Category Archives: narcissistic abuse

Oct20

the cherished outcome

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“Oh love, bring every grief you’ve carried with you as a door you’ll walk right by / if you don’t stop to look with that loving heart and a troubled eye.”

Our troubles feel as if they are like stone, a compacted, impenetrable medium which will not allow us in. It’s time to “put my money where my mouth is…” so to speak. Time to show up, front and center, and face that stone inside, standing steadfast between me and my own liberation. I talk a good game, don’t I? All this wisdom about getting free. As if I had a clue.

When I am lost as I am this week, in the rock hard grief of my own making, I have few places I can turn. I can always turn to David Whyte. Ironically, I was introduced to him long ago by a friend I no longer have any contact with. She chose to stay in the comfortable captivity of her abusive marriage, and I had to stop pretending that I could be her supportive friend. If you read this journal once in a while, you’ll realize this theme has carried throughout the 13 years since I began here. I’ve gone no contact with more people than I have in my life anymore. Every single one has been a death I am mourning. In retrospect today, this seems an obvious theme. After all, I began this outlet as a means to help me process my divorce and separation from family, from everything I’d ever thought I wanted. To come up against that rock hard resistance and face the unknown.

C.S. Lewis is quoted as saying how shocked he was to realize that grief feels so like fear. There is good reason for that. Grief is the last doorway between us and our freedom, and we are terrified of our freedom. How, exactly, do we manage to be in the world, but not of it? Get back to me on that, won’t you, please?

It turns out that ignorance is never bliss; it’s really only ignorance. It also turns out that bliss was never the goal. It has always been awareness, whether we care to admit that or not. Bliss would be, well, blissfully easy by comparison. But awareness is how we get to freedom – which is our one and only job here. We like to pretend the god ate our homework. Yes, you read that right. So what is all this angst-ing about? Well, I have come up against the biggest boulder my heart has ever encountered, and I’m guessing you have one, too.

Since my teenage years, all of my relationships have been hard. I am hard. I have always been difficult to get along with. Something inside of me has always been as uncompromising as a boulder. I was the eldest of five children, and the scapegoat in a narcissistic family system. Yada, yada, yada…I married young. I got out as soon as I could, and I wasn’t going back. At the age of 24 I had my son, and he has been the light of my life. In many ways, my salvation. I don’t think I’d be alive today were it not for him, and I certainly wouldn’t be the person I am. He inspires me endlessly. But we are at odds right now, and it is breaking my heart. It has shaken me to my core.

Intellectually, I can explain everything. To tell the entire story, I have to begin with the health problems which impacted that pregnancy. I was always a nervous and thus scraggly kid. In high school I was diagnosed with bleeding ulcers. I struggled all of my young life to keep weight on. So I was considered medically malnourished when I became pregnant at 23, and I proceeded to lose 24 pounds. I gave birth to a healthy 9 pound, 6 ounce baby with teeth coming through his gums, but I left the hospital at just over 90 pounds. I’m 5′ 6″ tall. Perhaps because of this, he has always had some (miraculously mild) learning disabilities, despite an extraordinarily high I.Q.

During his first year in school he began to show behaviors that we would now recognize as autism. I took him to every doctor of every type that I could think of. We checked his eyesight, we checked his hearing, we checked his cognitive abilities. The doctors all told me exactly the same thing: this child is a genius. He is bored. With the wise counsel of some teacher friends we began a discipline of working through a daily checklist. I would write and draw it out on a blank sketchbook page at night, and he would work through it after school the next day. He had to complete it before he was allowed to play. It always included 2 or 3 light chores and 2-3 fun, creative activities. It always included Hug Your Mother (because I’m not above manipulation.) Then, an hour before bed we sat together and read a story or watched a favorite cartoon while I massaged his feet with a grounding oil, usually sandalwood. This routine was working beautifully. To this day, when he becomes stressed he will often create a checklist.

I am telling you this now because he has been struggling again. As mentioned recently, he is quite depressed. The aftermath of the recent natural disasters seems to have impacted him deeply. He is a highly sensitive person. But I, too, am struggling terribly as a direct result of interacting with him, in his mental and emotional distress. And because I am literally the only sober person he knows, I’m the sole voice of reason in his life right now. I must make mental health the priority of our lives.

And yesterday, I suddenly felt terribly helpless. I was consumed with fear, and I blew it. He came out of left field touting some wild conspiracy theory about the corrupt government having created the weather disaster and being out to get us all – and I lost my shit. It isn’t even that I necessarily disagree with everything he was saying, but I absolutely cannot – cannot – function from that perspective. It is mired in fear. It is entirely divisive. And it is utterly hopeless. Talk about a conspiracy!

I don’t know that I have ever screamed that loud before in my life. I screamed at the top of my lungs – at him. I told him he was dead wrong about so much of what he has recently adopted to believe. And in no uncertain terms I told him that he is subscribing to cult behavior, and that I am afraid for his sanity. I frightened him, and I frightened myself.

And so, shaken as I was yesterday, I must ask myself some very tough questions. Do I want to defend my own personal beliefs at the cost of anyone else’s freedom, including my sons’? What if he and I become estranged and never speak, as the current politics has divided so many families? Can I live with that? Are my convictions that important? Are yours?

Do I have other options here, besides finding “the truth” of the situation? Of course. Firstly, I recognize that if I am not experiencing peace, I have given away my sanity. Somewhere in the hours/days/weeks leading up to this blowup I have assigned meaning somewhere it doesn’t belong. If every upset is a setup (and it is,) I bought into somebody else’s agenda. Or in this case, depression. I picked it right up because it’s a familiar habit. And if I picked it up psychically, so did my empathic son. We can put it down just as fast. I’m not going to give assholes my vote this election. My pussy is not up for grabs. Neither is my mind. Out, demons, out! Here’s to our better angels.

Both my son and I lost our sense of humor – and perspective! After all, that’s what depression is. I fell into that bad habit, and so did he. Now I want my funny son back. I want my kind, intelligent son back. I’m thinking that screaming at him isn’t the best approach. But I’ve been holding on too tightly. Too much fear bottled up inside. It is no coincidence that I am having a flare-up of asthma symptoms. I have been holding my breath. I’m done with that. You want to see what created weather looks like? Watch out for that boulder rolling downhill. Tomorrow’s forecast is warm and sunny.

“You too have travelled from so far away to be here, once reluctant and now as solid and as here and as willing to be touched as everything you have found.” Thank you, David Whyte.

Oct18

no cherished outcome

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“I need a God who thinks I’m funny.” – Elizabeth Gilbert

Me too, Liz, me too. Gilbert’s relationship with consciousness, or God, is very similar to mine. And only recently, through a Buddhist friend, have I realized that we also have much in common with some basic Buddhist tenets, mainly that a human incarnation is a rare and extraordinary occurrence. To be profoundly revered. That is not to say easy. As Liz also reminds me, “Even a good life is hard.”

I woke with a migraine a few days ago. I had blissfully forgotten how completely debilitating they are. I used to get migraines chronically. They stole days out of every week. The leading neurologist treating me began with new, cutting edge migraine treatments and eventually resorted to Dilaudid (generic morphine). Administered 20 minutes after Compazine for nausea, so that I didn’t waste the morphine. And it never once took away the migraine. My body was screaming at me.

Dr. Bessel Van der Kolk wrote The Body Keeps the Score, and he likewise knows, “the mind hides it.” When I was having chronic migraines in my 40’s and 50’s I was desperately trying to find something – anything – to relieve the pain. But there was something seriously wrong. As in, my life had gone flaming dumpster fire awry. I was dying.

Liz Gilbert is right about something else – the closer we get to living our true self imperfectly, the more displeasing we are to the world. I was this many years old before I didn’t care how the world finds me. Alive would be good.

Knowing this and doing it is much easier said than done. Those old childhood habits are deep and strong. I do so want you to like me. In fact, that inner child in me needs you to like me. My life depends on it. I think you must know something I don’t – and I’m waiting for you to share that with me so I can get on with life.

The task here is to become as generous with myself as I am with you. Maybe – just maybe – I know something. Maybe my body knows it even if my mind doesn’t grasp it yet. Maybe I have always known it. Maybe it is my core. And maybe the real issue – where the healing will occur – is in my being more greedy than needy. Greedy for my own company, my own council. Greedy with my solitude. Or as I used to tell my self-righteous, narcissistic, fundamentalist family when they would call me crazy: I choose MY crazy.

I choose MY crazy, not yours, nor anyone else’s I might momentarily assign authority over my wellbeing. I get to decide what it means to be sane and well. I get to choose peace. I’ve got this. No soliciting here. Go away. I’m finally becoming very greedy. I cannot wait for some other person I’ve deemed worthy to honor me; it isn’t in their best interest. It seems their God has no sense of humor. Sell crazy someplace else. We’re all stocked up here.

From this new practice of greed there are no longer many people I will give access to my time and attention. Maybe because I’m older now; being needy seems frivolous. If you are trustworthy, you will defend my solitude, and I yours. And Elizabeth Gilbert is our spirit animal.

Oct6

when push comes to shove

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The year was 1980. We stood in front of the Oakland County Court Judge and my husband looked incredulous. He looked me dead in the eye and said, “Susan, I never hit you.” And the Judge asked me to respond, to which I had to tell the truth, so I turned and faced him, standing with his attorney at the other table, and shaking, said, “No. But you pushed me into the wall and I fell down. And you kept coming after me when I was on the floor.”

“I’ve heard enough,” the Judge stated, “motion granted. You will have 24 hours to vacate the home, and you will not come within 50 feet of your wife. Do you understand?” The neighbors had called the police three days before. They were tired of being awakened between two and three a.m. after he had returned from the bar and begun to attack me. The young officer asked me if I had somewhere to go. I had called my friend and business partner, woke she and her husband and their children. I would hastily pack the baby, two overnight bags, and the officer would escort me to the edge of town, the border of his jurisdiction. We would live on their family room sofa for the next three nights, and I would show up for this hearing at 8 a.m. Monday morning.

That was husband number two. Number one I had snuck out on while he was passed out high, and never looked back. It would be 14 years before I married again, husband number three. I was 40; he was 57. He was not a drug addict. He was not physically abusive. He was, however, an alcoholic and a gambler. I would divorce him and remarry him, believing he had grown and changed; he had not. He had learned some new language and become more manipulative. They all had addiction in common. They were all narcissistic.

The counselor drew three stick figures stacked vertically, and connected each of them via lines between their hands. Marionettes. He labeled them from the top down: father, husband, me. Apparently he felt a visual aid was needed. He literally drew me a picture.

However, it would yet be decades before a different counselor would finally convince me that codependence IS, indeed, an addiction. There is no ingestion of substances. The body’s physiology produces the substances to create the addiction. It’s an invisible dis-ease. I suspect the problem with overcoming substance abuse is that the substance serves as a symptom of the underlying mental health imbalance – that being codependence. No one is going to successfully get off substances if they don’t face the demon of codependence head on.

Industries have thrived upon the medical knowledge based on addiction recovery research. You can’t stop drinking; you have to substitute something that tastes like the alcohol of choice without the alcohol content. Hence sparkling wine and non-alcoholic beer. You can’t stop the brain’s addiction to smoking without replacing the action; hence the vaping industry.

There is no demonstrable action to replace people pleasing. That is the causal level of addiction. Fixing the gigantic hole in the soul. Fixing the original wound. And most of us don’t remember it like Robyn here. But we see the evidence, the symptoms of our dumpster fire lives as they float past us in the flood. So where do we start? Take the Adverse Childhood Experiences test (ACE) and find yourself a counselor. If you are old enough to read this you need – and deserve – a counselor. Carolyn Myss said it decades ago: therapists are the tribal shaman of the Western culture. Find yourself a shaman. And then a streaming service with British, South African, and Australian murder mysteries. They do it best. I will highlight some this coming week here, but only the really funny ones…

I am immeasurably grateful that I have never had a substance abuse addiction (well, okay, coffee.) But I am no less of an addict. I am a people pleaser, what Melonie Beatty (Codependent No More) refers to as a Master Enabler. I will forever be in recovery. I will never quit quitting. I will practice setting healthy boundaries as if my life depends on it. Because it does. So does yours.

And people wonder why I’m obsessed with murder mysteries…

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.