All Hallows Eve

Here are a couple of fabulous home-made halloween costumes of your's truly - for your howling pleasure.

 

1:  1982-ish.  I was Carmen Miranda.  Nobody knew who in the fuck that was.  I finally just said I was the Chiquita Banana lady.  That fruit hat was tres dificil to make.  It had a pineapple on top so it was always *swoop*ing over to one side or the other.  My friend there was a pirate - obv.  This was LONG before Johnny Depp, so her pirate is modeled after the fake ones we always saw at Disneyland.  Yo ho ho.  She ended up being FAR more comfortable at the backyard keg party we went to.  Go figure.

 

 

 

 

2.  This is me when I was working at PXL- about 3 or 4 years ago?  Homemade 1960's Space Girl.  Which is pretty apt for ME, I might add.  Notice the incredibly technical and scientific pipe cleaner dealio on my head.

 

Enjoy your Halloween kids.  I'm going out for a LONG walk with my dogs - I have some mental things to figure out (I'll be gone till 2015!  HAHAHA *buh dum DING*) that storm brought up some uh, ISSUES that evidently I need to deal with.  Issues that don't even have anything to do with life, death or WIND.  huh.

*glub*

I'M ALIVE!  Sorry you guys, and thank you so much for your advice and such encouraging words.

I have discovered that I AM A WORRIER - huh.  Who knew.  I spose this is yet another thing I have to work on, as I do that hideous thing called GROWING AS A PERSON *ugh*. 

Anyway, it is raining, it has been raining, it will keep raining, forever and ever world without end.  Or until Sandy passes.  We have all preps done, we still have electricity and water, we're on the 3rd floor, so - so far, so good.

Jeff is home from work today and he and I and both dogs are piled under blankets watching movies and the weather channel, back and forth.

Keep Calm and Carry On, I guess.

me

Oh, pooh pooh

So I haven't been able to take my eyes off of the Weather Channel since the news broke about this hurricane.  I KNOW I have a tendancy to stress out about disasters (you should've seen me during the wild fires in San Diego) but I am so angry right now.

All of my Maryland friends on FB are saying "oh, pshhh - it ain't nothin', it'll miss us, blah blah" and - I am so angry right now and I guess it fits into this blog because I feel triggered?

YOU'RE WRONG.  You're worrying for nothing.  What YOU think is completely baseless (even though I am watching SCIENTISTS) and this is a NON-issue.

CERTAINLY, the Weather Channel makes a HUGE! BIG! DEAL! out of everything so you will stay tuned for the next drama fueled report.  I GET THAT.  But the factual info they have is coming from the military and the National Hurricane Center and the path of this hurricane is pretty much STILL directly headed to my area.

I dunno.  You guys parse it out OR DON'T it's my issue but I haven't slept in a couple days and this thing isn't even scheduled to hit for two more.  It is barely breezy here and although cloudy, nary a drop of rain.  But I know it's coming.  I have issues, can you guess?  I can't control this, which is beyond my scope of reasoning I CONTROL EVERYTHING WHY NOT THE WEATHER.

Even if the winds are ONLY 75 MPH - sweet fancy Moses, isn't that fast enough to do some damage?  And I am on a penninsula - there is only one road out.  Storm Surge 2012 might be enough to cover the road?

Yes, I have candles and batteries and flashlights and toilet paper, I have food but I need to do something so imma go get MORE FOOD but the point of this is

I hate being patted on the head.  If you are prepared for the worst, it helps.  I ALWAYS prepare for the worst, and most times I am pleasantly surprised.  But why this tendancy for people to downplay fears and feelings?  I mean, I'm not big on wah feeeelings but this - ugh.

I can't do it right now.  Words are failing me.  THANKS, WORDS.  I'm not PANICKING like bok bok chicken little ahhhh! but I am taking it seriously, piling blankets and gathering candles and making ice.

But this "pshaw little baby, it ain't nuttin" - is that ONLY because these people have lived through this fear many times and come out the other end?  I always respected those people who said "nah, I ain't movin'" (sorry, they really do talk like that down here I'm not characterizing) or is it being negated? <--is that a word?  Am I being pushed aside, pushed to the back, minimized?

Or am I just a big triggery baby?

My husband texted me this morning that we may be out of power for a few days NO SHIT SHERLOCK what have I been telling you but since a co-worker AND A MAN told him that, suddenly it is real.

Ah shit. I'm going to go get more - something.  Then coming home to make a big pot of spaghetti.

Sorry, I know a lot of you are in AA but I am buying a JUG of VODKA and tonic and limes because if I'm watching a HURRICANE from my living room (plate glass *shudder) window, I'm doing it with a little buzz.

PS:  My car is full of gas, I have lots of water, we are ok until we aren't ok but who knows until Monday.  BESIDES I AM BLOWING THIS ALL OUT OF PROPORTION don'tcha know.

ALSO PS:  How do I make coffee if the power is out this is a very serious issue.

Technical Difficulties. Please enjoy our hold music.

I live at the red arrow.

 

Thanks for calling.  I'm out buying toilet paper and water before the ghetto wakes up and there are riots at the WalMart.  If you would like to send a storm shelter, please press 1.  Please leave a message at the beep.  *fucking beeeeep*

Children of Narcisissts in the movies - Spencer Tracy in 'The Actress'

You never know when you’re going to find one.  There you are, all alone (because your husband is in POLAND for a week, for chrissakes) and you find yourself stopping the change-a-lator (channel changer, technical jargon) on some old Spencer Tracy movie.  Which, you’ve never seen and everyone in it is YELLING and you almost change it, but then you Google it and find out it’s about wonderful RUTH GORDON (a whole goddamn bag of Oreos) and so you find yourself watching.  And then *BANG* there it is.  A speech about being raised by a buncha narcs.

Here’s the link.  I highly recommend, for his acting anyway.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9kltwQK3Mhs

Tracy did this in ONE TAKE because he is that good.  But the words.  Good god, that poor little kid that the character was. 

 
“I ran away from the people who were in charge of bringing me up.  They was AWFUL people.   …they worked me long and hard.  Whenever I went against their will they locked me in the woodshed and they beat me.  Then they went to church 3 times on Sunday.”  “…I’ll be bitter about ‘em – if I live to be a hundred.  They was awful people.  Till the day I die I’ll be bitter about ‘em.”

Defending yourself from a bully

Have you seen this video?  I highly recommend.  It is very short.



This is a great example of how to get a bully to leave you the fuck alone.  That kid, the victim, didn’t go looking for trouble.  He just wanted that bully off his ass.  Was this cruel?  Was it a mean thing for the victim to do?  After all, that bully landed on his head - he could have been injured!

Ha.  No way in hell.  It was self-preservation, and it was the duty of that child to defend himself.  Reasoning, pleading, 10-page letters of why the bully had hurt him, saying 'stop it!' without enforcing the boundary - none of that works to stop a narc/bully.  If that victim had been my son, I would have ASKED for him to be expelled, and then I would have taken him to 3-days at Disneyland as a reward for his HEROIC actions.

That poor victim finally scared the shit out of that bully and more power to him.  He just wanted peace.  And now it seems he will have it.  Voilà.  Instant resolution.  And, in case I’m not clear – I feel NO PITY toward that bully.  He got what he deserved.  Blah blah who raised him!?  Poor child, it's his parent's fault!  WHATEVER.  The kid was a bully, and he got bested.  Don’t want him dead, just want him to stop.

It seems resonable to extrapolate this scenario out to how to get a narc to stop eating your soul.  As I have mentioned, the only way to get a predator to stop hunting you is to stop them in their tracks, with great and furious vengeance.  You simply have to do what this kid did in this video - let them see the danger they are in if they keep hunting you.

You are nothing more than prey to the predator.  You smell like fear and subservience and submission.  You are right where they want you, it's what they want from you.  And have you noticed that the narcs do not hunt or prey on people who do not fear them?  The school principal, for instance.  Doctors.  Anybody who sees through them, who does not acquiesce to the narcissists quest for power and control.  THOSE people are left alone, at least in public.  What is it that these people have that you do not have?  A lack of fear.

They have a complete disregard for the insanity of the narcissist.  They DISMISS THE NARC, like they would wave away a mosquito.  The narc has no power because there is no fear response.  Read that again.  The narcissist has no power when there is no fear response.

In order to remove your fear response, you have to get angry.  Anger smells very different from fear.  You must become angry enough to defend yourself.  To defend your spouse, or your children, or your pets.  ANGRY.  Do not confuse pacifism with weakness.  Your quest for peace begins with made and enforced boundaries.

Once an enemy is vanquished he can be allowed to live in peace from you.  Away from you.  But a vanquished enemy will never be a friend.  They will always need to fear (respect) you and your boundaries in order for YOU to live in peace from THEM.

It is your absolute DUTY to protect yourself.  To remove yourself from toxic people and situations.  You are the only guardian of your soul.  And the guardian of your family.  To allow yourself to continue to be hunted and preyed upon is the worst kind of cowardice.  Once you are awake - and in reading these blogs you have surely come awake in an almost violent way - once you are awake it is your responsibility to take action.

Narcissists have no power when you do not fear them.

Super Duper

Below is a list of my Super Powers!  I’m like one of the X-men.  (or Mario in his little raccoon suit.) Fear me.

(All of these skills are easily traceable to living with a narc.  I am going to assume that ALL of you have these – in one way or another.  These are basic survival skills to us.  But they work now in FUNNER ways, and I find that I can’t turn them off anyway.  I have to actively NOT manipulate a conversation, for example.  All of these ‘skills’ are actually instinctive at this point, part of my skin.  They kept/keep me safe)

Psychic abilities:

                I can sense the undercurrent in a room faster than a wolf can smell a rabbit.  I know who is having an affair with whom, I can tell who is about to throw a cantankerous fit.  I can sense who is depressed and who is about to get roaring drunk.  I can do this in a bar or a party.  I can tell who I should avoid on narc spectrum principal, and I can tell who is truly crazy and dangerous (I can tell which homeless people are just depressed and a bit ‘not right’, and which ones are actually psychopaths DO NOT MAKE EYE CONTACT WITH THESE TYPES – those people are scary crazy and will hurt you, they are hunting).  I can take a quick glance at someone from hair to shoes and tell you quite a bit about them.  I’m like The Mentalist. 

Disappearing:

                I can disappear into a crowd and nobody would ever know I was there.  Like The Shadow.  I can move through life and barely cause a ripple – this is a super handy skill if you happen to see someone you are trying to avoid.  I am (almost) NEVER seen if I don’t want to be seen.  I practically SLITHER through groups just below the ‘notice’ line.  This works at places like Wal-Mart or the grocery store when you just don’t want anyone to talk to you.

Manipulation:

                I can make you say anything I want you to say.  I can wheel a conversation around and around and predict the ending.  I can get what I want, when I want, and how I want it.  This is actually easiest when you are manipulating a narc – because they are just BEGGING for attention, and flattery will get you everywhere with a narc.  I have talked my way out of traffic tickets, into music concerts, into free (second-hand) furniture and clothes, into camp for my son, jobs, car repairs…  I can LIE like nobody's business and not blink or twitch when I do it.  (I use the lying thing sometimes at parties where I don't know anybody, I tell them I'm a circus performer or a chem biologist or a transgender or I don't know what all, It's pretty fun, Jeff hates it) I don’t use the manipulation skill much anymore.  It makes me feel creepy and slimy.  But it was quite handy when I was a broke single mom.

Thinking on my feet:

                There has never been a crisis when I didn’t have an answer almost right away – or actually more like ideas about how to find an answer.  My panic button (after about 5 long agonizing seconds) kicks into my action button and I have an idea BANG.  Who to call, where to look, how to jury-rig it, what excuse to use, where to hide it.  I always find a solution.  The lying portion of the program probably overlaps here too.

Details:

                I notice things nobody ever sees.  Watching a movie is exhausting for me because I notice EVERYTHING – shoes, teacups, books, glances, watches, chandeliers – I see it all.  I do this at parties and malls and grocery stores – that’s why being in social situations is so exhausting for me.  Combine the detail thing with the Mentalist thing and I am running (mentally) wide open like a scream the entire party.  I love this skill and hate it at the same time.  I MUCH prefer to read for entertainment – there is no info other than what is written on the page.  If the author doesn’t mention shoes, I don’t even THINK of shoes.  It’s only visually that I do this.  I remember odd bits of information that come in handy YEARS later, like when I knew my kid had meningitis (turned out to be viral, the non-deadly kind) or basic car repair stuff to keep from getting cheated at a garage or how to fall off a dirt bike (like either the car stuff or the dirt bike stuff would ever come in handy in MY life.  Puh-LEEZE.  But I remember it.)

Memory:

                See above.  Word for word conversations – but this one is easily attributed to narcs.  They lie, so we always remember.  MEMORY is another word for SANITY.  This one doesn’t come in handy like oh, say, remembering where I parked my car or if I packed my hairbrush for travel, but conversations and movie lines, yes.

I wish the above list included being able to FLY.  That would be, as we used to say, rad.

"A great truth is a truth whose opposite is also a truth." - Thomas Mann

There is an Indian (dot, not feather) parable of a bunch of blind men who go and visit an elephant.  And because the elephant is so huge, each one can touch only one portion.  So each describes the elephant as something different (rope, wood, etc.)  Here is the link if you want to read the real thing and not my overly simplified version.

Anywhoozle. 

 

My 5 sisters and I, we are like the blind guys.  And the elephant would be (in turns) our childhoods and our parents.  That is to say, our memories are all different, and all valid.

I am (as of last year) living within 2 hours of my eldest sister.  She is 9-years older – that is a huge difference when you are kids.  When I was 8, she was getting ready to graduate high school and go on to college.  I was playing tag while she was being a cheerleader and going on dates and – you know – it was a hugely different perspective on everything.  I have been asking about some of this stuff - I want her version of the stories.

As the youngest, I lived with the insanity the longest.  As the scapegoat, I got much more of the abuse.  HOWEVER.  Nobody, none of the sisters, got out of that situation without some scars.  As the eldest, she SAW more clearly the insanity of what was happening in Florida with our egg donor mother.  She saw dad come and ‘rescue’ us.  I don’t really remember any of that – I was from birth to 5-years old.  I have IMPRESSIONS and flashing glimpse memories, but she was 12-years old when he came?  Maybe as young as 10, but still – your brain records solid memories by that time.  (he came and took the older ones, evidently I had to stay until I was ready for 1st grade) (which, jeebus - they knew the insanity but left me anyway ANOTHER STORY *ahem*)

I would venture to say, if one needed to apply labels, that she was the GC to my SG.  But she will be the first to tell you that her life was far from sunshine and lollypops either.  She has had (and felt she needed) more therapy than any of the rest of us combined.   And the rest of the sisters – well, the one older from me, was Practically Perfect In Every Way.  She could dance ballet on pointe.  She was the singing lead in several high school plays.  She was a cheerleader.  She made straight A’s.  She was responsible.  And the pressure just about KILLED her.  I never, ever, envied her.   She saw and heard most of the physical beatings and mental abuse I went through.   That had to have been a fucked up thing too.  If she had jumped in, she would have been setting her own self up for the same abuse.  Save your sister or save yourself.  Two different angles on the same thing.  Everyone was abused, everyone saw the abuse, we all were affected by everything.

As I write my stories, I am also asking questions of family.  I am finally reading the backs of some of the photographs I have, and there is a wealth of information there (I tend to *bleep* over things which is part of my memory problems).  I am finding out that maybe we lived in a different house than I thought, or maybe an incident happened a different way than what my child brain processed.  I saw things through my filter of being the SG – the rest of the sister saw the same thing through their own filters.  The truth is somewhere in the mix of everyone’s story.

The point being, I updated the story on Judith’s accident to reflect the new info I received.  I will continue to do the same with ALL stories.  I want the truth.  All of it.  Sure I know that my impression of an incident is VALID.  I do NOT feel that my truths are wrong.  And telling the truth about anything will NEVER make the narcs version ‘right’ or ‘wholesome’.  But I want the whole story.  Even if it means I need to re-think a story.  Because the truth was always hidden, and it is now THE most important part of my remembering all of this.  I want TRUTH. 

Em Oh En Ee Why

Two stories.  They are related.  You’ll see at the end.

(PS – I use the word TERROR or TERRIFIED a lot when I talk about my dad.  There’s a shocker.)

Story 1:

 

I was 21.  I was living in Santa Ana in a vintage 3-bedroom home – I was renting one bedroom.  It was a shit-hole – I was living with two other guys who were also 21-ish and they were stoners and the place was like Animal House.  It looked like this:

Only HA because maybe at one time in a galaxy far away it had looked like that.  The neighborhood had LONG fallen into Cheech & Chong movie style ghetto territory.  ALL of Santa Ana was “the wrong side of the tracks”.  It was Mexican Gang Central.  The front and back yards were just dirt with weeds.  The porch sagged in two directions.  The carpet *shudder* - ‘nuff said.  I had a padlock on the OUTSIDE of my bedroom door, so that I could lock it when I left and the other two guys wouldn’t rifle through my stuff.  I never sat on the couch, we NEVER cooked in the kitchen.  The whole yard smelled like dog crap.  I mean, this was not a nice place to live.  But what did I care, It was out of the house and that’s about all that mattered to me.

I was still riding my brown ten-speed bike, only now I was working at Gemco (precursor of Target). 

So, I get a certified letter from the IRS one day.  *sound of needle screeching across a record* WHAT?  Yeah.  I paid all my pathetic little bills in cash in those days.  I remember paying my phone bill with my coin jar once.  What bills did I even have?  Rent (cash) and phone (cash) - (I had a phone line installed in my room to have a chance of ever getting calls and to control getting the bill paid).  Getting ANY mail was pretty noteworthy (birthday card!  Woohoo, five bucks!!) and it usually came to my parent's house.  The IRS, however, knew where I lived.  I was absolutely terrified of any authority figure, and the IRS ranks right up there with GOD practically.  This letter informed me that I had embezzled some amount of money (like, I think $800.  Which was a goddamn FORTUNE to me at the time) and that I had so many days to pay it back or they were coming for me.  I – well, you know – I panicked.  I wracked my brain.  I sat on this for a day to freak out and figure it out.  On re-reading and re-reading it (because my brain doesn't process stuff right away), I saw that the letter said something about my egg-donor mother’s Social Security (she had died in Florida when I was 19) and how I had been entitled to a sum of money for COLLEGE and I had evidently taken the money and never gone to college (I went for a whole SEMESTER, GOD - et tu, IRS?) and I was a FRAUD and I was going to go to jail/prison and I had better pay that money back.

<side bar:  I was newly hatched from my FOO.  I was all pink like a newly born bunny in my LC and had no defense against my NF other than STAYING THE FUCK AWAY which I did in spades.  He still terrified me and made my bowels watery and we NEVER spoke, even at occasional family dinners I couldn’t even really look at him, you know?  end side bar>

Suddenly a light went on, and I just sort of switched - I knew what had happened and I was PISSED.  I called my dad (<--that is amazballs, right there).  (I called HIM because this was involving his ex-wife, my birth mom, and I certainly didn't really want to deal with the IRS).  And I told him about this letter and that I didn’t know what to do and I was going to call the IRS RIGHT NOW and tell them I had never seen a DIME of this money, that they could check any bank records they wanted and I was going to see if I could get a ride to the IRS offices and tell them anything they wanted to know – I’m sure I cried too.  An act worthy of an award.  (I amaze myself, seriously.  But us ACOnS – we can manipulate like crazy.  We were taught from the best.  He had no reason to think I had figured him out, he thought I was as dumb as a box of hammers).  My dad flipped the fuck OUT.

Here is why I had to tell you about the house I lived in.  He got me to give him my address.  And he drove his leather seated VOLVO into the ghetto, TO MY HOUSE (he had no idea where I even worked, if I worked, where I lived, we never ever talked) so he drove to my house, came in and sat his slacks on that FILTHY couch and told me he would take care of this.  To calm down, it’s ok, it’s a mistake.  (get ready, here it comes) That he had applied for and TAKEN THIS MONEY and put it in an account FOR ME in case I ever DID go to college and give him the letter and he would contact the IRS and get the money back to them and to not worry. 

A.     What?  You took the money.  I had never even heard that my own MOTHER’S social security could have been used FOR ME. 

B.      You put it in an account for me.  My head kind of tilted to one side like a dog and WHAT?  You wouldn’t spit on me if I was on fire.  Plus, that was 2 YEARS ago.  No mention, like a college money carrot on a stick?  Ok then.

C.      You are COMFORTING ME.  Telling me to calm down, you will TAKE CARE OF THIS.  What? *head tilt* You are almost...  pleading with me.  Huh.

He was worried.  I had righteous TRUTH on my side – you couldn’t get more innocent than I was about this issue and if I called the IRS they would LISTEN and then, they would track the money.  And yeah, that trail was going to lead right up his ass.  I’m guessing he did take care of it because I never heard anything about it, ever again.

******************

Story 2:

 

(My sister Judith was about 9-years old.  Which made me 6 or so.)

Judith had gotten hit by a car.  The details are pretty fuzzy to me, because I was already so sidelined at this point I never knew anything.  It was a delivery van, I think, and she had been on her bike.  This was the 60s and we rode our banana seat bikes with gusto, darting in and out of parked cars with no helmets (what’s a helmet??) and probably bare feet.  This accident must have been HORRIBLE.  I am rebuilding it in my head and on this page here.

When my actual memory kicks in I was standing with a group of sisters outside her bedroom door at home.  There was a HOSPITAL bed in her room.  She had a cast on both legs, up to her waist, with a bar between at the knees.  There was an overhead bar thing she could use to pull herself around but she couldn’t sit up because of the cast.  She had to have help with bedpans and washcloth baths, etc.  My NM has a picture of her in that bed smiling.  Maybe that's why my memory kicked in, someone went and got a camera.

 

<Here’s where I am so pissed right now.  When the accident happened, there must have been PANIC.  Screaming from us kids HURRY JUDITH IS HIT, she must have been scratched up to hell besides the broken BOTH legs, there must have been a crowd and her screaming (it must have been so terrifying and painful).  That van would have been parked askew in the street, traffic blocked, tons of people milling around…There must have been an ambulance siren and ride and DAYS in the hospital.  Then the delivery of the hospital bed, all the accoutrements (bed pans, that plastic barf thingy, I think a hospital table, etc.)  She must have been brought home via ambulance, she wouldn’t have fit into the Ford Station Wagon.  Someone must have come and gotten the bed back when she was done with it.  Where did all of her bedroom furniture go in the mean time?  In other words, It must have been A HUGE DEAL.  And I don’t hardly remember any of it.>

***EDITED TO ADD*** I spoke to my eldest sister, who told me dad was the first one on the scene.  None of the rest of us were home at the time of the accident (wtf?  she was home, 5 other sisters, where were we all?).  He was at the hospital every day.  She said he told her he had nightmares for weeks after.  I have to tell the story as it comes to light, so these edits are important.  She has far 'closer to the event' memories than I do.

She must have been in that cast for at least 8 weeks.  Then smaller casts and crutches.  Then I DO remember she had to have physical therapy, my dad had to do it.  She would scream it hurt so bad.  She still has scars on both knees and has had to get surgery again (but she golfs and plays tennis and all that.)

I imagine dad sued the holy crap out of that delivery company or whoever.  For all of the medical bills, for a home tutor! (I just realized there MUST have been a tutor, she would have missed 3 months at least of school.)  For home doctor visits, medications, etc., but I’m gonna guess he also went for the jugular and got pain and suffering money for his kid too.  (They probably wouldn’t cover any physical therapy, so that’s why HE did it.)  Judith, of course, never saw a dime out of that.

This was in 1989.  Judith has the white hair and the bandage on her knee from what was her newest surgery.  I'm in the skirt holding my niece.  I'm going to ask her about that accident.  I feel bad that I bleeped it out of my memory.  *sigh*

Grave Tree

I think this is about the coolest thing I've ever seen at a historical site.  I went to the little town of St. Mary's here in Lexington Park to walk my dogs and get some nature back into my system.  This little town is right on the edge of the Potomac, you can see the river through those trees in the background.  There is a very old cemetery there, where I took this picture.  Graves date back to the 1600's.

This is a headstone, and a footstone, of the same person's grave.  (People used to have both head and foot stones, marking the size of the grave) (a tombstone is flat like a tabletop).  And a huge tree is growing right out of the middle of it.  The roots of this beautiful tree run down into the grave.  It's the most perfect example of life and death I've ever seen.

Cemeteries do not bother me at all.  Nothing bad happened in cemeteries (not usually).  These people died elsewhere, and were brought her to REST.  Final RESTING place.  I find cemeteries have the calmest energy anywhere.  I dunno - I guess I think that if there ARE spirits, and those spirits are restless, they are doing their thing where their energy was expended and extinguished. 

Not to get all woo-woo on you, but it was a good walk, anyway.

Very Important Jacket

I had to get that photo off of the top of my blog.  His hands in that picture were giving me the Serious Creeps.  So please enjoy THIS photo I took in Gamla Stan, Sweden in June, 2011.

I'm going to go out and do a power walk today.  I need to take a mental health break from all this.  BUT - someday I'm going to tell you all about my trip to Sweden, how I met one of the CROWN PRINCES of Saudi Arabia, and how that wasn't even one bit as much fun as you might think.

Photo of a Ranty Pants - perfect example of my narcissistic father's rage

 

This is what a narc looks like when he’s about to lose his shit.  Notice my poor sister Leslie, trying to get him to calm down like he’s a fucking 2-year old about to throw his toys.  I don’t know who was taking the picture, but oooh!  I bet they BURNED from that cranky look!  HA. 

This picture is just a piece of a BIG picture of our whole family.  It was taken during my back-yard wedding reception (1^st marriage) (to THIS guy) in ugh – July or August of 1998?  (Parade Street house, Anaheim, CA.)  There were 15 people in that picture.  All of my sisters, all of our assorted kids, and the two parental units on either side.

It was hot as a – um, something REALLY HOT, we all wanted to get back to the wine/sodas, and it was taking a while to get ONE shot of all of us looking at the camera and smiling.  This was one of the rejects, oh ho ho.  There were a pile of rejects and one good one – somehow I ended up with all of the copies.  I was going through them and this one totally caught my attention, and made. me. laugh.

I was 36-years old at this time.  I was at the complete other end of the family group.  NOBODY else besides my poor sister is paying any attention to him at all – this wasn’t the way it was back in the day, dammit!  I AM THE ALL POWERFUL ALEX!  You will RUN from me and ask if I’m ok and LET ME RAGE!

Here, I’ll show you the rest of the picture, no faces blurred, cos what do I care:

(That’s me on the far right in stripes next to NM.  Mike is in front of me in white shorts)

You can see we were all trying to get a group shot (and this one wasn’t it) and poor Ranty Pants over there was getting hot and his knees probably hurt, and the photographer (a family friend or a bro-in-law most likely) kept saying ‘one more!’  and NOBODY was paying attention to old Ranty!  Except the one sister who could feel his Ranty Vibe and probably got triggered and a little freaked out.  He’s standing just enough separate from the group to tell you a thing or two about how much fun he’s having I HATE THIS I HATE SG I DON’T WANT TO BE HERE.

This is the face I remember - a temper tantrum is on its way and you had better stand by.  There was always a beating following this look.  Remembering how that look made me feel from back when I was a child really gives me the creeps.  By THIS time, the time of the picture, I had already (a few years before) had it out with him and had been staying away from him.  I never really thought about him much again (ßtotal lie – I DID think about him but in terms of how to avoid him and all that.)  This particular situation was unavoidable (to me, at the time).  But this had been a scary guy.  Make no mistake – this is the face of my misery and the reason I am so CrAzY.  He’s dead too!  Ha.

 

Now this pic:

 



This is the narc I married.  Here I am sitting his LAP and this is making me sick to my stomach, right here while I’m typing this.  I think because I CHOSE HIM and he was yet another narc.  Ugh I hate this picture.  I was so conditioned at this point to being prey that I didn’t even think twice.

What I see here is that I was skinny as hell due to STRESS and fear.  I do NOT look like that now, 15 years, 50 added pounds and serious menopause (oy) will do that to a person.  (also raising a kid MIKE).  But I managed to (eventually) get my poop in a group and traded all that stress for peace and I wouldn’t go back now even if those shorts WERE back in style.

 

UGH this was a disgusting post to write.  Hello, triggers!  How are you?  Long time no SEE! *shudder*

Ultimate Stalking Song

What goes on in the mind of a narc when you leave - when you go No Contact?  This.  This song has always given me the creeps.  Why do you suppose most people only hear the crooning, but don't listen to the WORDS...?

"This is one of the most misinterpreted songs ever. It is about an obsessive stalker, but it sounds like a love song. Some people even used it as their wedding song. The Police frontman Sting wrote it after separating from his first wife, Frances Tomelty.
In a 1983 interview with the New Musical Express, Sting explained: "I think it's a nasty little song, really rather evil. It's about jealousy and surveillance and ownership." Regarding the common misinterpretation of the song, he added: "I think the ambiguity is intrinsic in the song however you treat it because the words are so sadistic. On one level, it's a nice long song with the classic relative minor chords, and underneath there's this distasteful character talking about watching every move. I enjoy that ambiguity."

 

Every breath you take
And every move you make
Every bond you break, every step you take
I'll be watching you

Every single day
And every word you say
Every game you play, every night you stay
I'll be watching you

Oh can't you see
You belong to me
How my poor heart aches
With every step you take

Every move you make
And every vow you break
Every smile you fake, every claim you stake
I'll be watching you

Since you've gone I been lost without a trace
I dream at night I can only see your face
I look around but it's you I can't replace
I feel so cold and I long for your embrace

 

(The Police - Every Breath You Take. )

The Scapegoat at 13

 

(Me.  7th grade school photo)

 

To anyone else this is just a school picture – not the best, but certainly not the worst.  What you, the casual observer, doesn’t see is all the stacked up CRAP behind this photograph.  The crap that goes to make up a scapegoat’s life.

It was 1972/73.  Jr. High back then started at 7^th grade – we were DONE with baby elementary school and on to middle school – we had lockers and different classrooms for each subject.  Recess?  HA.  It was grown-up time now!  We had a morning break and a lunch.  No more lunch tables and lunch boxes, the kids bought a sandwich from the vending and all sat all over the place and talked – people  even brought radios.  People paired off and held hands - there were 9^th graders who looked like grown-ups – they were 15 or 16 years old and had real boobs and the boys had long hair and some kids had jobs. 

 

Rocket Man and Stairway to Heaven were all over the radio.  Bell bottoms and puka shells were the name of the game there in Orange, Ca.   Here is a photo from the same year, taken in the hallway of my Jr. High at lunch.  These were 8^th graders.  This is what fashion looked like at that time:

 



 

This then, was the backdrop to my 7^th grade year.  So lets look at my school picture again:

 

And allow me to run this through the Magic Scapegoat Childhood Decoder of Doom.

Notice my eyes?  It was September/October in Orange County, CA.  The Santa Ana winds were kicking my ass.  I can tell I was between sneezes with that effervescent bubbly feeling up in the bridge of my nose.  Also because of the Santa Ana wind conditions my skin was DRY, and – take a look at my hair.  It was dry and crackling with static electricity.  I also know it was dirty as sin.  My hair is so thin that brushing it doesn’t really help anything – when it’s bent, it’s bent.  I had never (even in FIRST grade) had anyone help me get ready for school in the morning, so I had never learned anything to do with grooming.  Due to the wind, my hair was sticking up EVERYWHERE.  The photographer had taken one look at me and grabbed one of the combs they kept by the camera, and parted it and put barettes or bobby pins in it.  I certainly had not left home with any type of hair accessory – I didn’t own any and didn’t know how to use them anyway.  I was horribly embarrassed and the man was not nice about it.  I was odd and different and he wanted to get away from me.  I was 13.  I remember.

The dress itself is the most telling part.  The dress is where most of the point of this story is (although my HAIR – could anyone ever tell me about shampoo, conditioner, brushes and maybe clips?  WTF?)

 

 Here is a different close-up of this dress.  This was taken the summer PRIOR to the school year – probably in late June or July.  As you can tell by THIS photo, that dress was already 2 years too small for me.  It was already way too short.  It was made of some kind of fabric, like pajama fabric, that LOVED static electricity and was scratchy.  (notice my sister’s fashion forward dress obviously bought for her within the last few months.  Also someone has brushed my hair, we were with my Grandma in Iowa, so...)  So by the time my 7^th grade picture was taken this dress was even shorter, even smaller than above - by then it was at least 3 years old.  Probably bought when I was ten.  Probably a perfectly appropriate dress for a 5^th grader to wear.  NOT APPROPRIATE FOR A MUCH TALLER and older 7^TH GRADER. 

 

By 7th grade it was so short I’m certain my underpants showed if I bent down.  I did not own a slip, so the static cling effect was making it grab my underpants and well, CLING.  I had to *pull* *tug* *pull* that dress all day.  It was plastered across my chest, so that the little buds of my barely-breasts were completely visible and with NO SLIP it was like a film.  THERE WAS AN APPLIQUE OF A PEAR ON THE CHEST.  So, stuff like “nice pear!  snicker snicker”! from the 9^th grade boys just made my day even better.  I was used to being laughed at by this time so I just trudged through it.  Being laughed at at school was the background music of my life.

I KNOW, in the school picture, I was wearing white tights and saddle shoes.  SADDLE SHOES.  NF had become convinced that I needed to wear them.  Cheerleaders wore saddle shoes – nobody wore them for reals.  Birkenstocks and Earth Shoes and (what we inappropriately called) Jap Flaps were the footwear.  Saddle shoes and tights, for chrissakes.  I was told to wear the saddle shoes because of my arches.  I can sincerely say WTF to that.  The tights were too small too, so the crotch sort of hung down and they were white so they were or managed to get FILTHY.

I have no idea if I had suddenly remembered that it was picture day that morning and stuffed myself into this dress in a hurry, in an effort to dreess up.  That’s possible because my sister Georgia was a 9^th grader at the same school, and I’m sure she was getting ready, probably reminded me.  (I was so deeply entrenched in my Scapegoat Role by this time that my sisters, while nice to me, didn’t really understand me or want to hang out with me at all.  It was my fault, you know, that home was so horrible every day.  It’s all they had heard for the last 8 years – you start to believe it.)  I know for certain nobody else would have known – I was the youngest, and the rest of the sisters were in high-school or off to college.  I never saw NM in the morning – she was a school teacher (of course!) and was busy getting her own ass ready.  The bigger question is - WHAT IN THE FUCK WAS THIS DRESS STILL DOING IN MY ROOM?  Why had nobody sorted my clothes out in 3 years?  Why was this dress even an OPTION for school picture day?  And, I KNOW my NM knew it was picture day, come to think of it, because Georgia would have told her.  They would have discussed outfits.  NM probably gave Georgia the check for the deposit.  Why didn't anyone remind me to take a bath the night before, wash my hair, pick out an outfit?

 

I'll tell you why.  I wasn't being raised.  I was just growing up.

I look at this picture and it reminds me of SO MUCH.  There is abuse, and then there is neglect.  Most of the time I just didn’t exist at all.  I was so fucking alone already by that time – there was the family, then there was me.  I’m actually surprised they bought the photo package from the school.  And I’m even more surprised that I have a copy.





Thoughts from The Son

*I asked my son to read my blog and he obliged.  And then he felt inspired to write the following.  I thought it would be an interesting perspective, the grandson of narcs on both sides of the gene pool.  Introducing Mike.*

Life wasn’t easy but never hard. Raised by a single mom and a father - both with what can best be described as PTSD from family and other sources - who were separated, was difficult though both did there damnedest to make sure none of their burdens landed on my head as a kid. Both kept me well fed, clothed and taught me many things both good in bad.

I kept my nose clean…ish, got in a few fights but kept it in house, did some stupid things with some gang bangers but got pulled out before it got too deep by Jeff (step-dad) when he married my mom, though I doubt he knew. I kept my nose clean but always knew things weren’t right.  I never liked my maternal grandparents - they never had much time for me, the black sheep son of their black sheep daughter, and now my aunts don’t trust me all that much anymore.  I’m seen as a loose cannon with my mom’s wit and temper and my dad’s penchant for violence and quick fuse.  Plus I’m a combat veteran and a Marine which to them is like working as a field hand or second class citizen.  Someone in the family told me that people like “us” don’t join the infantry - which made me want to do it more. (I haven’t told them I’m getting a Harley I can’t wait to see the collective bricks they shit).  I always feel side lined in family gatherings.  My cousins were (and are) more successful (in their way of thinking) by way of college, and are also more easily manipulated. I never understood that, I was raised to be independent by my parents and would never live at home like my cousins do.  I’d rather be broke on my own than still living at home.  I was taught by both parents to have a low tolerance for bullshit in all forms and to not take any.  And as I get older I realize how much that is a two edged sword growing up.  By 15 I lost the respect most adults feel they are owed by children and had trouble both in school and with my family. Grades suffered because teachers didn’t like my lack of desire to please them and relationships with the more controlling members of my family deteriorated, I guess refusing to dance to other’s tunes and take their bullshit does that.  To the point now at 21 I hardly talk to anyone from my family except my cousins and my parents.  I realize now looking back at Alex (maternal grandfather) that he probably realized I couldn’t be controlled cause he knew neither parent would be either (my dad almost knocked him out) and therefor I no longer existed.  He loved my cousin until he dropped tennis, which was Alex’s favorite sport, and started baseball. Still to this day whenever I see my aunts and uncles I feel like they’re surprised I’m not some knuckle-dragging ape - and am actually smarter than they are, I can talk guns and things like that, knock back beers and shoot pool like they expect from “guys like me” (i.e. white trash) but I can also talk shop about structural engineering, discuss the pros and cons of the two party political system, formulate ideas and thoughts on Machiavelli’s work.  Sure they all say they are SO PROUD of me but they’re also proud of the dog for knowing how to shake hands.  Heh even on Alex’s death bed I had nothing to say to him, because what do you say to a stranger?  I see now the little jibes they gave my mom over the years, the outright hostility they showed my dad and the fear I see when I talk about living on my own like I’m some propaganda minister preaching INDEPENDENCE - like I’m telling people that murdering puppies is fun or something else depraved. I go out with my dad to bars and have fun.  I talk to my mom at least twice a month and see my brothers at least once every month but I’m my own person and fuck them in the ear if they can’t take that.

To get free from the narcs, first you have to get angry. ANGER does not smell like 'prey'

In my opinion, human beings grow to be one of three types.  Predator, prey, or the nebulous OTHER.

The predator is a hunter, first and foremost.  In the human predator, the endgame is not eating the victim (unless you are like Jeffrey Dahlmer, in which case ew).  The ultimate goal for the predator is THE HUNT ITSELF.  It is the whole point, and it is what feeds them.  Sure, they need food like a regular human, but without the hunt they would shrivel and die.   A predator is born into this world, and discovers his/her natural abilities to hunt along with the knowledge that this is the only thing that can bring satisfaction.  They spend their lifetimes honing this skill.  A predator can grow to be a psychopathic killer, sure.  But they also grow to be police.  Detectives.  Corporate lawyers or criminal defense attorneys.  They become our heroes – the ultimate hunter, Navy Seals or the Green Berets or Marine Corps Snipers – they hunt, and in these cases they hunt the enemy.  If you are ever in need of an attorney for any reason, I hope like hell you get a very hungry predator of an attorney. 

Narcs ß(ah ha, we have gotten to the nut of the thing) narcs hunt prey humans.  And prey humans – we look and act a certain way.  We are the wounded antelope to the narc’s lioness.  As prey, (and oh boy, have I been prey) we are uncertain.  We are SO UNCERTAIN we have crippled our decision bone.  We ask for advice, and need a lot of it but heed little of it.  We walk with heads down, shoulders hunched, as if against a wind.  Life is blowing us around and we grab at anything to stay still.  We do not heed our internal gut instincts – instincts that shout:  do not date that man/woman!  Do not get on that bus, get out of this alley, etc.  We pick up parental figures on our way, strong people who can anchor us and TELL US WHAT TO DO, for chrissakes tell me what to do?  How do I save money/how do I fix this bike/how do I cook a roast JEEBUS we are unsure, awkward, and uncertain.  And that, people – that smells JUST LIKE PREY to a narc.  They find us with unerring accuracy – (or we are born to them, and they hone their skills at home and we are TRAINED from the womb to be prey – that’s how adult narcs find us later).  But even narcs with children hunt for other prey – the HUNT is the point.  I keep hearing how it is some sick game to a narc – it is not a game.  It is life or death.  It is NOT a game.  Not to the predator.  And the hunt doesn't end when they capture you - it is fear that feeds them so as long as you are in their grasp, they are hunting you.  Daily.  Hour by hour.  You know it's true - you actually FEEL like a mouse cornered by a snake.  They just keep stalking you.  Right there in your house, in your living room.  Hunt, hunt, hunt.

The only way to avoid these people or win your freedom is to become “not-prey”.  This is the nebulous “other” I was speaking of.  We do not hunt, and we will NOT be hunted.  We live much like elephants I guess – nobody fucks with them and if it DOES happen, it ain’t pretty.  I am more than happy to leave the hunting to the predator animals.  I love that there are detectives and military personnel and attorneys who will fight for the rest of us.  (God forbid if I become prey and a Navy Seal or a really aggressive attorney is hunting me.  Hunters scare me and that is GOOD, they are scary).  But I stay out of their way.  After I got free of the narcs I stopped inviting predators into my world.  Before that I had dated two different cops, then a military guy and also worked for attorneys.  I was used to being prey, and these people were familiar to me even if they made me uncomfortable.  I HAD BEEN TAUGHT TO BE PREY.  I was giving off ‘hunt me’ signals like the RKO radio tower.  Like the scent trail in a cartoon about baking cookies, they follow that smell and it is like heaven to them. 

 

I like that the good hunters are out àthere.  I certainly don’t invite them into my world anymore.  And I can smell them now too – sense them.  I actually can’t even stand near a hunter (good OR bad) in a social situation or even in line at the store.  I get a ‘vibe’ that overrides every circuit and I have to move away.  It’s a handy skill.  You will learn it.

In order to get the narcs out of your life – you have to stop smelling like prey.  YOU HAVE TO.  And the short answer to that is self-confidence.  Which sounds all self-helpy and new-agey and ugh.  But if you want to stop them hunting you, you have to emit a different signal.  Those of us who have learned the hard way, AND those people who never were prey to begin with – we all are giving off a different ‘smell’.  And those of us who learned the hard way?  That different smell first smelled like RAGE.  Absolute, in your face, look at me or touch me again and I will rip your throat out RAGE.  There is strength in anger – it means you are protecting yourself and will not stop.  To beat this hunting metaphor to death – imagine the lioness attacking a huge crocodile instead of you, the wounded antelope.  What does the croc do?  RAGE.  Attack back.  Read that again.  ATTACK BACK.  Show your teeth, beat with your tail, charge into them and SNAP off a leg.  Rage.  It’s what’s for dinner.  Only after you show a hunter that you will NOT be prey will they back off.  AND THEY ALWAYS DO.  They can find easier prey.  Sadly, it is always out there.

First, you get angry.  Angry at them, angry at fate, and very, very angry at whatever instinct you were born with/into that made you prey.  This is important – not to beat yourself up, but to force yourself to examine what makes you prey, and STOP IT RIGHT NOW I MEAN IT.  It takes some time, and introspection – but you do not have time to sit by a tree and strum a lute and ponder.  You have all of this information now, all of these blogs.  And we are teaching you step by step, how to do this.  And it has to be soon – you will only get weaker as you bleed out and the narc gets stronger.  YOU MUST CHANGE.  Stop being the prey animal.  Become the croc.  BE the croc.  Then the self-confident elephant.  (then we buy a zoo and live happily ever after I AM INSANE WITH THESE ANIMALS SOMEONE HELP ME)

I think I am making this sound so easy, just make a decision.  IT IS NOT EASY.  We have been very well trained to be prey animals.  Overriding that circuitry takes great concentration, and incredible force of will.  It is very, very difficult.  But you are fighting for your life.  You can do it.

 

Really, the first and only NECESSARY step is to stop them in their tracks (the croc move) and then get the fuck away from them.  Get out.  Somehow, some way, get away from them.  No phone, no email, no visits, nothing.  Get away from the predator, they only want to hunt you.

 

But while you are struggling to get away, to get out, you must fight back.  Fighting back requires skill.  And cleverness.  One must be sly and tricksy like Hobbitses when enmeshed with the narc.  But that is the second step, and Tundra Woman and I are already devising an online course (lol) for those of you interested in our nefarious plans of attack.  Right now we are in my comment section cackling and cooing over a great caldron of stewing revenge.  Come on in if you can stand the smell – we has ideas, oh yes we does, and we need yours!