This morning I saw a tweet that linked to an article about a guy who said he has felt like an ATM machine ever since his divorce.
I didn’t read the article.
I feel for the guy.
For a nanosecond I wondered if Mark felt the same way. There’s no need for me to wonder since he has told us plenty of times – actually lectured in the way a nun might do just before she slaps the back of your hand with a ruler – that the only reason we get in touch with him is because we need something.
“But dad, I don’t want that kind of putter. I know what I want and I’m paying for it with my own money. I’ve researched this putter on the internet. Dad, I know what I want.”
As they drove away without a new putter, Will’s stomach started to act up.
Once they arrived home from that day’s dad visit, both kids unleashed.
“He doesn’t know anything about golf. Why is he telling me how to spend my own money?”
“Why do we have to go to his office for visits when he only sees us two times a week?” Continue reading →
It might have helped if I’d known more before finding myself teetering on the railing of a bridge, clutching a Black Box of cabernet.
Had I known, I wouldn’t have felt the need to write about how worthless I feel.
If I’d been told, I wouldn’t have frantically searched the yellow pages looking for a therapist to tell me that I wasn’t having a nervous breakdown.
It would have helped to know before I found myself wrangling with either wanting to jump my manfriend’s bones or figure out why he was trying to ruin my life with his very existence.
If I had known, I’d have understood why none of the usual words weren’t helping. Continue reading →
Put the shovel down and appreciate the progress made.
The endless lists – not just the ones posted on the kitchen cupboard, but the ones cataloged in her mind – had helped to get her here. Those words had changed her. She’d certainly improved. When comparing herself to where she’d been even six years ago, she’d come a long way.
Breathing was easier. Sleep was deeper. Certainly her kids were happier. But why was she still dealing with an ever-present dark shadow? Why would she wake enthusiastic and light-footed only to run headlong into the shadow by day’s end?
She’d stop long enough to sit with an iced tea and settle her mind – to the extent that she could. She’d approach her thoughts like an efficient, eager-to-please administrative assistant organizing piles on her desk into Handle Now, Needs More Info, Suspends, and Circular File.
Which of the thoughts were coalescing into the dark shadow? Which thoughts continued to haunt her? Continue reading →
There is a wall of glass separating the narcissist from everyone else. This isn’t the kind of glass found in the famous proverb about people in glass houses. You can’t throw a stone and break this glass. This is impenetrable, thick, cold glass.
You can see the narcissist because that’s how he wants it. You can see him preen and strut and show his face to the sun.
You can hear the narcissist and his word salads. You hear his mockeries and his bragging and his endless stories of his successes.
You will encourage your children to stand against the glass so that he may see them better. When he doesn’t notice, you will exaggeratedly wave and point at your kids so as to try to get his attention.
He won’t be watching. Continue reading →
“And that’s why I hate my dad…” is what I heard after I explained what happened in mediation yesterday.
I can’t hide it.
I can’t shield him from the sour truth of his dad’s greed, ruthlessness, and revenge.
There will be items obviously missing from the home. I can explain why I agreed to give him these things that disrupt our space. I can look to the sweetness and say we can save for new things and bit by bit have our own way. But, I can’t explain WHY his dad is the way he is. I can talk about NPD. I can talk about his childhood and how it contributed to this disorder. But I can’t explain WHY he doesn’t get it.
WHY does he need our things when he has his own?
“He has three wine racks, why does he need one more?”
WHY doesn’t he see that the stuff he gains will ruin him in the eyes of his son.
“And that’s why I hate my dad…”
We looked at each other and without words understood the struggle.
We have to accept that we are the sweet and he is the sour.
She winds the strands of her beaded necklace through delicate fingers. Tilting her head back, she exhales, and points the ember in the direction of the couple yelling at their dog.
“What is it with people and their dogs? I mean, dogs are swell, but why bring your dog to the cemetery and then yell at it for running through the grass and sniffing at other folks? For God’s sake! Get that dog to a park, let it run and stop yelling at it.”
“Gladys, you’re dropping ashes on your dress. Shouldn’t you be more careful, dear?”
“Thanks, Margaret, but you know I’ve got more dresses where this one came from. It’s just a dress. What kind of pie are you making today? Lemon chiffon? Banana cream? Or blueberry? I love hot blueberry pie dripping with real cream – not that stuff they call cream now-a-days.”
“Hey, Gladys. You sure they can’t hear us? You sure I can skate off of these grave markers? Nobody’ll care, right?” Continue reading →
Nice feels good. Nice looks good.
Nice smooths rough edges, makes conversations less awkward, and hides ugliness.
There’s a plaque above my cupboard that says, Because Nice Matters. Another sign at the front door reads, Be nice or go away.
For a long time, I firmly believed that the world would be better off if we would all be a little nicer. What if we always made casseroles and brought them to those recuperating from surgery? What if we remembered birthdays and sent cards? What if we gave up our seat on the bus and held the door and remembered to shut our mouths when we couldn’t think of anything nice to say.
Over chocolate milk, Rice Krispies and coffee we had a venting session about yesterday’s dad visit. It used to be that our rants were punctuated with tears and “How long do we have to do these visits?” Now the rants are filled with laughs, OMGs, “Can you believe hims?” and “How long do we have to do these visits?”
“Why does everything have to be about him?”
“You know the answer, Bud. It’s like the ground shifts under him when things stop being about him. He needs everything to be about him to have some sense of control. It doesn’t make sense. It’s frustrating. Imagine what it’s like to live like that.”
I’m on my way to a dentist appointment. I’m wearing a cotton skirt, sandals, a faded denim blouse and a smile. I can’t remember the last time I wore nylons or had a manicure. I’m thinking about how much more garden I have to turn up before we get to start planting. I make a mental note to stop at the hardware store after the dentist. I’ll get washers to fix the hose, check out the bedding plants and grab a bag of briquettes. It’s warm enough for burgers on the grill tonight. The sun tea should be ready in time for dinner.
The elevator doors close and a woman in a tailored business suit turns, looks me up and down and says, “So what do you do?”
“Hi.
Um.
Well…
I guide two outstanding young people through the minefield of dealing with a narcissistic parent. I homeschool, practice living on a budget, and work from home. I wrote a couple motivational books for those in difficult relationships, and I’m working on a novel. I blog about narcissism to shed light on NPD (Narcissistic Personality Disorder). Through stories and pictures, I show how good life can be when brave steps are taken to leave an abusive relationship. Creativity, humor and harmony are on my list of priorities, right after my kids, reading and sleep. I drink too much coffee and try not to take myself too seriously.
Thanks for asking.
What do you do?”
The doors opened. As she stepped one heel out of the elevator, she looked over her shoulder and said, “Are you hiring?”
A story…
She is standing at the stove when he walks in. “Mom, when’s dinner gonna be ready?”
“Soon, honey. The sauce is ready. Salad’s in the fridge. Garlic bread is in the oven. There’s nothing more for me to do besides cook the pasta. I’m just waiting for the water to come to a boil for the spaghetti. We’ll eat when dad gets home.”
“K. I’m just gonna get my soccer stuff for the game tonight.”
I watched the desert dust go down the drain and reached for a towel. As I stood up after wrapping my hair, I saw the spider. It had been hiding in the folds of the towel, minding its own business. I stepped from the shower and laughed at myself.
In the old days, I’d have let out a scream. I learned to stifle screams at a young age. The best deterrent for a little girl is to have her dad make fun of her when she screams at a big hairy spider. (Those screams inside my head were louder than the ones I dared to let out.)
More recently, I would have grabbed a shoe and attacked the critter. If Jenny had been standing there, I would have gone into action and saved the day.
I pulled the shower curtain closed, leaving the spider to crawl up the damp stall.
I got to thinking about what scares me now.
I’m not afraid to travel alone with two kids.
I’m not afraid of heights, but I do hang on to Will and Jenny when they venture too close to the edge.
I’m not afraid of the dark or spiders or monsters under the bed.
I’m not afraid of strangers or big cities or camping in the woods.
I’m not afraid of wrinkles or gray hairs or mirrors. (I am making progress on getting over my fear of swim suits.)
I’ve lived with narcissists.
Not much scares me any more.
Leaving town is easy. As you take off from the runway, you will breathe deep and relax. You may even splurge on a cocktail for yourself and a couple of pops for the kids. You will count out loud the number of days that will happily pass without the stress of a dad visit.
She will exclaim at the wonder of being surrounded by family members who think she is wonderful. She will not guard against snide comments. She will wear her hair however she chooses. She may not even pack socks. She will smile until her cheeks hurt.
He will laugh louder and not worry about saying the wrong thing. He may not have to accommodate for several days because he will be with people who love him even if he doesn’t spend each moment trying to please them. He will pull pranks and howl at the moon.
You will relax knowing your kids will be respected, enjoyed and nurtured. It’ll be okay if they are loud and a little messy. You won’t have to coach them about what to say and what not to say.
Have you ever stood outside waiting for the 4th of July Fireworks to start while swatting mosquitoes and listening to the bats as they whiz by your head? The first chrysanthemum explodes and your kid says, “Mom, how will I know when it’s the grand finale?”
“You’ll just know.”
I’ve stood there through twenty minutes of ooooos and ahhhhhs saying, “No, honey, that’s not it. Nope, Will, that’s not it either. Jenny, put your hood up so the mosquitoes can’t get to your ears. Nope, not yet, Will.”
“Mom, will I know it when it comes?”
“Yes, honey, there’s no doubt when it’s the grand finale. It’s not like the others.” Continue reading →
My idea of spring cleaning consists of blowing the dust off the stuff on the high shelf just enough to release the cobwebs that are anchored there. When a quick puff didn’t take care of things, I reached up to pull this jar down. It’s been on my bathroom shelf since we moved to this home.
I wiped off six years of dust and handed the jar to Jenny. As she took the rocks out, one by one, she commented on their smoothness and wondered where I’d found them.
“Your dad and I used to fly fish before Will was born. I was always on the lookout for rocks when I wasn’t casting the line.”
“How come you hardly ever fish anymore?”
“Well, things change when you have babies. Someone needs to tend to the baby and that leaves the other person free to fish. I was tending to babies, your dad did the fishing. I guess I got wrapped up with kids and forgot I liked to fish.” Continue reading →
