man Tate’ genius IQ, he graduated college at the age you and I were graduating high school. In retrospect, we now know he is autistic. I used to marvel at how I could rattle off numbers to him, my own human calculator, and he could add them in his head and give me an accurate total faster than the computer. But he couldn’t change a lightbulb. That task, like many others you and I do daily, would frustrate and overwhelm him.

Shortly after he and I met lasik laser surgery became readily available. With that miracle and a regular pair of glasses he qualified for a driver’s license. Just because the state issued him one does not mean he can drive. He’s a menace on the road, but he has never been in an accident. I’m sure he’s caused a few…

Last week we met for lunch in the city where he lives, about an hour from me (yes, by design.) I had mentioned in a phone call that I had an appointment that was bringing me in to town. During our lunch conversation he asked about the tires on my new (to me) car and offered to purchase a set of tires if I would follow him to the shop up the road. You know where this is going? Ha! Wait for it…

We met at his favorite restaurant, Big Boy. Leaving the restaurant, we would have to turn left onto a busy 55mph five lane highway. He pulled right out into oncoming traffic and zoomed out ahead miles before I could safely turn…and…he lost me. He would say I lost him, and he’s right – I can’t keep up. But as I frantically searched for the tire store and finally turned in, relieved to be alive, he called. Where the heck was I? What was taking me so long?! And I looked and looked and couldn’t see him anywhere. I sat still two minutes knowing he would call back. He did. He couldn’t see me, either. It occurred to me to ask him what he could see (we’ve been at this over 30 years) and of course, we were NOT in the same location.

He had driven to the place of my appointment – NOT the tire place at all. My appointment had nothing to do with him and we had not discussed it. (I had mentioned it in our previous phone conversation.) It was an entirely spontaneous decision on his part, but he thought I was right behind him, and would follow him in…so, no need for communication. But now he was angry with me; I hadn’t kept my part of the agreement – which was to follow him. And now I would have to turn left out into heavy traffic twice again, once toward the appointment location where he waited for some unknown reason, and again leaving for home. It was nerve wracking to say the least. By the time I got there about 20 minutes later I declined his offer to wait for me and then go buy new tires. By this time I was a nervous wreck. He wasn’t. He was just confused. After all, he was just trying to help. If this sounds a bit like senility, I must tell you that it’s been this way the entire time I have known him. It’s just SOP with Magoo. Obviously he must be an enlightened master because he is cool and collected in the midst of chaos. Even if he did cause it.

Here I sit at seventy wondering why my nerves are shot. I’m not saying this is my former husband’s fault; far from it. He was one in a loooonnnng line of crazy-makers I have lived with all my life. You know about crazy-makers, right? (We have one running for President if you need an obvious example.) People who have some innate talent for wreaking havoc all around them without being affected. They’re everywhere; every family has them. My family was full of them. Grandfather, father, aunt, sister to name a few. Of course I attracted them in my adult relationships; they were familiar. The less susceptible you are to gaslighting, the more covert their passive aggressiveness becomes. But I’m by no means immune, and maybe never will be.

As I have talked about in former posts, I’m not havoc-ing it any more. It takes a varying degree of upset for me to register the crazy making, but the moment I catch it happening, I’m out. I will still love them, just from a distance. Will my nerves ever heal? I’ll keep you posted. Meanwhile, Going Home is my new old theme song, from the greatest movie soundtrack ever written. Close your eyes and listen. Everything will be alright.

Jul4

Happy Independence Day, Hero

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Any chance you might have an issue with authority? If so, I’m just sure we can be friends. To say I am resistant to suggestion would be an understatement, and yet I am constantly seeking advise, input, more input, ideas, opinions and help from any number of sources.

My dearest friends will attest that I directly – and regularly – say to them, “Tell me what to do.” They think I’m funny. They have known me long enough to know that telling me what to do is futile. Even when I ask, there’s maybe a 30% chance of follow through. Maybe.

Now let us not confuse my fierce independence with any remote understanding of healthy boundaries. Those close to me have also seen me make absolutely stupid decisions just for the sake of being contrary. What can I say? Growing up is hard to do…

Just this week I had a bit of a tete-a-tete with my past. My ex called and wanted to talk. This would generally send me into a tailspin of anxiety. What was he up to?

We met a few days later for breakfast. It was quite pleasant. He is 17 years older than me and has had some serious health challenges. So, he is face to face with his own mortality. That is humbling. But it was just a few hours later that he called again. Strange. This time he barked at me to pull up a website on my computer. He wanted me to look at a car for sale. He had asked about my Jeep at breakfast. The previous time we met for a “catch up” the Jeep had limped into the restaurant parking lot squealing and lurching. It’s the old car I had from our marriage, now 13 years dissolved. It’s on it’s last leg before the scrap heap and I’ve been trying to figure out how I will afford to replace it.

When he asked about it I had quipped, “It’s running well. It’s about time to think about looking for a car.” Ever-so nonchalant. Pardon me, but I’ve had more than 30 years with him to learn to generalize my answers. I give out very little information. It’s not so much a conversation as an interrogation, or a relationship as a transaction. He is never without an agenda.

Sure enough, several hours later and he’s found me a car. Mind you, we had not discussed anything about my looking for a car. No details were asked for or volunteered, no direct inquiries, no interest feigned. This was entirely based on his assumptions. He found me a car. Another Jeep (I had not been considering buying another Jeep. For one thing, I can barely climb in and out of this one anymore.)

This is how that second phone call went: “Hi. What’s up?” I was taken by surprise. “Get to your computer! Look at this website!” I had no idea what this was about until my laptop had booted up and I asked for the website name. It was a car dealership. “Look at this Jeep! If you’re interested I could go drive that for you tomorrow.” As if I don’t drive…or he has any mechanical prowess. But I do forget sometimes how utterly incompetent I am. He sounded like he was on speed (what is in those Manhattans?) He desperately needs a project, and he needs it to be me.

Wait. What? S L O W the heck down…why are you directing me to look at a car? Well…he could “help me” buy that. Sadly, I’ve also got 30+ years experience knowing that this is going to be a long, convoluted process that will somehow end up costing me sleep, peace of mind, money, and self respect. I graciously declined. I have learned a little over the decades. For better or worse, I have learned to be my own hero.

I thanked him for his concern and generosity. I don’t want to generate any animosity. I’m careful not to invite the repercussions of his wrath. I am struggling with my health also, but unlike my ex, I am also struggling financially. There was no room for partnership in that marriage, nor fairness in the divorce. I receive spousal support (the new word for alimony) which is a small fraction of his income and 90% of mine. Less than law would allow, but as much as I was willing to fight for. I wanted out intact. Okay, that’s not true – I wanted out alive. It was too late for intact.

My former husband is not a bad man. He is charming, highly intelligent and extremely like-able. There are many wonderful things about him, and I wish I knew how to have him in my life. He is what is known as a vulnerable narcissist. He would do anything to help. It’s just gonna have a few little almost invisible strings attached…kinda like walking into a spiderweb. Sticky.

Now with the hard-earned wisdom of distance, all of this simply makes me enormously sad. We are both alone in our old age. But I know my true value. Not only will he never know mine; he will never know his own. We are all so very fragile. As Maira is inclined to notice, we are all striving, and we are all heroic.

May18

Preservation Resource Center…

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WHO isn’t up for some preservation resources?!

I have often felt like my Dad was born in the wrong place and time – for which I’m grateful, of course (because…well…me.) He was gay, for one thing. He confided that to us after my parents 27 year marriage ended in their forties. But that was not something he was safe to disclose as a younger man, born in 1933, working in the factories of Detroit. He and my Mother both were talented beyond measure, both visually and musically. They never had much opportunity to be artists; they nurtured and encouraged it in us children. The expression that could not be contained, or even managed, was their rebellious spirits. You’ve heard me say that my parents were beatniks in the 50’s and became hippies in the 60’s…he did like to sport a colorful bandana around his forehead.

He played the piano, daily. We had a baby grand tucked in the corner of the living room where you would often find him tinkering. He played all the classics, but honky-tonk was his passion, and I suspect his sanity. I’m not exaggerating that his voice sounded like Frank Sinatra, and he was extraordinarily handsome throughout his lifetime. Circumstances being different, he’d certainly have given Sinatra some competition.

My father was not a particularly kind man. In fact, I’ve identified him in my older years of therapy as a narcissist, a sociopath. A man of extremely high intelligence and very low empathy. But I can’t help wondering who he might have been if born in a more tolerant time and culture, were he given even a bit more freedom of expression. Repression forces our personality out sideways in unhealthy choices, into addictions and immature abuses. I’m but one child of that fact. Please, God, may we finally learn that now, if we are to have any chance at all of a healthier future. Preferably before another world war. Preferably before the complete collapse of this empire. We have all suffered the consequences of oppression. Our society, our country, is bereft because of it. Our collective spirit is bound by grief, but we shall each know it personally. It’s our wake-up call.

Yesterday I discovered a fabulous new (to me) YouTube channel. Sorry (not sorry) to report – but I am a YT junkie. And home tours are my guilty pleasure, but I’m ever so picky. I want a lot of visual grist. This channel features restored historical homes of New Orleans, post Katrina. Let’s explore a few of these treats this coming week, beginning with this story, which brought me to tears for obvious reasons. THIS was so much like my childhood. Freeze this video on any frame at all and I will point out at least three things that spark memories. I am an endless fount of story, and I’m done apologizing for that. What awareness does this treasure spark for you?

May10

Let’s Get Medieval

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I’m kind. Until I’m not. And lately, I’m not a lot. Something happened to me. I’m not sure when. I know it began about a decade ago, living in Manville. Only those closest to me know what that means, but here’s the short version: I was in an unhappy marriage – again. And feeling like an enormous failure for being there. Would I just never catch on? We had moved my elderly father in with us as he could no longer live alone. He came with Hospice care, which is only available with a terminal diagnosis. He would be taken off Hospice before the six months expired. Fortunately, he did not. In fact, he would live another several years.

Then my brother came to “stay” while getting his feet back on the ground. He stayed for three and a half years. He, my father, and my husband (17 years my senior) all hung out together quite happily while I went off to work. Their idea of fun was going to the casino and playing the slots, which they did regularly.

They did not clean the house. I did that. They did not grocery shop. I did that. They did do most of the cooking. Because all 3 of them were “meat and potatoes” men. They ridiculed me while I chopped greens for my salads, laughing accusatorily that I was part rabbit…that never got old. They would ignore any pleas for help, or even kindness. At one point in time I’d gotten myself a camp counselors whistle, which I would blow at the kitchen table and announce, “Ass-hole retraining bootcamp begins now!” They rolled their eyes and each went back to their televisions…I’d have been invisible were I not so irritating.

You know where this is going, don’t you? Suffice it to say I was in my own special hell. Then I became ill. Deathly ill. I didn’t realize how sick I was until I finally got myself to the doctor once I was recovered enough to drive (they were busy) and was told that I was lucky to be alive. Apparently I had a blocked duct from passing a gall stone. Helllllloooooo….

In one of many fever-induced nightmares I had been driving cross country alone and my beat up old car broke down (someone call Dr. Freud.) The creepy desert town I was stranded in had become intolerable. I’d realized that they had no intention of fixing my vehicle. In fact, they were fattening me for the slaughter. I waited until after dark and snuck out my hotel window unnoticed. But I did look back once over my shoulder and saw the arched sign above the road into that town: MANVILLE. And I woke up.

I’ve never been the same since. It took a couple of years to fully extricate myself from Manville. Thanks for asking, but no, I have never recovered. And as my sister would say, now I’m “meaner n’ a snake-bit coyote…” Now I’m a lot like Mother Nature: you won’t like me when I’m mad.

I thought that if I survived that nervous breakdown, I’d soon get back to my kinder, gentler self. It didn’t happen; I’m not the same person anymore. But I did have another health crisis less than two years ago. Another wake-up call. And something remarkable also happened then. Hooked up to IV’s in a hospital bed, the nurses were so very kind. And it touched me to my core. It was as if a cellophane capsule growing inside me suddenly burst and all the bad drained out. I had never known kindness like this. Let me say that again: I HAD NEVER KNOWN KINDNESS LIKE THIS. I’m sure it’s been offered many times throughout my life. But I hadn’t really understood it until then. Perhaps we can only assimilate kindness proportionately to the hostility we’ve been faced with. And until that day I wasn’t ready to let that in, to relinquish the bubble that held hostage all my human-ness.

Apr3

when it’s nobody’s business

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Heart pounding anxiety woke me up at 3 a.m; which is not unusual anymore. I managed to talk myself off that ledge in about a minute. I’m getting better at it. My goal was freedom. The goal is always going to be freedom. Because I feel like my dream world, my rest, was hijacked. It’s mine. I want it back.

My friends and I are all worried about our adult children. They are struggling to find their footing in a culture that is undermining them every step of the way. And we are not sure how to help, or if we can. Mind you, they were raised as we were, in decent middle class families. We were well educated, but our current incomes are not cutting it. We don’t have the financial security we thought we were building all our work life. Our children left school in debt with no guarantee of a job, let alone a living wage. I read a news article last week that shocked me to my core: recent studies have shown that at least fifty percent of the baby boomers in the U.S. are financially supporting adult children. In many cases it’s the adult child and their family. They came home to get their feet back on the ground – in one case cited, 13 years ago.

Children or not, everyone I know is struggling. We are all trying to figure this out as we go along. We have no role models. We’re outliving our parents, and we are in entirely uncharted territory. We are the first generation that is openly talking about the abuse our parents and grandparents kept secret. No one was consciously dealing with narcissistic abuse 20 years ago. Or 10. No one recognized that past generations were being groomed for sexual abuse. The culture tolerated it, they tolerated verbal abuse, even laughed about it. They tolerated bad behavior, made excuses for it. Hell, we’ve voted it into the White House. Taking accountability for your behavior was optional. Do you wonder we have an epidemic of dementia?! (Help me forget!) Addiction? Of narcissism? Of sex trafficking? Of all manner of spiritual bankruptcy? Can no one connect the dots here?! That pandemic was no accident – it was a physical manifestation of a spiritual problem. It’s time to pull our heads out of the sand.

Meanwhile, I’m struggling with my health. Last week I called for a doctor appointment and was reminded that I have to be interrogated by a nurse over the phone to determine whether or not I am sick enough to qualify for a precious appointment. I have to beg just to be seen. Then before I can be given the necessary antibiotic I have to endure a week’s worth of tests. Meanwhile, I was prescribed a temporary superficial treatment. Medicare doesn’t cover that prescription, so I didn’t fill it. I can’t do that and buy groceries. And I’m angry about that.

Now, lest you think me ungrateful, or just a whiner, I am aware of opportunity hiding here in plain sight. When worry and anxiety seem to steal my peace I know my training is not yet complete. And I’m not havoc-ing it anymore (see blog post of March 15th.) Intellectually I know that the way out of angst is gratitude. But my intellect is not easily coerced. I can’t expect to start pontificating about big, general platitudes and get myself free. Those old affirmations aren’t working anymore; this feels like spiritual warfare.

But. I can start small…go back to basics. I’m sure glad I bought an orange desk chair instead of black. Orange is the happiest color. Wow, I love my bed. I love my wide Frodo feet. I walk to the bathroom in the middle of the night, and I say “Thank You” to everything I pass (yes, out loud) – the floor, the countertop, the cat, the doorway, the moon outside. Try it. There are big things I am grateful for, too – like my son having survived cancer. He is struggling through his self-proclaimed “mid-life crisis”…but he’s here for it. Not all of his friends have made it past 40.

I can re-member myself whole. I have resources in my spiritual tool box: friends, some of my family, a loving therapist, tarot cards! At 3 a.m. with a racing heart I call in invisible help: “Christ Jesus, Archangel Michael, Ancestors! Any and all available light workers.” That’s step one. I am NOT TO BE TOILED WITH here. Neither are you – know that. God didn’t make a mistake. You were not a cosmic afterthought. You do not need to “find your purpose”…you ARE your purpose. Live like you belong here. There are no qualifications you haven’t fulfilled. You have exactly the same right to be here as 8,019,876,189 other people. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

Since that has been established, I can be the narcissist’s worse nightmare. My home, my mind, and my body – my sanctuary – is a no tolerance zone. No talking down to anyone. I carry an expectation that you will be on your very best behavior around me and show up as present as possible. Don’t ever settle for anything less from anyone. Not your teacher, not your boss, not your doctor, and certainly not your family. I can laugh at myself with the best of them – when I’m silly or wrong. But don’t make fun of me at my expense. Don’t ridicule me. I’m a fucking spiritual Jedi, and I’ve trained my boundaries to be stronger than my empathy. Everybody sing along now…

Apr1

Resisting a Rest

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You will see the name of this blog change soon, to A Painterly Life. Let’s face it, it isn’t a blog about home so much as about life. And the content will broaden. We will venture out to explore the beautiful nature I am grateful to live in and near. We will continue to explore lifestyle, particularly through the lens of an aging woman…a creative woman who has survived incest, near-death experiences, growing up in an extremely dysfunctional family in the wild sixties, profound loss, decades of narcissistic abuse, and who is surviving chronic illness. But mostly, a woman who wants to live as open-heartedly as possible moving forward. Moving life forward will be the theme here.

Like most of us, from all walks of life, we are figuring it out as we go along. Our culture is changing fast – as it must. It’s archaic in so many ways. Those of us who long to see a new far more sustainable world for future generations must make serious and often difficult changes – and quickly – to keep our lives moving forward. To feel relative. We must learn to live as a verb rather than a noun.

“I want to learn to live my life as a liquid.” – Cody, Dinner At the Homesick Restaurant by Anne Tyler

These days my body and my psyche require an unreasonable amount of rest. I do resist, albeit futilely. I have so much to do. I find myself wondering how anyone works and does everything else, but in truth, we don’t. I didn’t. I ignored more than was healthy to ignore. I lived in a constant state of overwhelm. I suffered in silence, but I also caused an unnecessary amount of suffering in my bull-in-a-china-shop charge through life. But I survived. I’m a survivor.

So are you. And I maintain a foundational premise I have adamantly defended since adolescence – that creativity is the only way through this chaos. Art, to be specific. And art is not a thing, it is a process, a way of life.

And so I aver: ULTIMATELY, IT WILL BE THE ARTISTS WHO SAVE US. You’re not an artist, you say? I beg to differ. Do you problem solve? Art. Cook? Art. Sing when alone in the car, maybe even off-key? Art. Notice the lichen on the fallen log? Artist! Love crisp, clean sheets? Know when something just feels “off”? Have a favorite color? Savor coffee with dessert? I can go on, oh, and I will…stick with me.

Let’s talk about this plaque of deep fatigue, physically and psychologically. Perhaps more so psychically. Don’t think you’re psychic? Well, I will prove that you are that, too. And it is required of us now to acknowledge and develop this atrophied gift. It is part of living artistically. It is part of living.

We are human. We are alive. We are artists. We are now.

Mar24

your great mistake

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“Your great mistake is to act the drama as if you were alone. As if life were a progressive and cunning crime with no witness to the tiny hidden transgressions. To feel abandoned is to deny the intimacy of your surroundings.”

Because I am inexplicably blessed with remarkable women as friends, I have been engaged in an ongoing conversation about what it means to live alone and to be isolated. Is isolation a healthy choice? There are many of us who have chosen to live alone in recent years, despite being women of advancing age. It certainly doesn’t look wise. But what if compromising our mental and emotional health in order to remain attached isn’t a viable option any longer?

In recent years I have seen friendships fall away simply because we were at different stages in life. Some friends have become caretakers for grandchildren, and don’t seem to have time for me. I have gone no contact with several friends as my boundaries have become healthier and I was less available for their demands. Beloved family members have died, or slipped into the oblivion of dementia. As I watched alcoholism destroy the minds and bodies of those closest to me, I’ve become less tolerant of addiction. I can’t stand to be around people who are drinking. They think they are entertaining and fun; they aren’t. They are defensively unconscious. My compassion for them has increased; I still love them. But I don’t want to be around them.

And then coming to terms with narcissistic abuse takes it’s toll on everyone. It deals a particularly cruel penance, a psychic solitary confinement. Much like alcoholism, and often combined with it, it extends it’s creeping tentacles into our psyche and rips apart our very lives. Here’s my analogy: You went to sleep in your cuddliest pajamas and you woke standing naked in a distant field, the tornado having just dropped you there. Nothing is recognizable. Dramatic? If you know, you know.

Chosen isolation is transformative. When embraced it is healing. Solitude is a welcome adjustment, health chosen over dis-ease, dysfunction. There is psychological room to breathe, and growth can finally take place. You gain some essential perspective…and then you begin to see the workings of life in the cult of fear. The man behind the curtain is no wizard.

It seems to me that once you can tentatively poke your toe out of survival mode and assess, there is much accountability to face. If you can get beyond your defenses and self loathing, you win. I confess that I used to scoff at people who said that joy can be experienced equal to the grief you have known. Psychobabble alert. But as spring is beginning to emerge here in the cold north (and it is still mighty cold), I am noticing…I am noticing a remarkable expansion. I am feeling less isolated and more connected, even – or maybe especially, to an invisible mystery. It’s enticing me toward something unknown. This is not the end of my story.

Perhaps there are different kinds of isolation, or different levels. Perhaps some isolation is healthy and some is unhealthy; maybe it’s a stage, a transition..maybe…just maybe everything is waiting for you.

“Some bridges are beautiful when they burn. There’s a calmness that takes over when you can’t go back. When you’ve changed. When you’ve decided. When you’ve left behind a version of you that is no longer you. The end of everything is the start of anything.” – zach pogrob

Mar15

I’m not havoc-ing it any more…

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Ugh. A friend reached out for advise this morning and I let her have it. The truth is that she’s been struggling for several years now with the same issues, and nothing is changing. And I’ve tried being nice. Being gentle. I’ve actually also tried being quite direct a year or so ago and that didn’t work either. She isn’t hearing me. She doesn’t want to hear it. She’s in an abusive marriage, and come hell or high water she is going to make it work. Except it won’t, of course. Someone will get sick. Or worse. It’s heart-wrenching to watch in someone you love. Here’s the tricky thing about narcissistic abuse – you’re confused all the time. You’re trying to figure out why you can’t seem to get along – and you don’t realize the actual issue, which is that your life is at stake. You’re a frog in a frying pan noticing an annoying warmth.

Let me give a disclaimer before going any further: no one is more stubborn than me. Nobody. I often say “been there, done that, still paying for that T-shirt…” In the school of hard knocks I am the perpetual student. I have lived a lifetime of being a “master codependent” according to Melody Beattie (and she would know, eh?) I grew up with a pathological narcissist and then I managed to marry two of them. I have PAID. MY. DUES. I am here to tell you that is the highest tuition of any school on the planet. Narcissists will wreak havoc in your life like a Tasmanian Devil. Chaos becomes them. And you won’t see it. Until you do, if you’re lucky enough to survive that long.

Perhaps we will talk about the liberation of learning to set (and keep) uncompromising boundaries. But let’s really, REALLY, for the benefit of the people in the back – let us LEARN HOW TO RESPECT OURSELVES. It’s an uphill battle in this culture where narcissism is coddled.

I’m reading a new book, IT’S NOT YOU, by Ramani Durvasula, PhD. Please read it. Yes, she has a million YouTube videos, but the book is a solid reference that will walk you through this process. I mean, read it right after you read CODEPENDENT NO MORE – again. I do not care when you first read it. I do not care how many times you’ve read it. Read it again. And I recommend you re-read Scott Peck’s People of the Lie, the sequel to The Road Less Traveled. Both books are more pertinent in my life today than when originally published. All of these books live on my nightstand.

A news report came out of Texas years ago: Texas did not have a no-fault divorce law (I don’t know if they do now or not) and so the plaintiff had to prove that the defendant was at fault for the failure of the marriage. The woman stated her reason for petitioning the court for divorce as HE IS A BORE. When the judge asked her to define bore she read from the dictionary: A PERSON WHO DENIES YOU SOLITUDE WITHOUT OFFERING MEANINGFUL COMPANIONSHIP IN EXCHANGE. That hit like a gut punch.

After the breakup of my marriage in my late 20’s I sought counseling. The therapist said something to me that shocked me. She said, “Every thought, word, and deed is either nurturing or abusive. There is no grey area in relationships.” I thought she was nuts. And I have spent five decades trying to disprove that statement. You try it. Because, when it was up to you…

Jan5

Meet Tubby and Glad,

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the chairs she named after her Grandmother’s sisters. We wish they could talk, too, Monique. In this exuberant home we see fearless use of color. Again, a theme I call “follow your heart” decorating. Buy what you love – unapologetically. Your home IS your altar, the proclamation of your tenacity and of true faith – in life. Was it Picasso who said “artists live out loud?” Live like you mean it.

I was as glad for a new year as anyone. But I experienced a weird phenomenon: there was a deep sadness, too. I felt like I was leaving someone behind. My younger brother died unexpectedly in his sleep eight months ago. Somehow acknowledging the passing of the year felt as though I was abandoning him. I had to say goodbye all over again. Yet I had not thought of that or felt that way on the new year following either of my parents deaths; had not felt like I was leaving them…what was that? I dreamt of Ward on New Years eve, we said goodbye with love and affection, and some type of awareness that this was it for us. I don’t feel his spirit around me anymore.

I have come to appreciate the gift of grief, not to recoil from it. I appreciate my anger. Surely any healing requires acceptance of the full range of our emotion. Gratitude waits on the other side of allowing for it all. I’m so grateful he was my brother.

What has this got to do with decoration? If you haven’t gleaned a theme in this blog yet, it is the fact that I do not know how to separate interior design from interior experience…it’s all the same for me, as within, so without…I FEEL colors. I feel everything. I absolutely GIVE UP trying not to. Because at nearly 70 years of age, I utterly and completely give up trying to be anything other than who I am.

AND – here’s the thing: I just want to grow up. I want to mature spiritually, mentally, emotionally. I want to heal this year, finally, from a lifetime in survival mode. From multi-generational abuse and mental illness, and from living defensively. I’m finally willing to be vulnerable. And the fact is, probably much like you, I have been on a lifelong search for truth, for the cure for this human condition, for “enlightenment” (deliver me.) I want nothing to do with that quest any longer. It holds no value. We both know it’s an INTERIOR issue.

Instead I will seek joy. In every little nook and cranny. I will sing at the top of my lungs off key! I will paint anything that stands still long enough – any color I feel. I might even name my furniture. I want to be warm and cozy and fat and sassy (so far, so good…) I will not abide beige.

My sweet brother never had a chance at any quality of life or happiness. But that’s a story for another time and place. Meanwhile I will not back down from living my life as an artist, in full living color.

“We have to dare to be ourselves, however frightening or strange that self may prove to be.” – May Sarton