It feels good typing the title of this post.
I hope you like Fritos. We’re also serving lemonade because, well, we have all those lemons. I have to enjoy a little wine on a birthday. Jenny is throwing confetti. Will is tech decking in the background.
And there’s gratitude flowing through the room
It’s the 2nd birthday here at survivingnarcissism.com.
I don’t know how it happened.
Yes! We’ve journeyed through another year on this blog. Continue reading →
I wanted to find out what happened to Lisbeth Salander – really, I did. I made it to page 532, out of 600 pages. I almost got there. In the middle of the book, where she’s attacked by the bad guy, I almost quit reading. I told myself, “Oh come on, you wimp, certainly there will be justice in the end. Keep reading.” But at about page 489, I’d walk by my nightstand and I’d swear the book was growling and baring its teeth at me. I felt the need to cross my arms in front of my chest to protect myself.
I returned the book – unfinished – to my girlfriend. She’d also loaned me the second in the series. “I’m sorry,” I muttered, “I can’t do it. It hurts to read it.” She knows me. She just smiled. I looked at her coffee table and saw another book that looked intriguing, and started to say, “How’s that one?” She politely stopped me and said, “You won’t like that one, either.”
*sigh*
I wanted to watch Javier Bardem in “Biutiful“. Last night I tucked the kids in and sat down for a rare treat – a grown-up movie. I made it through 50 minutes before my stomach started to tighten and I noticed my fists were clenched. It was raw and edgy and artsy and he was biutiful. I had to stop watching to protect myself from the anxiety I feel whenever I’m exposed to turmoil.
*sigh* Continue reading →
He said he’d be here at 9:oo a.m.
Then he changed his mind.
He didn’t want to do what the kids wanted to do so he said, “I’m not coming at nine. I don’t want to go where they want to go.”
The kids called and sent texts asking why he didn’t want to go where they wanted to go.
He avoided answering calls and texts.
I went to his house to ask him why he is manipulating the kids in this way.
He refused to answer the door. Continue reading →
When her babies were small, she had an urge to knit tiny striped mittens with pink and green and purple fuzzy yarns. Now her kids wouldn’t be caught dead wearing handmade mittens. Friends were having babies who needed their precious hands protected from the harsh winter winds. She could make mittens for those babies.
She was waiting for her mom to teach her to knit.
He often found himself at a friend’s house on Saturday afternoons, and after swilling a couple beers, someone would suggest playing a pickup game of basketball. He’d laugh and say, “I’ll sit this one out. I’m lousy at basketball.”
He was waiting for his dad to teach him how to play basketball.
He’d read all he could find on SEO, blog traffic, building customer loyalty and what the experts had to say about making money on the internet. He’d finished his most recent course, made some progress and signed up for the next impressive looking webinar that would surely push his project over the edge. He lacked the confidence to believe that he had the skills and knowledge that would make his project a success. Continue reading →
She gets off the phone and sighs and says, “Dad says he’ll go to the park with me for a little bit, but he doesn’t want to stay too long because he gets bored.”
He comes back from riding his bike around the block and says, “How come dad doesn’t ever want to do what we want to do? If he does finally do what we like, he mopes and pouts and tells us he has to get going.”
He shows up at the house with a new baseball mitt for him, and nothing for her.
He sits on the step and pretends to listen to her talk about her imaginary pony until an adult walks up. Once he sees the opportunity a new audience provides, he stands, turns to this new person and tells him tales of mountain bike rides and how many hours he logs at the office. Realizing that he is no longer listening, she looks down and continues drawing her pony.
He tells me that he’d like to call his dad and tell him about how high his ollies are now, but his dad doesn’t listen and act excited. He’s thinking that maybe his dad says that it’s cool that he loves skateboarding, but he can feel that his dad is pretending to care.
They have both told me that they don’t know why they can’t be themselves around their dad. They don’t show him their silly sides or their tired sides, or the side-splitting funny sides because they fear he won’t approve.
It’s exhausting having to be perfect all the time.
It’s no fun pretending to be something you aren’t all the time.
“How come he doesn’t want to love who we really are?”
__________
After the last visit, he turned to me and said, “I think they’d want to spend more time with me if they weren’t missing you while they were with me.”
… I reflect on the events that happened right before I decided to leave my marriage. Obviously, as in any marriage that is on the verge of crumbling, there were many issues. Everyone has their own last straw. Mine will not be yours. Your last straw will look completely different from another person’s last straw.
In fact, I’m convinced that we don’t know when that last straw is approaching. We get so busy putting up and shutting up, that we don’t see that the scale has been tipped.
The scale was off balance long ago and we are so busy keeping the peace, scrubbing the floors, making the apologies and hiding the toys, that we don’t notice that nothing more can be added to the scale.
That’s why the last straw is often infinitesimally small. The last straw could be a sideways glance, a pair of dirty socks left on the bedroom floor, or an off-handed comment about the way the chicken was prepared for last night’s dinner.
I didn’t see my last straw coming.
To this day, I marvel at the smallness of the infraction.
But, take many small infractions over years of disappointment and resentment and failed expectations and bars raised too high, and suddenly I met my last straw.
We were sitting at the dinner table with Will and Jenny and my husband’s older kids from his previous marriage. Over messy burgers, fruit salad, Domestic Beers and spilled Kool-Aid we had the disjointed kind of conversation that families have – the kind where you laugh and try to interject something and miss the beat and it just doesn’t matter because after dinner you’ll go outside and eat popsicles and play Bocce Ball.
Somewhere during that conversation, the patriarch – the man of the house, the provider, the role model, the man whose job it is to make us feel loved and welcomed and safe – got up from the table, mid-bite, and walked upstairs.
(He later told me he was tired of the conversation. He was sick of the boring exchange. We simply no longer interested him.)
His oldest son glanced at me with a look that said, “What did I say that he didn’t like?” Later, when we cleaned the kitchen together, the oldest told me his father often did that – left the dinner table – when he and his brother lived with Mark. I thought he only did that with his new family.
I came up with a feeble excuse about how dad is tired from work, or dad isn’t feeling well.
But that night, his getting up and leaving his family sitting at the table, still eating their dinners, was my last straw.
After years of seeing the lack of spirit, the inability to make a decision, and the fear of disappointing their father – in these two older children – I realized that by staying in this marriage, I would be letting history repeat itself.
I couldn’t save his oldest kids.
I could try to save mine.
Seeing My Path is an ebook that tells the ongoing conversation I’ve been having with myself, and the questions I ask. It’s a look at how I ended up marrying a narcissist, how I got out of the marriage, and what I’m doing to try to get back on my own path.
When he told her he liked her hair longer and that her face looked too full with a shorter cut, she got up the courage to tell him that his comment had hurt her feelings.
He reframed the incident by gently reminding her that she was far to0 sensitive and that he was just trying to help.
When he got home from work and commented that she must have had one crazy day since she hadn’t found time to clean the floors, she tried to defend herself. She explained that she’d been folding clothes, changing diapers, feeding children and preparing dinner and that she hadn’t found the time to get to the floors.
He reframed the conversation and pointed out that dinner would be more enjoyable if the floors were clean. Continue reading →
She’d had the filing cabinet since college, or maybe even high school. It was a bland almond color and it leaned to the right under the weight of all the files. It was a struggle to open the drawers. When she did, the drawer scraped against the metal sides of the cabinet, opening to reveal a mess of papers, their crumpled corners poking out of worn manila file folders.
There was no real organization to the drawers.
She had categorically filed in the beginning, but the sheer number of papers now prevented an orderly system. The drawers of the two-drawer cabinet could not hold any more folders. She was considering buying a larger cabinet.
Each filed note or paper represented a hurt, a slight, or a rude comment. She hadn’t filed based on intent. There wasn’t a drawer for intended hurts or a second drawer for accidental digs.
On rainy days, when the kids were busy playing, she’d go into her bedroom and slowly open a drawer. For some reason, she couldn’t resist re-visiting the hurtful comments written on the worn pages. Continue reading →
“Dad’s here!” Instead of heading to the door to greet him, she ran to her bedroom to change her shirt. As he walked into the living room, she came walking in from the hallway wearing a hand-me-down t-shirt. She smiled up at Mark, and said, “Hi, Daddy!”
I don’t think he noticed her shirt. If he did, he didn’t say anything. If he did, he certainly wouldn’t have thought it applied to him.
After he left, I asked her why she’d decided to wear that shirt. She stretched the shirt out in front of her so I could read it better. She looked up at me and grinned. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to.
I didn’t discuss the appropriateness or inappropriateness of her choice.
______ Continue reading →
As I sit here sipping coffee, smelling blueberry pancakes and looking at the birthday presents my kids made and wrapped, I can’t help but think I ought to be writing an inspirational post about what it’s like to be turning 49. Gasp!
I could write about 49 lessons learned in 49 years. That might be tricky since many of those lessons I didn’t get the first, second, or even third time, so that list could get pretty redundant.
I could write about being grateful that my mom is still here to make me what I want for my birthday dinner.
I could write about the surprise of my dad remembering my birthday, inviting me to lunch and suggesting that Jen and Will come along, too.
Or, I could mention the amazing growth I’ve experienced in the last few years, from learning all I can about narcissism and how that has helped the three of us.
I could write about how blessed the three of us are with old and new friends, wonderful extended family and the folks who read this blog and contribute to our learning and healing.
But while I’m sitting here waiting for Will to serve me a second pancake, smothered in butter and a splash of real maple syrup, I have to say that I’m wondering if there’s anything to this Rapture/End-Of-Our-Days stuff, that is supposed to happen tomorrow.
I can’t get beyond thinking….
Holy Shit! If this Rapture stuff is true, I won’t have to spend the whole next year agonizing about turning 50!
Woot!
So…
I received what I thought was a spam comment, only I wasn’t sure. It/he/she said, “I can’t view your site from my phone. Help!” So I got to looking and checking on plugins and upgrades and CSS stuff. I even considered pursuing a degree in Computer Software or How to Pretend Like You Know What You Are Doing With Computers, and then I thought I’d ask you.
Would you like to be able to view this site on your phone?
What would you like to see here?
Is there a subject you’d like to see discussed?
Are there topics or discussions that you’d like to see more of?
I am loving my random approach to topics, but I always go back to thinking of the survivors out there and the ones who read here. I want to continue to share the tools that have helped the three of us.
If there’s something that you’d like to see here, that you think would help your corner of the world, please list that in the comment section below.
Thank you, spammer or nice person or whatever you are for asking about how to view this blog on your phone.
One day I might be savvy enough, or even care to want to view a blog on my phone. Don’t hold your breath. I’d have to wrestle my phone away from Will, first.
In the meantime, thank you for reading, commenting, and recommending this blog to your friends. This site only gets richer if more take part in the sharing.
The front door flew open. I looked up just in time to see him toss his helmet on the couch. “Mom! You got the house phone, right? Did dad call?”
“Not yet, Will. You sent a bunch of texts and a couple voice mails. He must be busy. He’ll get back to you.”
Against all odds, Will had invited his dad to check out the remaining snow on the ski hill. It was the sort of outing that Mark usually suggested, so there was a good chance he might consider going. In fact, Mark had said that it sounded like a good thing to do on a Sunday since he’d be done with work. Later, when Will realized what he was in for, he said, “What did I do that for? Why did I invite dad? I always think it sounds like a good idea, but it’s never that great when we actually go.”
That’s how it is for the child of a narcissist – they crave the attention of that narcissistic parent like any kid craves attention from a parent, only when they get the attention, they usually end up hurt, rejected or dismissed. Or, they get hurt when the parent doesn’t show up, even if there’s a sense of relief that they are spared another unpleasant visit. Continue reading →
She dipped another bite of chicken in ketchup, and stared out the window.
I could see she was contemplating something, but I asked, “Are you going to take that bite?”
She put the fork down and got off her stool. Then, in uncharacteristic fashion, she picked up the stool and slammed it on the floor five times. She sat back down and said, “There!”
I looked at Will to gauge his reaction. This wasn’t like Jenny at all.
“Um, Jen… what was that about?”
“I’m just frustrated with dad. I’m tired of crying. Eight year old girls shouldn’t pout, it’s embarrassing, so I figured I’d slam my stool a few times. I do feel a little better, except look at all the junk on the floor from slamming the stool. Sorry about that.”
_____
I could have launched into another of my “motivating” talks about how feelings are important.
blah blah blah blah blah
I’m tired of hearing myself say the same things over and over again. I have to think they are tired of hearing the same things, too.
So I acknowledged her frustrations. I let her calm herself down. I think I said something wise like, “That sucks, doesn’t it?”
We finished dinner and went outside to skateboard, draw on the sidewalk with chalk, laugh at the cat and walk the hill.
_____
The next morning we eased into home school in our most favorite way – I read a couple chapters to them.
This is the pearl we uncovered that morning:
“… your pain, like all you feel, is great. Yet I fear that instead of stepping through your pain, as you and I have stepped through many a marsh, you have let it cling to you, like the blood-thirsty tick that rides our backs for months on end.” —Eremon, the stag
Therein lies the power in storytelling.
Jenny can’t fall asleep unless she leaves her lamp on. (We’re working on that.) I usually wake somewhere in the night, stumble down the hall, reach over her sweet, eyelash-framed face and quietly turn off the lamp.
Last night was no different. And because I also had to pee, I mistakenly looked in the bathroom mirror.
Here’s the first thing that popped into my head:
“God. Do something with that hair.”
Then it was, “Can’t you find some better looking pajamas?”
Followed quickly by, “When are you gonna buy some of those whitening strips? Everyone else is walking around with luminescent teeth. What’s your problem?”
I turned off the light, crawled back in bed, and after letting out a long sigh, I thought…
“Give It A Rest!
Let this woman be.
Can’t you see she’s trying?
It’s the middle of the night! Can you let up on her for one minute? Why do you always have to find the negative? How about saying something kind, for a change?”
And then my brain took a turn in a completely new direction.
This is where it went…
Question: Are survivors of narcissistic relationships more critical of themselves than the average hyper-critical, magazine-reading, teeth-whitening-strip-using, hair-obsessed, muffin-top-fighting, but still lovable, kindhearted woman? Or are we all this mean to ourselves?
Last week I got a word salad in my inbox. Whether in oral form or written form, I’ve taken to mentally and physically preparing myself before making my way through these salads. If he’s delivering the word salad to me in person, I usually prop myself up against a door frame.
History has taught me to settle in, because these can take awhile.
If the word salad is in written form, I usually make myself a fresh cup of coffee and find a comfortable chair.
Last week’s sermon was about the difficulties he was experiencing trying to get the kids stuff for Easter. Within the run-on sentences about, “I just don’t know what they like…” and “They are growing up so fast…” I found a sentence that made my blood boil.
“… I understand that they aren’t supposed to come over to my house.” Continue reading →
