Ami,
In my house, it was my father that made the rules that we had to live by (it was his psychotic glasses). I tried so hard to meet those rules, but like Janet said, “impossible with an N, of course, as they keep moving the goal posts.” I was constantly on alert, trying to gage his moods so that I, hopefully, could divert the abuse that would come if I didn’t read him correctly. Everything and everyone catered to him. When he was around, I went on hold, and became whatever I needed to become so that I wouldn’t get hurt. (Lot of residual shame there – something to work on, I feel like I should have been stronger then.)
I can remember one time, he was really drunk, and he was on the floor. I was sitting on the couch – there was no one else around. He started coming towards me – crawling on all fours – I was terrified, it was as though he was stalking me. I pretended I was going to get a drink and ran for my life. I will never forget the look in his eyes – so empty and blank. There was nothing there. I saw evil. After that incident, I tried so hard never to be alone with him again.
I spent so much of my childhood terrified of him, that my mother’s toxicity went pretty much unnoticed. It wasn’t until after he died that I began to realize how toxic she really was. Her abuse was subtle. It was like a slow drip of mild acid over time. Yeah it hurts a little when it happens, but you forget. Every once in a while I would get a bucket of the strong acid from her, but for the most part it was mild drips (when compared to him). I am beginning to realize that without him there, maybe that acid wouldn’t have seemed so mild. It is a really nasty type of abuse, over time your soul is eroded and you wonder what happened. You can point to a black eye and say yeah, I was abused – but how do you point to the scars on your soul. It is real insidious – because they damage you, and then blame it on you for being damaged.
I am rambling here, but my mother’s abuse was so much milder than my father’s that I think of her as an emotional infant – mentally ill. Maybe she is evil.
I realized a long time ago that there was something not right in my father. In some ways, at that time, I was able to shift my world view away from his psychotic glasses. I am just beginning to realize the extent of how much of my world view was determined by my mother’s psychotic glasses. You said it so well:
“The perspective with which I saw the world was distorted. It was like a 'fun house" mirror.”
I didn’t realize until last year how very true this was for her as well. For me, in a lot of ways, it was my perspective of myself as well as my world view. I have/had no self confidence, anxiety, PTSD, I thought I was a terrible person, difficult, over-sensitive, nasty, unlikable, etc.,
For me, by calling them mentally ill or evil, it is a path toward understanding that they are the ones with the problem not us. It is a means of getting rid of the glasses and starting to rebuild myself. There is a reason that they are the way they are that has nothing to do with me. I tried so hard as a child to be what they needed me to be, to make everything right, to cater to them so they would be happy, but because of their nature, nothing I did worked. I used to think it was my fault – no more. It is their fault not mine.
Your story of your mother is classic N. She reminds me so much of my father and now, of my mother. The kicking you to the floor, helping you get up, and then kicking you down again. Twisting your decision to walk away, in such a way as to make her feel like she is doing the noble thing for you – I am so sorry. You and Janet are so right. There is no fixing it.
You and Janet have reminded me of my current motto: They stole my childhood, they stole my young adult life – she is not stealing one more second of my life. The rest is mine.
OK – back on track - got derailed for a bit – Thank you both so much.
Peace
