I've been staying away from my blog for a while. Q did a post about the same thing, how it's the opposite of FUN for us to dig into our psyches and present you with the mélange of flavors of abuse from our childhoods.
It's actually exhausting and ugly and we (none of us) like it. We just have to lance the boil every once in a while, let off the pressure. I just wanted a break.
The next portion of the story was already written, anyway - here, at this link for The Scapegoat at 13. I need to insert the SILVER TOOTH incident, but essentially the story is complete so far.
What people don't understand - and you know, I am GLAD people don't understand. That means they didn't live with the abuse - they have no idea, and really, GOOD. I'm glad there are families who don't/didn't participate in this bullshit.
But what you don't understand is that what we suffered under was a huge, heave dose of mind control. The military couldn't have done it better. Look up the experiments conducted under the name MK Ultra - that's what we got. We got our brains shattered with fear and uncertainty, and then up turned down and day turned into night and we had to believe in order to survive. We had to create our own reality to survive. With the broken mind of a child. welcome to hell.
We had to de-program ourselves. It took/takes a lifetime. Do not think for one minute we are whining and puling about not getting the right gift at Christmas. We are talking about (for example) seeing a gift. getting handed the present! eyes light up, heart pounds, it's CHRISTMAS! Then we are *slammed* in the face with that gift. While the Nat King Cole record continues to play, the lights twinkling softly in the background, we are getting slapped and slammed with the present. Then the present is shredded and destroyed in front of our sobbing self, and we are told it was our own fault since our hair wasn't brushed to the correct side of our heads. The rest of the family goes on with presents and laughing and happy day, while we are left stunned, broken, freaked out, with a destroyed present in front of us. IT WAS OUR FAULT, we believe it! but, we don't believe it, because *huh*? but they said it was, it must be. Evidently hair brushing is an offense up there with rape and arson.
Happy Fucking Christmas, assholes. YES. we are whining about not getting the right gift. your understanding of the problem is spot on, as usual.
go away.
Showing posts with label because I was the SCAPEGOAT of course. Show all posts
Showing posts with label because I was the SCAPEGOAT of course. Show all posts
Monday, August 19, 2013
Thursday, August 1, 2013
Living in fear and stress as an ACoN
The way I grew up - at the bottom of the food chain, and decidedly outside the circle, had an impact on me that has never really faded. Even in Florida, when I was just a baby up to 5 or 6 years old, all of my memories have me being on the outside, observing things. I was never in the middle of the action, or rarely so. Things weren't happening AROUND me, noise and fun surrounding me, I was observing them from the side. Outside looking in. Muted sounds. Like a scientist taking notes on another species. I've written about some of it here.
I do not remember being held, or cuddled, or read to. I remember my father getting VERY angry at me one Christmas because I asked 'is that all' when presents were over. I was 3? 4? He angrily dumped the parts of a metal scooter out of a box held high above me - they did not land on me but the LOUD *clanking* scared the crap out of me. He didn't like me even then. He had a horrible face that day. I didn't know who he was. I guess he was back for an Xmas morning? Need to ask about that. But see, it was my fault - I had been GREEDY. And UNGRATEFUL. I was the dirty ugly child, the one who ruined everything.
Once in California, pulled from Florida and the life I had led since birth, I was absolutely cut from the new herd. I didn't know ANYBODY, all of these people were strange to me and I had never even heard of them. I was alone, isolated, degraded, made fun of, yelled at, punished, teased - it never ended. I lived in a state of constant fear and stress. I was 6. I thought about killing myself a lot.
I never, ever questioned my existence or the changes. I just accepted that my body was now in THIS weird place, with these new people. It was so easy for me to let go of Florida. Like I was used to being 'beamed' from one location to another with no context, no knowledge. *shrug* I'm here now. very fucking weird for a kid.
People talk about the fight-or-flight thing. But there is another option. FREEZE. Like the rabbits in the book Watership Down, one can also go 'tharn' - you just freeze and your brain loses all input. Goes blank. Like the Blue Screen of Death. For me, it was a static noise and an inability to move my limbs. I could not think. I could not talk. When confronted in a stressful situation, I went elsewhere in my head. There are huge chunks of memories gone, incomplete scenes (like that camping bathroom episode, I cannot remember what happened once I was dragged back to the camper). Somewhere, somehow, I learned to shut the fuck down and all systems went on some kind of disassociation vacation. I never un-learned this defense mechanism. It went on to own me.
Things that got yelled at me with exhausting regularity:
"you're a liar!"
"You're a sneak"
"You're so lazy!"
"We could get a monkey to do what you do around here!"
I was whipped on the back of the legs with my dad's belts. I was the only one who ever got hit. I got thrown out of bed and into the closet doors in the middle of the night from a dead sleep. I got my face mashed down into my food at the table because I wasn't eating fast enough. I had to eat at the counter, isolated away from the rest of the family because I didn't do it right. On every vacation I got in trouble and grounded so that I was isolated from fun outings and had to stand behind a fence or off to the side and watch the others. I lived in a constant state of fear and stress. My sensors were on overload, an attack could come at any time. You're 6, 8, and you had better be ready. Going in your room was no solace, there was no place to hide. Hearing anybody yell anything remotely similar to my name causes my stomach to clench and my head to start shutting down. STILL. At 52 years old. If I hear a dad, a random dad, yelling at his kid named Tracy or Stacy because that rhymes with Casey - I am immediately back to that house, my childhood, and terror.
The smell of cigar smoke can send me to the same place.
I have learned to calm myself quickly, in these cases, and my heart ratchets back down in a matter of seconds. But it still happens. I WAS TRAINED. Mind-control is a very easy thing to accomplish for a narc. We are mind-fucked and believe what they tell us either in words or actions. I WAS AN UGLY WORTHLESS STUPID INCOMPETENT CHILD. I believed those words for the next 45 years.
And the other sisters? There was no way to save me. they were saving themselves. See, dad would use the excuse of my (made the fuck up) transgressions as a reason he was angry and why the family was having a bad time. The sisters couldn't understand why I just didn't get in trouble, stop doing those things! But what they didn't see, in keeping their own heads down, was that I had done nothing. I had been set up, every time. Even if they had done the exact same thing, the reaction would have been NOT angry. They couldn't understand why I always got in trouble. Neither could I. That is what is known as MIND CONTROL and Mind Fuckery and it. was. effective. I had already realized that I got in trouble because I was a horrible, ugly, worthless, idiot of a kid who didn't deserve to be with the family. I was a shit stain, and no wonder I was an outcast. SEE HOW THAT WORKS?
I would sit for hours in my bed and I don't remember doing anything. Maybe reading, once I learned to read. Alice in Wonderland over and over and over. It terrified me, it was strange, I liked it.
It never occurred to me to like, clean my room. I simply didn't see it, didn't notice it. I shut down. There is nothing beyond this disassociated bubble I have created, like the 'nothing' in The Neverending Story (yes, I relate to stories quite a lot. They saved me as a child.) Why clean my room when I want to be dead. And I want my parents dead. I did have chores to do each day - and I will tell the truth here. I usually forgot to do them. I was always saying 'I forgot!'. I know how frustrating that is as a parent, Mike went through that stage. I can't tell you why I forgot so much. They were the same chores every week, like sweep the patio on Thursday, bathroom on Tuesday, etc. I just forgot. I was living with my head inside a ringing bell all the time. I escaped into my fantasy world, my own private world - and I didn't see or remember the chores. I guess I really was stupid. I guess they really COULD have gotten a donkey to do what I did around the house. See how that goes?
By the time I went to school I was so used to being on the outside that I automatically put myself there. I was the only kid who could read in 1st grade, but I also got in trouble for hiding under my sweater at my desk a lot. I have no idea if I played at recess, I probably did. The teacher thought I was strange and singled me out for it. I wasn't allowed (by my parents) to bring Valentines to school unless I made them. BY MYSELF. They refused to buy store-bought valentines for me to sign. So I tried making some. And I saw how awful they looked so I threw it all away (I mean, 30 kids! I was fucking 6 with glue and paper, and no help. I mean, the 'parents' were in another room for the evening - 'here's the crap you need, go for it' I didn't know how big to make them, how to cut a heart, just one took me an hour, so then the whole pile turned into punishment, something so far from fun... so I showed up at school with nothing, with my head down in shame. The fact that the other kids still gave ME valentines made my head spin. I figured I was going to be sitting this party out. And it made me so grateful for the attention. And do you see? That overly anxious GRATEFUL WAGGY TAIL singled me out as weird even further. And that became another issue for me, inappropriate gratitude for the smallest action from someone else. It marked me as subservient and a victim for bullying. And then I don't remember anything until 4th grade.
My point here is that I was so stressed, so freaked out all the time, I was learning to live in panic mode. The red button was always pushed, the sirens and alarms were always going off in my head, and unless I was ALONE (like walking home from school) I was on guard. And I didn't do it right, I always got blindsided, I got in trouble anyway. Praying for my parents to die in a car crash didn't seem to come true.
I changed schools in 5th grade because I tested high enough on an IQ test to go to the accelerated school. New school, new kids, who had been together all year, I'm new and outside even more. I have no social skills. These are 5th graders. Kids have personalities now - they have groups and strengths and clothing preferences. I had none of that. I didn't know where the bathrooms were, the classrooms could be opened wide for two teachers to teach at a time - it was brand new and very progressive and WAY out of my league. I may have been 'smart' but I was a terrified bunny - no social skills whatsoever.
I think telling you I was ignored by my family is maybe like saying the grand canyon is deep. You cannot know. I had had no voice for so long I didn't know how to express my opinion, and even doing so would merit abuse of some kind. My hair. My clothes. I was WEIRD and marked from it. It was inside me, what with the fear and stress, and with no social skills - I didn't know how to talk to anyone, how to have a friend or be a friend. Or how to speak to teachers. I was smart and read books WAY past my age level and even though I understood the words, I had no way to grasp the adult concepts, nowhere to file them - I had a vocabulary and comprehension of ideas but I couldn't talk about lunch boxes (weren't allowed to have one) or Twinkies (weren't allowed to eat them) I was dirty and not dressed right (the days when girls had their hair braided before school! boys wore tucked in shirts!) and I had to bring SOUP to school for lunch, not a PBJ - I was practically a walking Asperger's child before anyone knew what that was. Anyone remember Boo Radley from 'To Kill A Mockingbird? Lisa Loopner from 'Saturday Night Live'? Yeah, but without Todd.
I was wretched and fumbling and scared and home was where the abuse was, school was an endurance test and I didn't understand any of it, except the parts where they read to us the series of 'The Black Caldron', that was pretty awesome. Health class? teaching us to wash? wha...? I didn't even tell my family I almost got RAPED. Why would I ask them about washing my face? There were friends, a couple of kids who SAW me and one of whom I am still friends with to this day (a reconnect thanks to FB). Her parents, god love them, they saw what a basket case I was. They invited me over anyway. There was a boy. Byron Kemper. We knew each other through high school and beyond. We became lovers and best friends. HE DIED when we were 25, the rat bastard.
The principal of that school met with my parents and they all decided to hold me back a grade, because my social skills were so far behind. I got held back in 5th grade.
All the people I had been in school with, who already thought I was so weird, were now 6th graders ahead of me. I had ALL NEW KIDS again to get to know, and I knew they were younger than me and oh my jesus, that was the kick in the teeth to my feeling like I was outside. I never, ever, regained any ground in being an outcast. I was pointed at. I was so. fucking. miserable. Those ow 6th graders who had been my classmates went on through Jr. Hi and High School knowing me as The Weird Girl Who Failed 5th Grade. I mean, I didn't fail, but why else do people think you got held back?
My 'parents' never asked how it was going. If they had, I would have replied 'fine'. Because, what? what else is there but to go to school, the place where ALL YOUR PEER TIME IS, and put on the yoke of the Weird Wagon and just pull it all day, every day. I played by myself. I made up games. I told inappropriate jokes I had heard at the dinner table. I didn't do my homework because I didn't understand it and I wasn't going to ask for help, we were expected to work in our bedrooms alone on our own time schedule, it was our responsibility don't EVER ask questions. I knew answers to odd questions and could talk to grown ups about say, going to the opera, but I couldn't talk about normal kids stuff because what in the fuck is normal kid stuff? Oh man. A sit-com couldn't have this much weirdness in it.
Do any of you know a comedian named Christopher Titus? Mike loves him. I cannot listen to him, it makes me a sobbing, crying mess. His humor comes from his child abuse. NO.
And I haven't even gotten to Jr. Hi yet. Fuck me.
I do not remember being held, or cuddled, or read to. I remember my father getting VERY angry at me one Christmas because I asked 'is that all' when presents were over. I was 3? 4? He angrily dumped the parts of a metal scooter out of a box held high above me - they did not land on me but the LOUD *clanking* scared the crap out of me. He didn't like me even then. He had a horrible face that day. I didn't know who he was. I guess he was back for an Xmas morning? Need to ask about that. But see, it was my fault - I had been GREEDY. And UNGRATEFUL. I was the dirty ugly child, the one who ruined everything.
Once in California, pulled from Florida and the life I had led since birth, I was absolutely cut from the new herd. I didn't know ANYBODY, all of these people were strange to me and I had never even heard of them. I was alone, isolated, degraded, made fun of, yelled at, punished, teased - it never ended. I lived in a state of constant fear and stress. I was 6. I thought about killing myself a lot.
I never, ever questioned my existence or the changes. I just accepted that my body was now in THIS weird place, with these new people. It was so easy for me to let go of Florida. Like I was used to being 'beamed' from one location to another with no context, no knowledge. *shrug* I'm here now. very fucking weird for a kid.
People talk about the fight-or-flight thing. But there is another option. FREEZE. Like the rabbits in the book Watership Down, one can also go 'tharn' - you just freeze and your brain loses all input. Goes blank. Like the Blue Screen of Death. For me, it was a static noise and an inability to move my limbs. I could not think. I could not talk. When confronted in a stressful situation, I went elsewhere in my head. There are huge chunks of memories gone, incomplete scenes (like that camping bathroom episode, I cannot remember what happened once I was dragged back to the camper). Somewhere, somehow, I learned to shut the fuck down and all systems went on some kind of disassociation vacation. I never un-learned this defense mechanism. It went on to own me.
Things that got yelled at me with exhausting regularity:
"you're a liar!"
"You're a sneak"
"You're so lazy!"
"We could get a monkey to do what you do around here!"
I was whipped on the back of the legs with my dad's belts. I was the only one who ever got hit. I got thrown out of bed and into the closet doors in the middle of the night from a dead sleep. I got my face mashed down into my food at the table because I wasn't eating fast enough. I had to eat at the counter, isolated away from the rest of the family because I didn't do it right. On every vacation I got in trouble and grounded so that I was isolated from fun outings and had to stand behind a fence or off to the side and watch the others. I lived in a constant state of fear and stress. My sensors were on overload, an attack could come at any time. You're 6, 8, and you had better be ready. Going in your room was no solace, there was no place to hide. Hearing anybody yell anything remotely similar to my name causes my stomach to clench and my head to start shutting down. STILL. At 52 years old. If I hear a dad, a random dad, yelling at his kid named Tracy or Stacy because that rhymes with Casey - I am immediately back to that house, my childhood, and terror.
The smell of cigar smoke can send me to the same place.
I have learned to calm myself quickly, in these cases, and my heart ratchets back down in a matter of seconds. But it still happens. I WAS TRAINED. Mind-control is a very easy thing to accomplish for a narc. We are mind-fucked and believe what they tell us either in words or actions. I WAS AN UGLY WORTHLESS STUPID INCOMPETENT CHILD. I believed those words for the next 45 years.
And the other sisters? There was no way to save me. they were saving themselves. See, dad would use the excuse of my (made the fuck up) transgressions as a reason he was angry and why the family was having a bad time. The sisters couldn't understand why I just didn't get in trouble, stop doing those things! But what they didn't see, in keeping their own heads down, was that I had done nothing. I had been set up, every time. Even if they had done the exact same thing, the reaction would have been NOT angry. They couldn't understand why I always got in trouble. Neither could I. That is what is known as MIND CONTROL and Mind Fuckery and it. was. effective. I had already realized that I got in trouble because I was a horrible, ugly, worthless, idiot of a kid who didn't deserve to be with the family. I was a shit stain, and no wonder I was an outcast. SEE HOW THAT WORKS?
I would sit for hours in my bed and I don't remember doing anything. Maybe reading, once I learned to read. Alice in Wonderland over and over and over. It terrified me, it was strange, I liked it.
It never occurred to me to like, clean my room. I simply didn't see it, didn't notice it. I shut down. There is nothing beyond this disassociated bubble I have created, like the 'nothing' in The Neverending Story (yes, I relate to stories quite a lot. They saved me as a child.) Why clean my room when I want to be dead. And I want my parents dead. I did have chores to do each day - and I will tell the truth here. I usually forgot to do them. I was always saying 'I forgot!'. I know how frustrating that is as a parent, Mike went through that stage. I can't tell you why I forgot so much. They were the same chores every week, like sweep the patio on Thursday, bathroom on Tuesday, etc. I just forgot. I was living with my head inside a ringing bell all the time. I escaped into my fantasy world, my own private world - and I didn't see or remember the chores. I guess I really was stupid. I guess they really COULD have gotten a donkey to do what I did around the house. See how that goes?
By the time I went to school I was so used to being on the outside that I automatically put myself there. I was the only kid who could read in 1st grade, but I also got in trouble for hiding under my sweater at my desk a lot. I have no idea if I played at recess, I probably did. The teacher thought I was strange and singled me out for it. I wasn't allowed (by my parents) to bring Valentines to school unless I made them. BY MYSELF. They refused to buy store-bought valentines for me to sign. So I tried making some. And I saw how awful they looked so I threw it all away (I mean, 30 kids! I was fucking 6 with glue and paper, and no help. I mean, the 'parents' were in another room for the evening - 'here's the crap you need, go for it' I didn't know how big to make them, how to cut a heart, just one took me an hour, so then the whole pile turned into punishment, something so far from fun... so I showed up at school with nothing, with my head down in shame. The fact that the other kids still gave ME valentines made my head spin. I figured I was going to be sitting this party out. And it made me so grateful for the attention. And do you see? That overly anxious GRATEFUL WAGGY TAIL singled me out as weird even further. And that became another issue for me, inappropriate gratitude for the smallest action from someone else. It marked me as subservient and a victim for bullying. And then I don't remember anything until 4th grade.
My point here is that I was so stressed, so freaked out all the time, I was learning to live in panic mode. The red button was always pushed, the sirens and alarms were always going off in my head, and unless I was ALONE (like walking home from school) I was on guard. And I didn't do it right, I always got blindsided, I got in trouble anyway. Praying for my parents to die in a car crash didn't seem to come true.
Me, 6-years old. (my grandmother from Iowa is hugging me, my step-mother's mom, another person who could have been the queen of England for all I knew) Notice my clothes - thrashed, and bought in the boys department. Notice my fucked up hair. Boys jeans and shoes. But oh hey! a barette. Those things sure do come popping out when there is a camera nearby. Other than the barette, this is what I looked like all the time. My hair stuck out to the sides like that in a thin-hair-dry-frizzy way, the other kids called me 'roof-head'. Among other things.
I changed schools in 5th grade because I tested high enough on an IQ test to go to the accelerated school. New school, new kids, who had been together all year, I'm new and outside even more. I have no social skills. These are 5th graders. Kids have personalities now - they have groups and strengths and clothing preferences. I had none of that. I didn't know where the bathrooms were, the classrooms could be opened wide for two teachers to teach at a time - it was brand new and very progressive and WAY out of my league. I may have been 'smart' but I was a terrified bunny - no social skills whatsoever.
I think telling you I was ignored by my family is maybe like saying the grand canyon is deep. You cannot know. I had had no voice for so long I didn't know how to express my opinion, and even doing so would merit abuse of some kind. My hair. My clothes. I was WEIRD and marked from it. It was inside me, what with the fear and stress, and with no social skills - I didn't know how to talk to anyone, how to have a friend or be a friend. Or how to speak to teachers. I was smart and read books WAY past my age level and even though I understood the words, I had no way to grasp the adult concepts, nowhere to file them - I had a vocabulary and comprehension of ideas but I couldn't talk about lunch boxes (weren't allowed to have one) or Twinkies (weren't allowed to eat them) I was dirty and not dressed right (the days when girls had their hair braided before school! boys wore tucked in shirts!) and I had to bring SOUP to school for lunch, not a PBJ - I was practically a walking Asperger's child before anyone knew what that was. Anyone remember Boo Radley from 'To Kill A Mockingbird? Lisa Loopner from 'Saturday Night Live'? Yeah, but without Todd.
Lisa Loopner (Gilda Radner), social outcast
I was wretched and fumbling and scared and home was where the abuse was, school was an endurance test and I didn't understand any of it, except the parts where they read to us the series of 'The Black Caldron', that was pretty awesome. Health class? teaching us to wash? wha...? I didn't even tell my family I almost got RAPED. Why would I ask them about washing my face? There were friends, a couple of kids who SAW me and one of whom I am still friends with to this day (a reconnect thanks to FB). Her parents, god love them, they saw what a basket case I was. They invited me over anyway. There was a boy. Byron Kemper. We knew each other through high school and beyond. We became lovers and best friends. HE DIED when we were 25, the rat bastard.
The principal of that school met with my parents and they all decided to hold me back a grade, because my social skills were so far behind. I got held back in 5th grade.
All the people I had been in school with, who already thought I was so weird, were now 6th graders ahead of me. I had ALL NEW KIDS again to get to know, and I knew they were younger than me and oh my jesus, that was the kick in the teeth to my feeling like I was outside. I never, ever, regained any ground in being an outcast. I was pointed at. I was so. fucking. miserable. Those ow 6th graders who had been my classmates went on through Jr. Hi and High School knowing me as The Weird Girl Who Failed 5th Grade. I mean, I didn't fail, but why else do people think you got held back?
Look how comfortable I look. "Please let me die."
My 'parents' never asked how it was going. If they had, I would have replied 'fine'. Because, what? what else is there but to go to school, the place where ALL YOUR PEER TIME IS, and put on the yoke of the Weird Wagon and just pull it all day, every day. I played by myself. I made up games. I told inappropriate jokes I had heard at the dinner table. I didn't do my homework because I didn't understand it and I wasn't going to ask for help, we were expected to work in our bedrooms alone on our own time schedule, it was our responsibility don't EVER ask questions. I knew answers to odd questions and could talk to grown ups about say, going to the opera, but I couldn't talk about normal kids stuff because what in the fuck is normal kid stuff? Oh man. A sit-com couldn't have this much weirdness in it.
Do any of you know a comedian named Christopher Titus? Mike loves him. I cannot listen to him, it makes me a sobbing, crying mess. His humor comes from his child abuse. NO.
And I haven't even gotten to Jr. Hi yet. Fuck me.
Thursday, July 25, 2013
Who said you have to wear that shirt?
Who gave you your label? Which narcissist told you that you were the fat one. Or the good one. Too stupid to learn, too ugly for boys? Who told you what you like, what you don't like, who dared to tell you who you are? Those bastards with their pointing fingers, their blame - they told you. They gave it to you. They shoved you into that shirt.
Did you choose your label? Oh hell no, not a chance, not in a narcissist's world. The narc chooses which role you will play in their world, and it has nothing to do with your skillset. It has everything to do with what the narc needs. It has to do with how much bending you were willing to do to become that actor. How far they can push you to fit into what they need you to be. You weren't asked for your preference - that is the antithesis of being a narcissist. They only choose things that hurt you. It is better for them if you DON'T want it, because then they get the pleasure of forcing you. Of watching your shame and suffering. That is the whole point.
We were babies. We did what we were told. We played the role we were given so that we could be part of the family. There were no options. There was only subservience. Acquiescence. Malleability. Fear. There was only fear. Because they rule with absolute power, unpredictability, fear. Keeping you off balance. Never secure - we always had to look to them for the answers. And the answer was always the same - fear. And we carry that pain with us every day. The words of scorn and blame never leave, they rattle like echoes in your head. A never-ending tape of ridicule and self-loathing. And the narcissists know it - they still see it in your eyes. They love it and they still need to see it, still need you to stay in your role and perform for them, still need your anguish and tears and fear.
It's all they want. All they see - the only thing that makes them hum. Fear. Well, that and adoration, but they despise anyone who adores them - it's a stiletto knife in your heart with a smile.
Do you like that shirt you're wearing? Are you sick and tired of playing the part? You must be. You're here, reading this. You're looking for a way out. You are tired, and worn out. Sick with stress and sick of being an adult and still being afraid. That shirt that they picked out for you, your disgusting narcissistic abusive parents - it doesn't fit - it never did.
YOU CAN TAKE IT OFF.
You can say 'no'. That's what we all talk about, the boundaries we are always going on about out here in ACoN land. Finally taking off the costume they have forced you to wear. That costume of shame and guilt and fear. The shirt with DOORMAT printed on both sides. You are an adult. You have power over your own life. You can choose who you are, and who you become. You can choose what you like, what you prefer. How you spend your time. When you are available and when you are not. How strange that sounds, that your time, your SELF, is your own. You can say 'NO'.
What a relief it will be when you stop dancing. Get away from them. Stop living in fear. Stop living in shame. You get to choose.
If you had a puppy, and the kibble you were feeding your puppy made him sick - vomit, diarrhea, pain - wouldn't you throw out that kibble and buy new? Find the one that made him happy and healthy? you wouldn't force your dog to starve or eat the poisonous kibble. You wouldn't force misery on your dog.
Why are you forcing it on yourself?
Wednesday, July 24, 2013
Updated
The name has changed, but the game is still the same.
I've updated my blog. Weeded out extraneous posts. I'm going to be editing and fine-tuning some of my posts, because while I like what I wrote, there is always room for improvement. As I write I am finding my voice.
And I would like my voice to be a little clearer, is all.
I have always LOVED writing. I am now finding it to be a passion. And it feels like home.
I've updated my blog. Weeded out extraneous posts. I'm going to be editing and fine-tuning some of my posts, because while I like what I wrote, there is always room for improvement. As I write I am finding my voice.
And I would like my voice to be a little clearer, is all.
I have always LOVED writing. I am now finding it to be a passion. And it feels like home.
Monday, July 22, 2013
Isolation: Pictured
I have no context for this picture, and no memory. This was the same trip as the 'campground bathroom episode'.
I was 6. I had just been taken from my mother in Florida. Everyone and everything was strange to me.
I dunno. I just know this picture makes me look already separated from the herd.
Boundaries and Safety Zones
Hey guys - I'm back from Vegas. We went for 4 days to just chill out. It was wonderful.
We slept in until 10:00, welayed lied sat by the pool and read books for hours. We were snoozing in our king-sized bed by 10:00 PM every night. I didn't drink. It was a much needed little getaway.
I only gained 1 POUND and I didn't walk hardly at all. I ate right, but I did allow myself to have a couple bites of cheesecake, and a huge plate of pasta the last night (I'm still paying for that one... *gas* :cough: *gas*
The family kerfuffle only intruded once - Georgia emailed me in kind of a panic because she realized that mom will absolutely not be able to get herself packed in time to have Mike help her load a truck and drive it. I started to have a panic attack (I'm gettingdrug dragged back in! I'm NOT going to go to that house and pack shit into newspaper and put it in boxes my respiratory system will go into failure my stomach is knotting up I can't be around that bitch aaahhh!) and on like that for about 30 minutes.
I let myself just run with it for a bit. Then I said to myself "self, this is not your rock. You have made very clear boundaries. Let it go."
Here is the email exchange (edited for brevity):
[From Georgia]
I tried to call you tonight after I talked to Leslie. I am concerned that helping Mom do this move the U-Haul way may be too much after all. I am going to call Mom from the car tomorrow as we drive to the Tetons. I can tell her that it is too much for you and Mike after all, as well as for Anne and her family. Really, it will take 2 - 4 days of packing boxes, gathering packing materials, crating the mirror or however that will need to be done. Can you, Mike, Anne, and her kids really do all that? I don't know what has gone forward since I last talked to Mom on Monday. Salvation Army was supposed to come yesterday. I need to check in with Mom anyway. So, let me know if you REALLY can help Mom enough to get it done. Don't want everyone's life in a tizzy because it is more work than anyone can really do. Mom is not an initiator of getting help. I think she may be just relying on people to show up with everything she needs to pack.
Please let me know ASAP what you think. I am happy to be the one who gets this information to Mom. I am not going to tell her everything about how you and Mike felt after the packing day at her house. I do feel I need to tell her I have been in communication with you, or she won't take me talking about this with her seriously. She can contact the movers if that is what is right to do, and they will provide boxes, etc. She will still need some help, just not the huge amount of help she would need otherwise.
Do you see how that is sort of panic inducing? I can hear the stress in my sisters FINGERS. She is far away, on vacation, trying to help someone who keeps insisting she needs no help. Here is my answer:
Hi, I am in Las Vegas and reception is spotty. I think it may be better to have a mover in that case. Mike was planning on loading/unloading and driving, but 3 days of packing is more than we bargained for. I think your idea to have her get movers is a good one. I will call you tomorrow if I can, hope this goes through!
And her final email to me:
I got it. Will talk to Mom tomorrow.
Have fun in Vegas1
love,
Georgia
I DO feel bad, leaving this all to the last sister. This is the sister who does not know yet (at least, not directly from me) that I have declared enough to be enough. I think that in trying to respect her and her relationship to my mom, I may have left her feeling abandoned. BUT IT CANNOT BE HELPED.
I am not going to be around my mom, end and point and match. Mike is still willing to do what he can, but needs to work around his own college schedule. This issue ruined a couple hours of vacation for me, but I did not jump to the bait.
In former years, I would have been on the phone to every sister I could get ahold of, bitched and complained and sought advice and called mom and then Mike and volunteered and ugh. Not anymore. It's progress, yes - but I would call it SAFETY. Progress sounds to me like a never ending road. With this issue, I have now made it my primary focus to stay in SAFETY. Gate is closed. Dogs are slavering and running free. Safety Zone.
I'm certain that as this episode of moving my mother gets closer, there will be further exchanges. But my position has been clearly stated, and I have held firm.
What else is there, really?
We slept in until 10:00, we
I only gained 1 POUND and I didn't walk hardly at all. I ate right, but I did allow myself to have a couple bites of cheesecake, and a huge plate of pasta the last night (I'm still paying for that one... *gas* :cough: *gas*
The family kerfuffle only intruded once - Georgia emailed me in kind of a panic because she realized that mom will absolutely not be able to get herself packed in time to have Mike help her load a truck and drive it. I started to have a panic attack (I'm getting
I let myself just run with it for a bit. Then I said to myself "self, this is not your rock. You have made very clear boundaries. Let it go."
Here is the email exchange (edited for brevity):
[From Georgia]
I tried to call you tonight after I talked to Leslie. I am concerned that helping Mom do this move the U-Haul way may be too much after all. I am going to call Mom from the car tomorrow as we drive to the Tetons. I can tell her that it is too much for you and Mike after all, as well as for Anne and her family. Really, it will take 2 - 4 days of packing boxes, gathering packing materials, crating the mirror or however that will need to be done. Can you, Mike, Anne, and her kids really do all that? I don't know what has gone forward since I last talked to Mom on Monday. Salvation Army was supposed to come yesterday. I need to check in with Mom anyway. So, let me know if you REALLY can help Mom enough to get it done. Don't want everyone's life in a tizzy because it is more work than anyone can really do. Mom is not an initiator of getting help. I think she may be just relying on people to show up with everything she needs to pack.
Please let me know ASAP what you think. I am happy to be the one who gets this information to Mom. I am not going to tell her everything about how you and Mike felt after the packing day at her house. I do feel I need to tell her I have been in communication with you, or she won't take me talking about this with her seriously. She can contact the movers if that is what is right to do, and they will provide boxes, etc. She will still need some help, just not the huge amount of help she would need otherwise.
Do you see how that is sort of panic inducing? I can hear the stress in my sisters FINGERS. She is far away, on vacation, trying to help someone who keeps insisting she needs no help. Here is my answer:
Hi, I am in Las Vegas and reception is spotty. I think it may be better to have a mover in that case. Mike was planning on loading/unloading and driving, but 3 days of packing is more than we bargained for. I think your idea to have her get movers is a good one. I will call you tomorrow if I can, hope this goes through!
And her final email to me:
I got it. Will talk to Mom tomorrow.
Have fun in Vegas1
love,
Georgia
I DO feel bad, leaving this all to the last sister. This is the sister who does not know yet (at least, not directly from me) that I have declared enough to be enough. I think that in trying to respect her and her relationship to my mom, I may have left her feeling abandoned. BUT IT CANNOT BE HELPED.
I am not going to be around my mom, end and point and match. Mike is still willing to do what he can, but needs to work around his own college schedule. This issue ruined a couple hours of vacation for me, but I did not jump to the bait.
In former years, I would have been on the phone to every sister I could get ahold of, bitched and complained and sought advice and called mom and then Mike and volunteered and ugh. Not anymore. It's progress, yes - but I would call it SAFETY. Progress sounds to me like a never ending road. With this issue, I have now made it my primary focus to stay in SAFETY. Gate is closed. Dogs are slavering and running free. Safety Zone.
I'm certain that as this episode of moving my mother gets closer, there will be further exchanges. But my position has been clearly stated, and I have held firm.
What else is there, really?
Wednesday, July 17, 2013
Children with Wine
3 different dinners. Within the span of a year, I would guess - but months apart.
Notice the glasses of wine in front of the children - not me, I hated the taste of it. We were not allowed to have milk. Or water. But a glass of cabernet sauvignon was perfectly fine. I was 6 that first year. that makes the sisters a few years older each. so 8, 10, 12.
(also, wallpaper. jeebus.)
Notice the glasses of wine in front of the children - not me, I hated the taste of it. We were not allowed to have milk. Or water. But a glass of cabernet sauvignon was perfectly fine. I was 6 that first year. that makes the sisters a few years older each. so 8, 10, 12.
(also, wallpaper. jeebus.)
I am so goddamned little in this picture I break my own heart.
Tuesday, July 16, 2013
My estrangement email. It always comes to this, doesn't it?
**So, I sent an email to Georgia (at the bottom) explaining one facet of why I was so upset after my visit. Scroll down and read that one first. Then this is the rest of the story**
Dear 3 sisters:
******************************************************
From: Casey
To: Georgia
Sent: Tuesday, July 16, 2013 7:47 AM
Subject: Re: Visit with Mom this week
Dear 3 sisters:
I am sending you the below email I sent to Georgia, just so you are all clear on part of what I was so screaming angry about after my visit with mom. I am not sending this email to Georgia and Leslie - for obvious reasons. This email is not a secret. But I am not out to hurt feelings.
(The 'obvious reason' wasn't so clear. I didn't want to add to the burden of anyone who was trying to repair their relationship with my mom. There was no reason to hand someone a steaming plate of my angst when they are dealing with their own. I didn't want to put anyone in the position of feeling the need to defend my mom - that is not constructive. I was not keeping secrets. I clarified this with the sisters after I sent this email.)
(The 'obvious reason' wasn't so clear. I didn't want to add to the burden of anyone who was trying to repair their relationship with my mom. There was no reason to hand someone a steaming plate of my angst when they are dealing with their own. I didn't want to put anyone in the position of feeling the need to defend my mom - that is not constructive. I was not keeping secrets. I clarified this with the sisters after I sent this email.)
Regarding my visit:
Aside from trapping Mike and attacking him about his weight (see below email), she also got in my face (very much in my personal space) and began mocking me after she asked me a random question about why I was so tan - I had hesitated in my answer (thinking 'wtf is she going for here, it's summer, I'm not that tan, this is a trap, wha...') and she got very close to my face, staring intently into my eyes, saying "urm um hmm um" <--as if that was what I was saying out loud, because I was hesitating. Hard to explain. She was just - well, mean and hard looking, hoping for some response - embarrassment? This is not normal social behavior. Made all the more weird because she is so nice right before and right after one of these incidents - like always. Mike was also a close-up witness to that attack, and was as stunned as I was. She is vicious in a hundred little ways. She has done this exact thing before, this is not new.
I've had some time to process this last visit (it always takes me some time to process visits with her. Since childhood I shut down and disassociate while I'm in her presence, and I think that is a huge deal as well), and these two examples are only two out of a dozen or so that happened in those two days I saw her. These things happen EVERY TIME I see her. This is exactly the way she has treated Alexis and Anne, and Jude I'm assuming this has happened to you as well.
My epiphany is that I am not willing to spend any more of my time around a snake that bites me every time I'm near it. I think it's awful that it took me so long to just be done trying to pet a snake. Being old doesn't preclude her from being polite. Just because I have known her for 46 years doesn't imply that we have any kind of relationship. She has done this sort of thing to me since I was 6-years old. There is no excuse for this behavior, and no excuse for why I have allowed this person in my life for so long.
I have long assumed it was something I could control. If I just tried harder - if I wasn't so weird, so on the outside - you know, if I just changed it would be better. But I realized last week that this has nothing to do with ME. She is just a mean, vicious person. She always has been, this is NOT new behavior. I have never been so mentally healthy and centered, and this happened anyway. The fact that I am now done with her is proof (to me) that I am mentally healthier - I'm aware that she is poison and I am not willing to expose myself to that poison anymore. The fact that it only took me 24-hours to process this visit is a very big deal to me.
I am done with her. But I WILL NOT LOSE YOU THREE. I will not allow her to come between the relationship I have with my sisters. There will be no big declaration - there was no fight. It was just another little straw, like all the other little straws before it. The camel's back has been broken. She would likely be surprised at all of this fuss from me - there was no indication at the time that her actions had any affect at all. (because it takes me time to process her). The catalyst for my decision is that she is beginning to corner and slyly attack my son. and, NO. just no. No more. The cycle will not continue. I'm done.
Perhaps your particular perspective is different. Maybe you feel your relationship with her is worth more of your time. I respect your decision. Please respect mine. I am not leaving in a huff. This has been coming for 46 years. She has made her bed with me, time and again. I do not forgive her for the abuses she inflicted on me as a child, and I will not condone her behavior now.
Mike is still going to help her move - he will drive the U-Haul - he is a grown man and my relationship with mom is not HIS. He and I are not in the same place with regards to this crap. And rightly so. He believes so strongly in FAMILY that he will do this gladly, to help out. He is in communication with mom on his own, and will communicate with all the sisters when there is a time and date for moving. Judith, he may need a place to stay overnight after the move, and I'm going to have him talk to you about crashing on your floor, hope that's fine.
I don't want to make a huge deal out of this. I'm not going to boycott family gatherings if she is there. I will however, choose when and where and if I am around her again. I have reached max capacity for her particular brand of bullshit. I just wanted you three to know.
Casey
******************************************************
From: Casey
To: Georgia
Sent: Tuesday, July 16, 2013 7:47 AM
Subject: Re: Visit with Mom this week
Thanks for not mentioning my second (screaming stressed out) email.
I had fun seeing you guys. Mom drives me crazy, but that happens to all of us. At one point she cornered Mike and was insistent about asking him about his weight - her opinion being that he is too fat. I turned into a mama bear and lost my mind after the visit. She can be very cruel and cutting. He doesn't understand her obsessions about being thin and her comments really hurt his feelings - especially since he was there working so hard to help her. So I was a bit uh, ticked off.
Anywhozle, love to all y'all there. (and etc, other closing remarks)
Monday, July 15, 2013
Estrangement from My Mother *Part 2*
Rabbit Fish. This will make sense later on.
| dad | Alexis |
| Anne | |
| Judith | |
| Casey | |
| mom | Leslie |
| Georgia |
So you can see where the sisters fall on the 'who has what DNA' chart. Keep in mind that all of these people were a unit before I joined up at age 6. I understand that I had actually been around my blood sisters previously, but it must've been age 0 through 3? and I have no real bonding memories of that time.
So we left off after the beach lunch debacle. Read part one here. the next day:
- Mike and I went to Anne's house to hang out with her family for a while before heading over to mom's. The niece who didn't know I was blood family was there, as was her father, Bill, my brother-in-law (Judith's husband). He was in town on business, and was driving back right then with Mia (niece). We hugged hello and goodbye and they took off. An hour or so later Georgia (sister staying with mom for a few days to help pack) called me to tell me that any time was a good time to come over, as they had just gotten back from lunch with Bill and Mia. This made me tilt my head again, and when I hung up I asked Anne if she had known about this lunch - because remember, Bill had just left Anne's house and was in a hurry to drive back to Sonoma and get a start on the drive, and nothing was said about lunch with mom, but we both just sorta said 'huh' and let it go. I left with Mike for mom's house.
- We arrive at the house and Bill and Mia are still there talking to mom. I smile at Bill and say 'I didn't know you were gonna be here!' because that is the natural thing to say, right? AND I don't care that he went to lunch, small groups are better, whatever. He says 'well, I just didn't want to make a big deal out of it at Anne's house' TRIANGULATION NATION. I only shrugged and hugged them both goodbye again and filed that away and la de dah.
- There are boxes already packed and taped shut with Georgia's name on them in the dining room. I instantly think 'wonder what that crap is', and then I mentally shrugged again because I do not want anything in that house anyway, and maybe she was just getting stuff ready to go, but it seemed secretive to me. Whether or not anything in those boxes was a secret, it triggered me more and thus it was a useful event. I'm certain, actually, that there was nothing nefarious in those boxes. It is a useful event because it made me face all of this stuff at the same time. SECRETS. I'm not a fan.
- Mike was busting his ass moving furniture into Georgia's truck and hauling boxes and stuff, and when he sat down to rest mom started in asking him about his weight. I didn't hear the whole conversation, and he was fine by himself (and too much of a grown man to need or want my help) but I wanted to fucking kill her, she is so weird about weight and everyone should be anorexic like her.
- We were in the spare room and Mike was sitting there, and mom asked me where I lie out to get so tan. (she is standing too close to me at this point, really looking at my face) this triggers me and in my head I am saying 'this is a trap. What in the fuck is she really asking. I lie out by the pool sometimes but I told her I walk 3 or more miles a day. Where is this going.) you know, like a normal child of a narc, sensing a trap. SHE senses my hesitation and gets all up in my face, like SERIOUSLY up in my face! and starts going 'um hem urm hem um' as if those were the noises I was making. Hard to describe but she was MOCKING ME for my hesitation. I *bleeped* past it (in retrospect I do that to avoid conflict, learned defense) and I said blah blah "plus I'm 1/4 full blood Mexican, I tan easily". She immediately interrupted me (I KNEW THAT WOULD PISS HER OFF - back in the day being Mexican was seen as being derogatory, prejudice has no logic) and said 'not to correct you, but your grandmother [dad's mother] was SPANISH. <--this had long been dad's contention. HOWEVER she was Mexican, my grandfather met and married her in Arizona, on the border of Mexico ANYWHOZLE I told her no, the woman was Mexican. I have her records from Ancestry.com. "Well, do you know her maiden name??" <--snotty voice "yes, it was Ramirez. Jesusita Ramirez Henderson." "well, your dad just always liked that link to Spain" BECAUSE HE REWROTE HIS HISTORY FUCKING CHRIST. And that was her best argument? But it was the mocking thing, right in my face, with her eyes just examining my face minutely for any lie, or chink in my armor... I still don't know what her point was in my being tan but I successfully deflected all that with the remark about Mexican vs Spanish.
- That night at dinner I was sitting between Anne and Georgia, and Georgia started talking about getting very emotional that our childhood home was being sold. Anne and I were again like that dog
- wha da fuq you sayin?
- I started to say "I don't have the same emotional attachment to that place" (again trying to talk to fish at the aquarium) but I remembered in time and just started saying 'uh huh uh huh' and let it go. (Anne and I have discussed contacting the new owners and telling them to burn sage and pour salt around the house, lol)
- I let Anne know what Bill had said - the "I just didn't want to make a big deal of it at Anne's house" and we both just boggled at that. This is a big issue which I'm sure you can guess, but it may have actually been THE last straw.
- Georgia pointed out a small box of percussion instruments - maracas, a bongo drum, some other clackity musical things, and asked me if I wanted them. I said no, perhaps little Ericson (my grand nephew, 3 yrs old) would like them? Georgia looked askance and said 'don't you think he'll just break them?!' and I started to talk to the aquarium, I admit it - I said something about how 'you were going to donate them to a thrift store, da fuq?' but I stopped myself and just pushed the box over to the donate area and moved along.
- I had driven up to OC and paid for a hotel room in order to go to mom's house and speak to her about movers vs. renting a U-Haul. When I got there mom informed me she had already had two companies out and had their quotes. So my involvement was unnecessary. I would think that someone other than mom knew this was going down. Mom would have told Georgia or Leslie or even Judith that she had had movers out to estimate stuff - and everyone has been on emails where we all know who is doing what, that I was going to lead the moving portion. Why wasn't I informed? Did whoever it was think that I was going to drop the ball (that old thinking of me as the scapegoat again!) - is that why Bill was over there? I don't give a fuck about helping, the point is SECRETS.
I can no longer make any effort to be around some of my family. It's as if I have been PULLING and tugging a barge up a stream, and I was responsible for making it move. I just realized the rope was actually attached to a solid wall, no movement possible.
I let go of the rope.
I am now estranged from my mom.
When I sent the email summing up the visit out to all the sisters, I did do some passive-aggressive shit of my own, because *GRIN* why not? I said that Bill had been there having lunch with mom, did he have any input?? Shouting to everyone the little secret they were trying to keep to themselves. Cracks me up to think of that. I also mentioned that mom had already had movers out there, and that my efforts were redundant and isn't she being so proactive? I also mentioned that Mike had helped Georgia load a bunch of boxes of stuff into her truck. Lol - I just threw light on everything, all the mold in the dark places.
There has been talk of everyone getting together for mom's 80th birthday in November, where can we all go, etc. I am not going. I've already told Anne. It exhausts me to think of being in a room with some of them. I'm no longer willing to make an effort to talk to the aquarium. It bores me. I'm just DONE. Anybody who makes me feel *that* feeling of anxiety and stress? not going to be around them. Sure, there is the family association crap, but I have met other people who freak me out and I don't hang with them anymore - You get to pick. you get to pick who is worth your time - and family doesn't automatically make the cut just because you've known them a long time. YOU GET TO PICK.
And I am in the process of un-picking people. Culled from my herd, as it were.
I did talk at length to Anne. She is crazy too, yes, she is broken too - we all are. But she has always been real with me, even when it isn't you know, pleasant. Anyway, I told her that if I have ever EVER said anything asshole-ish to her, or her kids (because that is very possible as I have been very broken for a long time) that I AM SO SORRY. Not one of those stupid apologies but seriously. I do not want to lose people who DO speak my language, who ARE of the same species. You know what she said? this is huge.
(paraphrasing) "anything we said before we got mentally healthy in the last few years is bullshit. We said it because we were taught to be assholes and be defensive and those were the only tools we had. That stuff has to be forgiven and forgotten because it wasn't real. We had to un-learn all that bullshit crap and learn how to be real, learn how to be human. that's what matters."
I am so. very. healthy now. And all the pieces are falling into place.
Estrangement from my mother *Part 1*
So, I went up to OC to visit with
family, Mike went too - that's where we left off. First of all, nothing BAD
happened. Like, there was no big blow-out, no fighting.
(I don't really want to tell the story in chronological order - it really is a series of vignettes that can be told in bullet format. It’s a long and winding road of a post, so don’t feel bad if you don’t want to read it all. TL:DR – I decided to estrange myself from any family members who make me dizzy when I talk to them. I’m very happy about this decision.)
My mother's narcissistic behavior finally killed our relationship.
The rest of any bikes that may have
been purchased in previous years would have been early 60’s models, not the
coolness that was MY bike. She is
rewriting history and Whoops. I have found a picture of Georgia on the same type of bike, hers is red. So, it was the two of us that had the same bike - I probably wanted one just like hers, actually. But she does want to change our childhood into something it wasn't and that makes me tilt my head to the side like that dog in the
RCA ads.
The straw that broke the camel's
back was just another little straw, right? One more, same as the rest,
not unusual, just another straw.
The Last
Straw.
(I don't really want to tell the story in chronological order - it really is a series of vignettes that can be told in bullet format. It’s a long and winding road of a post, so don’t feel bad if you don’t want to read it all. TL:DR – I decided to estrange myself from any family members who make me dizzy when I talk to them. I’m very happy about this decision.)
-->Before we begin, I would
like to tell you THIS: I got home from the weekend and composed a very
nice email to all sisters, telling them about mom's progress on the house and
what Mike and I accomplished and blah blah, hit send. Then I wrote an
email to ONE sister, saying 'the family is all fucking nuts, I'll call you
later'. Hit send. YEAH, I sent that one to all sisters too.
I DROPPED THE CAKE AGAIN. Be careful of your
'too' line, is all I'm sayin'. At least it said the entire family was
fucking nuts, not just one sister, so, I was saved from COMPLETE
assholery. I'm only an incomplete asshole.<--
My mother's narcissistic behavior finally killed our relationship.
Scene 1: We're all waking
around at the beach, cruising the shops and talking. Georgia (the next
oldest from me, re-writing history, remember?) starts in on Mike about college
- how it's SO important, it's the only way to get a career, SUPER IMPORTANT
(Mike is going to college on the GI bill, but is not certain that is the route
he wants to take. I am not a big proponent of college, I am not against
college - there are many roads to success, and success is not defined by a
corner office, cars, clothes, or debt - but to each their own etc.)
Anyway, Mike was getting pissed and rightly so, I had to step in, I think
Georgia was worried about her kid who is 13 and didn't want her to hear any
'not college is great!' stuff, but seriously. I don't care what the
subject is, you are beating a dead horse. This is not the first sister
who PREACHES COLLEGE and we are well and truly sick of it - all the nieces and
nephews get the 'are you going to go to school?' judgmental question every
conversation with any aunt (except ME because I am perfect, don'tchaknow).
2: Georgia was talking at
lunch about how the day before, she was at mom's house and some Jehovah’s
Witnesses knocked on the door. Georgia and mom INVITED THEM IN THE HOUSE
and talked with them for a couple hours.
- Just because someone SAYS they are from a religious group, doesn't mean that they are. My mom lives alone and is 80 years old. These people could have been scoping the place out (laughable if you knew what mom has, who would want it, but still) Murder, Mayhem, Etc - really?
- 2 HOURS when mom has done essentially NOTHING to pack and move, she has a month to sort through 45 years of accumulated dusty crap and you take 2 hours to talk with strangers?
- In the little piles of crap that pass for ‘sorted’ in that house are some religious books, like the bible but more with holy scriptures and passages and feel-good sentiments. In the TOSS pile was a number of vintage books with tags from my real mother Kaye, or which had the signature of mom’s first husband (and therefore the real father of Leslie and Georgia) – things that might be valuable to someone. She threw that stuff away and kept these random religious books that were not even hers from childhood I think?
wha da fuq you sayin?
4.
One of my nieces who was there visiting had no clue that I was full
blood sister to her mother - she thought my mom, who is our step-mother (except
for Georgia and Leslie) was my blood mother. Not that I am all
AHHH! TAINTED BLOOD!! which, you know, kinda - but it tells me that things
are not being told correctly, the truth is shrouded - it's all so weird.
(This nieces mother is one of my blood sisters. It's like the Brady
Bunch, 4 sisters are dad's, vs. 2 sisters are step-monster's). Also this
makes me feel more like I am on the outside, which I have been since the day I
was born.
~So that is the first day. All
of those were just little straws, and it took me until later that night to
process all of this. I was in the hotel room with Mike and I had this AH
HA moment:
My mom is like a fish in a big aquarium to me. I go to ,
and I have kept trying to talk to the fish - there is no way to get my voice heard
through the glass, she doesn't understand me, they just keep swimming. ALL
OF MY LIFE I have been trying to communicate with a different species. It
isn't my fault that I can't get them to understand me, and that I can't
understand them. THEY ARE A DIFFERENT SPECIES THAN I AM. It is impossible
for us to understand each other or to communicate. It isn't ME. No
matter how hard I try to be understanding, or gentle, or listen - I am never
going to make any headway. I have always thought it was because I was so
weird, so crazy – there must be some logical reason I am on the outside,
right? So I gave up that night, I gave
myself permission to give up! And I knew it was the right decision
because I felt so LIGHT and my hair was tingling and I was joyous. I GAVE
UP. No more trying to talk to people who do not in any way speak my
language. Or any language close to it. They are fish, I am human,
there is no understanding a tuna. Or a smelt. And IT ISN’T ME.
So that was my first apostrophe epiphany.
(TW – this part of my apostrophe is for you): They all contributed
to my being forced to the outside, at first it was modeled for them by the
parents, and then later years up TO NOW EVEN they just continue to do it, to
see what they want to see. It is easier for them to keep me in that box even when faced with fact and irrefutable evidence. To that I say whatever! I AM FREE it feels so good to just wash my hands of them!
*there is more, this will need to be a 2-parter because the dogs have to pee*
Wednesday, July 10, 2013
Where a narcissist would call home
Good lord y'all. My mother sold her house. Wait, let me show you where I grew up!
OH MY SHITTING GOD THERE ARE MORE PICTURES OF THE PLACE ON GOOGLE from the realtors website I guess:
Side of the apartment building. That upstairs balcony was their separate living quarters. Ground floor middle, behind the plants, was the living room we used as a sort of Rec Room, ballet bars, stereo, bean bag chairs... When I got older I rented that unit . No grass, that fence at the far left is the alley, toward the right is Death Street. FUN!
Living room. It didn't look like this when I lived there - it was 70's wonderama when I lived there. Now it's all prissy white furniture, white carpets, white walls. She wants me to take that coffee table, it weighs about 200 pounds (solid as hell) and it's huge. I dunno. Bonfire?
Anywhoozle - she sold her house and blah blah she's already closed escrow, has 60 days to rent back and GTFO. Guess what.
I'm going up there on Thursday/Friday, to hang out with a coupla sisters and talk to my mom about moving companies. Yeah, that'd be ME. I have already had a panic attack about it - which is weird, right? Because I can walk away if shit goes down. I mean, all that could possibly happen is that she gets stabby with her words, and I get STABBY back and thenI kill her I go home.
Wait - I forgot to tell you this part. See, mom is from that generation where photographs were more precious than gold. She did one thing, she documented the holy HELL out of our lives. She has them all starting in these 1960's photo albums, remember these:
they are thick and huge. Starting in like 1964? 1965? and on up. I have no idea how many books, bazillions of photos. And captions underneath, all documenting our lives. Here's the point. She would NEVER, EVER let those books out of the house before. But all the sisters are clamoring for them, someone save them, since she throws everything away, SAVE THE PHOTOS, SAVE WHAT WE HAVE OF OUR CHILDHOOD!!
*I offered to (if mom will let me pry them from her cold old fingers) take all the books, scan all the photos, put the books back together, send everyone a thumb-drive with copies, and send the books to whoever*
Essentially? I just offered my family an entire year of my time. remember this little gem?
Yeah, like that.
So my panic attacks are about mom saying something like (in a quavery worried voice) "make sure you don't toss any of those pictures" and me saying something like "stab stab stab" because, well - only another ULB could understand the millions of lines of sub-text in a statement like that. And I don't want to fight, I want to help my sisters to help this old lady to get in a home and shut the fuck up.
The sister who is coming out, is the one who was the most behind me when I started NOT lying about the abuse that happened to me as a kid. She is the closest in age, the one who saw it all (most of it). Now she is the one who is trying to re-write history - not to negate MY reality, but in order for her to have a relationship with her mother before she dies. So I am already running conversational scenarios in my head (like we do, dont'cha know) to see what topics I could talk about without saying "stab stab stab". Are you sensing a theme?
oh I'm fine. I'm ALWAYS fine, we are always fine, right? I'm just looking forward to this like a dental cleaning or a pap smear. Rectal exam. But, I will get my hands on those photo albums and then they will be safe.
So, a man gets custody of all 4 of his very young daughters in 1964. He decides, after much deliberation, to buy the above 4-unit apartment building. It is 15 FEET from the railroad tracks. 15 feet. This was during the Vietnam war, so the freight trains came about every hour, the passenger trains about every 45 minutes. The street out front was only 2 lanes at the time, you used to be able to park in front, but the yard was never bigger - and there was never any grass. You can see how child-friendly this place was. here is the view from the top:
So extremely busy railroad tracks on one side, busy scary street right in front, and an asphalt alley behind. no grass, no yard, nowhere to play. My bedroom was the closest to the street and tracks. It was LOUD AS FUCK, is what I'm saying. He had a carpenter guy come out and put doorways in that linked 3 of the apartments together, so that there were enough bedrooms/bathrooms. Don't think his logic was about renting and making money, he rented ONE unit out. We had 3 kitchens, 3 living rooms... They (mom and dad) lived in the upstairs unit, connected to the two downstairs but separate. They had like, a separate apartment up there. Living room furniture, balcony, kitchen - king of the castle. It was weird, and not normal - you know? Not a house...?OH MY SHITTING GOD THERE ARE MORE PICTURES OF THE PLACE ON GOOGLE from the realtors website I guess:
Anywhoozle - she sold her house and blah blah she's already closed escrow, has 60 days to rent back and GTFO. Guess what.
I'm going up there on Thursday/Friday, to hang out with a coupla sisters and talk to my mom about moving companies. Yeah, that'd be ME. I have already had a panic attack about it - which is weird, right? Because I can walk away if shit goes down. I mean, all that could possibly happen is that she gets stabby with her words, and I get STABBY back and then
Wait - I forgot to tell you this part. See, mom is from that generation where photographs were more precious than gold. She did one thing, she documented the holy HELL out of our lives. She has them all starting in these 1960's photo albums, remember these:
*I offered to (if mom will let me pry them from her cold old fingers) take all the books, scan all the photos, put the books back together, send everyone a thumb-drive with copies, and send the books to whoever*
Essentially? I just offered my family an entire year of my time. remember this little gem?
So my panic attacks are about mom saying something like (in a quavery worried voice) "make sure you don't toss any of those pictures" and me saying something like "stab stab stab" because, well - only another ULB could understand the millions of lines of sub-text in a statement like that. And I don't want to fight, I want to help my sisters to help this old lady to get in a home and shut the fuck up.
The sister who is coming out, is the one who was the most behind me when I started NOT lying about the abuse that happened to me as a kid. She is the closest in age, the one who saw it all (most of it). Now she is the one who is trying to re-write history - not to negate MY reality, but in order for her to have a relationship with her mother before she dies. So I am already running conversational scenarios in my head (like we do, dont'cha know) to see what topics I could talk about without saying "stab stab stab". Are you sensing a theme?
oh I'm fine. I'm ALWAYS fine, we are always fine, right? I'm just looking forward to this like a dental cleaning or a pap smear. Rectal exam. But, I will get my hands on those photo albums and then they will be safe.
Tuesday, June 25, 2013
Song for Sonny Liston
So many mouths
To feed on the farm
Sonny was the second
To the last one born
His mamma ran away
And his daddy beat him bad
And he grew up wild
Good love he never had
He had a left
Like henry's hammer
A right like betty bamalam
Rode with the muggers
In the dark and dread
And all them sluggers
Went down like lead
Well he hung with the hoods
He wouldn't stroke the fans
But he had dynamite
In both his hands
Boom bam
Like the slammer door
The bell and the can
And the bodies on the floor
Beware the bear's in town
Somebody's money says
The bear's going down
Yeah, the bear never smiles
Sonny's going down
For miles and miles
Sonny's going down
For miles and miles
The writers didn't like him
The fight game jocks
With his lowlife backers
And his hands like rocks
They didn't want to have
A bogey man
They didn't like him
And he didn't like them
Black Cadillac
Alligator boots
Money in the pockets
Of his sharkskin suits
Some say the bear
Took a flop
They couldn't believe it
When they saw him drop
He had a left
Like henry's hammer
A right like betty bamalam
Rode with the muggers
In the dark and dread
And all them sluggers
Went down like lead
Joe Louis was his hero
He tried to be the same
But a criminal child
Wears a ball and chain
So the civil rights people
Didn't want him on the throne
And the hacks and the cops
Wouldn't leave him alone
Beware the bear's in town
Somebody's money says
The bear's going down
Yeah, the bear never smiles
Sonny's going down
For miles and miles
Sonny's going down
For miles and miles
At the foot of his bed
With his feet on the floor
There was dope in his veins
And a pistol on the drawer
There was no investigation
As such
He hated needles
But he knew too much
Criss-crossed
On his back
Scars from his daddy
Like slavery tracks
The second-last child
Was the second-last king
Never again was it the same
In the ring
He had a left
Like henry's hammer
A right like betty bamalam
Rode with the muggers
In the dark and dread
And all them sluggers
Went down like lead
They never could be sure
About the day he was born
A motherless child
Set to working on the farm
And they never could be sure
About the day he died
The bear was the king
They cast aside
Beware the bear's in town
Somebody's money says
The bear's going down
Yeah, the bear never smiles
Sonny's going down
For miles and miles
Sonny's going down
For miles and miles
*********
Charles (Sonny) Liston was a beast of a man. Became heavy-weight champ and then lost the title to Cassius Clay (Mohammad Ali). But it's Sonny's story before that bout that we're looking at, the life story that Knopfler wrote about. And it's that story - that childhood, that saddens and enrages me.
He was born somewhere between 1928 and 1932 - nobody knows for sure and he doesn't appear on the census reports until 1940. It was that kind of life - nobody recorded your birth. The event wasn't that big of a deal. YOU weren't that big of a deal. Just another baby in a long line of babies and who cares anyway?
Evidently his father had been widowed in his fifties and had already fathered twelve children with his first wife. Reading the rest of the story I can easily believe she died of starvation, stress, or was beaten to death. Once his first wife was dead, he took up with a 16 year-old child named Helen Baskin (don't know if they were married) and moved her to Arkansas in 1916; she then gave birth to 13 more children. Read that again. 25 CHILDREN TOTAL. Tobin Liston, called Tobe (Tobe. TOE BEE - srsly) was a black sharecropper in backwoods Mississippi and Arkansas in the early 1900's. He was dirt. assed. poor. Here is a picture of a white sharecropping family from 1916, there are almost no pictures of black families from that time. This family only has a few children:
That 16-year old girl kept on getting pregnant. From the rest of this story, I'm going to assume she was getting beaten and raped by this Tobe piece of shit. 13 CHILDREN. Giving birth 13 times, alone without pain meds or after care, without decent food in a dirt hovel - in the miserable summer and winter weather with no bathroom. And NO JOY whatsoever. Thirteen times. Imagine how tired and afraid and weak and NARCED OUT this girl was. Living this life of never ending days, never ending nights, never ending fear, never ending demands, and never ending children. A couple of the eldest kids may have been gone, but for sure you can bet that he 'married' poor Helen Baskin in order to have childcare and to warm his bed - so I am going to assume (again) that there were probably at LEAST 8 children to take care of already, before the babies came and kept on coming. ALWAYS pregnant. Always. Your body never your own.
The 'house' was more than likely a one room gig. 25 bodies. No bathroom. More than one baby nursing at a time, more than one toddler being potty trained without water, without diapers. Everything that happened in that place was heard and seen by all of them. Every time he yelled and hit and thrashed anyone, everyone was there. Any time he forced sex on that girl, the kids heard it. She gave up. Sonny was quoted as saying she was 'helpless' - what could she do? You fight, you get beat. You cry, too bad, you have 3 kids sucking at the teat and 4 or 5 more needing wiped down and food for 20 or so to pluck out of the air and cook and - *shrug* you give up. When he says "bend over" you just do it. Why fight it - you can't fight it.
Talk about PTSD. Wonder what happened to the rest of the family.
Feeding around 25 people on a sharecroppers wages. All the kids put to backbreaking labor as soon as they were what - 5? 6? weaned and out of diapers? Tobe's opinion was quoted by Sonny as being "if he can sit at the table, he can work". What would you cook? How would you wash clothes for that many people - where do you go to get the water, the wood - the flour and beans? Where does everyone sleep, and what do they wear? Books. Music. Toys. JOY. What in the fuck kind of life is this.
This is reminding me of 'Breakfast at Tiffany's' - another thoroughly depressing story.
Sonny is believed to have been the second-to-the-last child and youngest son. When Sonny was 13 his mother left with all the other kids and escaped to St. Louis. She left Sonny behind. I am halfway screaming furious at this, and halfway accepting of her choice - she took ALL THE OTHER KIDS STILL AT HOME and ran. Old Tobe probably insisted on keeping one boy to work with him on the farm. Sonny's back was already so scarred from whippings (A WHIP ACROSS HIS BACK) so many times before that the scars were visible for DECADES, and in fact are a juicy tidbit in the biographies written about him. So she took a Sophie's Choice and ran. As Spock said, "The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few" - and yeah. If you can save a dozen or more by leaving one, you go.
Imagine that day - the day she was leaving. No WAY would Tobe have just LET her and all those kids go - those kids were HIS slaves, his way to food. He worked those kids. So how did she get out? Either in the dead of night or with a nuclear war, and where did she get the strength?
AND - why leave the youngest boy? Why didn't old Tobe insist on an older boy, one that was more used to the work, one who could help more? Sonny -
Exhausted, out of your mind with terror, weak, hungry, filthy and desperate. I keep trying to get my head around that life. I cannot. Trying to save any of the babies you have, any at all, from the monster.
They ALL got beat. A man like this, with this many children, does not have a golden child. But Sonny? Became the scapegoat. THE scapegoat. For all that went on, for all that was wrong before.
From this website: http://www.thesweetscience.com/news/articles-frontpage/15175-a-birthday-for-sonny-liston (Tobe Liston) was, by all reports, a man whose hostility could not be contained in the meager five-foot-five frame God had given him. It spilled out in torrents of abuse and the oversized boy who didn’t pick cotton fast enough and whose silence was mistook for a simple mind, bore the brunt of it. Sonny wasn’t sentimental about his childhood: “The only thing I ever got from my old man was a beating,” he said.
Sonny was abandoned (in his mind) by his mother and siblings, left alone with the monster who now had nothing else to focus on. Sonny became the target - and imagine the mind fuck of all of this. While I understand Helen's choice to cut and run, I can MORE imagine Sonny's state of mind at discovering he was to be the sacrifice. His Mother didn't save him, his father was a terrifying demon. He ended up working for one of his brother-in-laws, thrashing pecan trees for the nuts and selling them. With what money he could scrape together, he traveled to St. Louis to re-join his mother and siblings. Where else was he going to go? A kid wants his mother, and wants answers. Wants that Time back that got stolen - the time he should have been away from the demon like the rest of them. I cannot imagine her pain - she loved him, no doubt:
He became a gang-banger - a mean street thug and served time in prison. He was a 'bone breaker' for the Italian mafia. He worked for some pretty bad dudes, he was a pretty bad dude. He never complained about prison - he had 3 meals a day and a clean place to sleep. Imagine that - prison is better than my other life. It was in prison that he learned to box. He had an amazing boxing career - I know nothing of boxing so I am going to give you a link to Wikipedia so you can read about it and research it yourself. They called him 'The Big Bear' : http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sonny_Liston
He was associated with the 'under world' and had a pretty long rap sheet. He was essentially fighting for his life both in and out of the ring - his reputation caused a vicious circle of adulation and vilification. When he won the title for Heavyweight Championship of the World, Liston had prepared a speech for a crowd that his friends had told him would be there to meet him at Philadelphia airport. But when he arrived, Sonny was only met by a few reporters and some public relations staff. Where was the big celebration he felt he was entitled to - the celebration any other winner of that title would have been guaranteed? Well, he was just kind of an asshole thug, is what. Black people didn't get TV time unless they could be 'admired' - we all know the shame of the history of the way they were treated in this country - even Sammy Davis Jr., star of Vegas with the rest of the Rat Pack, wasn't allowed to stay in the very hotels where he was headlining. So give a black man a history of prison time and rap sheets - there was no way they were going to celebrate him.
The Civil Rights movement didn't want him either - he wasn't the type of person they wanted to be a spokesman for them.
Everybody both hated and loved him. Then he evidently took a fall in the fight with Ali - was forced to take a fall - and his career went directly into the shitter. I found a book written about him and the Ali fights, here : http://www.sonnyliston.net/.
There was huge controversy over his death in 1970. It was declared a heroin overdose but there is incontrovertible evidence from many sources that Sonny hated needles, and even refused a celebratory over-seas exhibition tour of Europe because of the shots he would have had to get. There are still to this day suspicions that he was murdered.
But what my point is - I guess - is his childhood. The abuse <--that word just doesn't seem big enough for what he went through. And? He rose above it. In his own way, he found a way out. Yes, crime and prison, but he also had the stamina and drive to train his way to several boxing matches which he WON - and became Heavy Weight Champion of the World. That is some serious dedication right there.
"Liston married Geraldine Clark in St. Louis, Missouri, on September 3, 1957. He had a stepdaughter and they subsequently adopted a boy from Sweden. Geraldine remembered her husband as, "Great with me, great with the kids. He was a gentle man." He had a STEP daughter, and adopted another kid. There were several more born out of wedlock - not sure of the timeframe, before or during his marriage.
He wouldn't have made himself an easy person to love. He was damaged, and we all know how that goes.
Evidently he was very generous with his children and his wife. He helped his sister Alcora financially during a very difficult time. By all accounts he didn't pass on his legacy of abuse and neglect. He stopped it dead.
He had not only tasted poverty, he had eaten a buffet of poverty. If crime would buy him food and shelter - if that was the way to get money and therefore respect, then yes - hellz yes. He went from that hovel, that hideous abusive shack in the backwaters of the south, to sharkskin suits and Cadillacs. Hell yes he was a criminal. I don't applaud the crimes but I do understand the motivation, the willingness to do whatever it took to not be that poor ever again. And to not EVER be beaten and whipped again. To be the toughest fucking dog in the pack. Yeah, I get that.
He made mistakes out of the fear and rage in his head. But he didn't swing at his kids. And isn't that what we are all always talking about - how narcs always say "but my childhood was bad, I'm a victim, waaah" when NONE OF US did it. And even someone who had it as bad as Sonny Liston didn't do it.
****************
From http://www.sonnyliston.net/
"Sonny’s immense talent has been largely ignored but it has never been equaled. Half a century ago, he was to boxing what Babe Ruth was to baseball, what Tiger Woods became to golf, and what Usain Bolt is to track.
The legendary Joe Louis called Liston the greatest heavyweight champion in history. Boxing’s three best big men of all time were in awe of Sonny, as was the entire sports world. Gilbert Rogin’s characterization of Liston as the nearest piece of talent to Godzilla, was an accurate description both of his ability and the public’s perception of him when he was champ. Veteran trainer Angelo Dundee said Liston stood over the division like a colossus. When Louis said, “Nobody’s gonna beat Liston ’cept old age,” there was no reason or indication to think otherwise."
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