My Words

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I've always known something changed when I was eight. We moved to another state and I became a different person. It's puzzled me for years and years. I think I finally have at least a bit of a hold on it.

My father is my FOO’s primary narcissist. As my parents’ marriage progressed, my mother became more and more narcissistic. I have no siblings. When I was about a year old, we moved away from family and never lived close to them again. My parents and I were “it”.

When I was eight, we moved again. Before the move, we lived in a community setting. One of my best friends lived behind us. There was a boy my age across the street. Two other close friends lived just around the corner. I went to a great school. I can't remember one negative moment there. My very best friend was a school chum. She and I were inseparable. Life was good.

We moved to an entirely different setting. The neighborhood was mostly senior citizens. They were nice people. The only one who spent much time outside was our next door neighbor who mowed his lawn daily. He was very nice, but very much occupied with keeping his lawn. Behind us lived a girl a few years older than I. For some reason we never really hit it off. The next closest child was two blocks away across a busy street.

At my new school I had my first experience with cliques and bullies. During the first few days at school I remember being completely blindsided by a classmate, whom I thought was my friend, doing something unkind for no apparent reason. It's something that puzzles me to this day. To be sure, I had other friends who didn't do such things, but I soon learned there was this group of children who sought to humiliate, tease, and do anything they could to children they saw as different or weak. I fell into this category. For the six years we lived there, I was an almost constant target. It wasn't that my life was made a living hell. It was just that school became an unsafe place.

OK, so many children experience bullying – I've just learned that what I experienced has a name – but it was more than that. Prior to the move, I belonged to a neighborhood community and a school community in addition to my family. They gave me safe places to be me. When I lost my safe places, I was left with my strange family situation. My parents weren't ones to make close friends, although there were a few over the years. They avoided couples with children because my father hated children. At one time, they actually stopped a friendship because the couple was expecting a child. My father didn't want to be forced to deal with being around a baby. (This makes me wonder what life was like when I was an infant. He was a grad student and I've heard stories of his displeasure with my crying.)

Now’s a good stopping point. It feels good to have a grasp on what changed. For the first time in my life, I'm sad for the little girl who had to face all that.

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As pieces fall into place, I find myself gathering other pieces that are seemingly disparate.

After I was an adult, an event occurred with one of my young teenage cousins, L., and my grandmother. My grandmother put great pressure on L to go and spend the night with another family member, even after L said she didn't want to go. L became so upset that she threw-up – a common action when she was under extreme stress. L’s mother happened to call right after the event and immediately cut L’s visit with my grandmother short. The event was brought to light and the rest of the family agreed that my grandmother's action was wrong. My grandmother denied anything had happened.

Shortly thereafter, while visiting the parents of this cousin (my aunt and uncle), I mentioned to my uncle that a very similar situation had happened to me when I was about my cousin's age, even to the extent that it was the same family member's house. He looked at me with this odd look on his face and then changed the subject. His look stuck with me for all these years. I had no idea how to interpret it. Was it disgust? Disbelief? Today I wonder if he thought I might be looking for sympathy, trying to get some of the spotlight for myself. I also wonder if his thoughts went more along the line of “if that happened, then why haven't I heard of it.”

After the event happened with my grandmother, my mother had also called and knew that something was wrong, although she told me that only after the event with L came to light. I also returned home earlier than originally planned. The whole thing was rationalized under the “it was just too much time away from home for her age.” It wasn't, however, the end of my long summer stays with my grandparents.

Why hadn't he heard of it? It was extremely unpleasant (I still have visual memories of where the confrontations occurred), but it didn't seem that unusual. My father was known for having rage attacks. He'd curse, punch and throw things, spew the most hateful remarks, and everything else you'd expect from a typical toddler's temper tantrum being pitched by a grown man. My mother's response was to give him whatever he wanted. She, of course, trained me to do the same. All else was secondary to placating my father. My grandmother had only put heavy pressure on me to do something I really didn't want to do and when I cried, she became rather nasty about it. Her behaviour seemed consistent with my Father's.

So, it didn't occur to me to tell anyone. Apparently it didn't occur to my mother either.

When the event happened with L, it also came to light that my grandmother had physically abused one of her children. It became so bad that it involved the police, and the child was raised for a time by another member of the family. When the child returned to my grandmother's house, the abuse returned. I sometimes wonder why, given my grandmother's history of abuse, I was sent to stay with her for two weeks in the summer while my parents spent the time at some resort. Both my parents worked fulltime and during the week we weren't able to spend much time together, yet for their two week vacation in the summer, they chose to spend it by themselves. This was in addition to two weeks every summer that I spent at camp. Am I only now seeing something so plain: they preferred spending time without me to spending time with me? Somehow, it's not that surprising.

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As I reread my post above, the realization still hurts. I don't like it. The world in which I thought I lived dissolves before my eyes. Wow, and ouch.

Another recent discovery is more ramifications of my father's lies. He lied a lot. And, of course, he didn't seem to mind if the lies didn't wash, he'd insist on them anyway. If someone decided to push it, he'd just fly into a rage. The ramifications, though, go deeper. All the stories of his life, his work, family history,...everything, are now questionable. Many facts on which my life was based are likely not facts at all. It's a breaking of connectedness. Not only is the world in which I thought I lived dissolving, so is the connection I thought I had with the past. Even the stories of times I can remember may be fabrications. Convincing a child of a lie, even if the child has seen something different, is no great feat. It doesn't stop there. When I reconsider my father's mother, my grandmother, her "oddities" mesh with being a narcissist. That puts into question her stories, too. How many of the wonderful stories my grandmother told me are lies? More of the past dissolves.

So where do I go with this uncomfortable feeling? One grandmother was a child abuser, the other a liar. The sense of place, of connectedness, just isn't there anymore.

edited 02 Aug 09: bad typo caused a sentence to make no sense.

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I'm always on edge. This is a fairly new piece of information to me. It's like so many things, I thought all people were like this. For the most part, the only time I feel truly at ease is when I know no one is around. If I know (or even simply think) there's another person in the house, someone who might knock on the door or walk into the room, then I'm still on edge even when I'm alone. Recently, at times, I can feel relaxed and not on edge at church. At times. It's an odd thing when it happens -- meaning, I guess, that it feels odd, seems odd. In one way it feels natural and in another so foreign, almost inappropriate.

I don't have many answers to why. There are the obvious ones of being raised with a certain amount of fear and tension in the house. But I'd think if it were just such a situational thing as being at home, I'd seek out other places and I'd feel more comfortable there. But, I don't. Of course the whole school bully thing comes into play, too.

I can't imagine the idea of feeling natural or comfortable around another person. I don't know if I ever did around my spouse. There probably was a time, but that left after the event with the narcissistic pastor. I can't imagine the idea of actually believing that being in another person's presence is OK, that I'm not intruding, or inappropriate in some way.

Dunno, in the grand scheme of things all this seems so tiny. People seeking freedom are tortured in Iran. Homes burn in the Canary Islands. Responsible people suddenly lose their jobs and have no idea how they're going to feed their family. Not feeling comfortable in the presence of humans is awfully small.

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I've been doing more thinking on being edgy. The cause seems to be two-fold (but, then again, who knows -- I seem to be finding out more and more about myself as the days go by).

The first cause is a fear of something happening which I haven't anticipated and therefore can't counteract. Sadly, the place this happens most is with my children. That's a huge thing in and of itself. N father hated children or any noises they would make. Kid noises would cause him to fly into a rage. Since my parents wouldn't have friends with small children, his" kid rages" most often happened in public. And, of course, fear of rages and not being able to manage them completes it. It didn't help that my spouse a few years ago became so angry with me that he overturned a table I was using for a desk. For him it was a frustration thing -- it was during the aftermath of the narcissistic pastor. He works very hard to control his anger, especially because he understands he needs to model it for the kids.

OK, the second. The second sounds too much like emo for me to be comfortable with it. The first, OK, I can explain that to people. It seems reasonable once people understand that when I say my father had a bad temper, I'm not just talking about yelling a few curse words or slamming a door. It's taken me years to comprehend that my definition of "bad temper" is apparently different from many other peoples'.

But, I'm getting away from what I don't want to type. The second. It's more than run-of-the-mill self-consciousness. I feel watched, like there's someone there critiquing my every move, my every word. So, I examine my every move and word and make sure that it's "OK". At the times when I think the OKness may be in question, I automatically create an explanation of why it's acceptable. In essence, I see myself as wrong or inappropriate and I'm sure other people see me the same way. OK, I'm comfortable with that explanation. I don't think it sounded too "poor me, please tell me you like me". I *was* that way when I was a teen....thankfully I grew out of that! I shudder when I think of what my poor friends went through.

Hmmm, that seems to be the full of it. I'm sure this contributes to my tiredness. It may be the sum and total of it.

[cantors.counter]

I've been at this healing thing long enough to know that "stuff" usually comes in spurts. Apparently, I'm in a spurt.

I was reading Kathy's thread on the main board about wills and suddenly something made sense that hadn't before.

My female parent recently came for a visit. A surprise visit. This is the same female parent who told me when I moved out of her house that I was welcome to come for a visit anytime, but I needed to give at least 30 minutes warning. But, come to think of it, she did give me 30 minutes warning....OK, fair enough. I hadn't heard from her in about a year and a half. I don't contact her, but I've not told her not to contact me.

While here, she made a comment that puzzled me. She prefaced telling me she'd sold her house by saying in a solemn voice, "Cantors, I have to tell you something". Now, the house is completely hers. I never lived there. She'd only had the house for a few years. Why should I care if she sold it? The one and only reason I'd care is because she a piece of furniture, a treasured piece from my father's side of the family, and made it into a built-in vanity in the bathroom. I didn't like the idea of her doing it at the time, but kept my mouth shut. As the wife, she inherited it, end of story. Obviously the vanity went with the house. So be it. I accepted that when she sacrificed the piece of furniture to begin with.

She also told me about putting all the furniture out on the curb so people could just come by and take it. Whatever wasn't "adopted" by other people was carted away with the weekly trash. She was quite cheery when she talked about this. Among this furniture were other pieces of treasured furniture from my father's side of the family. Off the top of my head I can count at least five, including at least one antique. She also happily reported about throwing away lots of boxes in her basement that she'd never opened. She just decided that she needed to declutter. My grandmother's (again on my father's side) antique Oriental porcelain tea set that stayed with the family through the depression was likely in one of those boxes, as were many other family treasures like my grandmother's porcelain collection. Now, although this bothers me, it's just stuff. It seems heartless for her to do, but it was her stuff to do with as she saw fit. That she apparently she didn't care that there was family history in each piece, and that I might want to pass that history (and stuff) along to my children...well I think it's telling.

Again happily, she told me about spending my grandmother's (again on my father's side) collection of actual *silver* dollars for face value to buy gas and groceries. Beyond being stupid -- the silver alone was worth bunches more than the face value --, it again had a family story tied to it.

I obviously have no idea why, but it appears she's getting rid of all things that came from my father's side of the family. Or, at least, she getting rid of all the things that have a tie to that particular grandmother. They never did get alone, perhaps it's her attempt at getting the final blow. Perhaps it's entirely unconscious. Who knows? The part that struck me today why reading Kathy's thread is the perceived joy with which she told me about it. It seemed odd at the time, but she's become a very odd old lady. Now I think I may understand something.

When I was 16 my mother called a family meeting. I'm an only child, so a family meeting consists of my parents and me. It's the one and only family meeting I can ever recall having. At the meeting she announced that (I just saw that I used the 'm' word to describe my female parent....!) my parents had changed their will. (What a surprise, huh? *eyeroll*) The new will now made arrangements for me to be taken care of until I was an adult (perhaps it was even until age 30, my memory isn't clear), but the bulk of the inheritance would go to an academic organization. I was devastated, but I'll save that whole story for later.

So, not leaving me an inheritance is something she's decided to do before. I wonder if, by any chance, she's consciously or unconsciously doing that right now. Maybe I'm just trying to make myself more important to her than I actually am. That's entirely possible. Either way, years ago I decided not to react to her reports of news. It only feeds and encourages her.

Either way, I can now see at least a few reasons why she'd be so enthusiastic about trashing my grandmother's stuff. 

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OK, I'm going to say it: I have terrible personal hygiene. I'm also caught in a giant sea of apathy at present. These are not good combinations.

I was a latchkey kid from about the time I was 8. At first my mother worked in the same town in which we lived. She left about 30 minutes before I had to start my walk to school, and by that time I was dressed and had at least prepared breakfast: an instant breakfast mixed in milk, and/or a pop-tart.  All that was left to do after she left was to fix myself my sack lunch, or if I was buying lunch at school to sit and watch a bit of TV before leaving on my 30 minute walk.

Roughly two years later, she changed jobs and started working in the same town as my father which was 45 minutes away, longer in winter. Because my father always wanted to get to work early, that meant they left at least an hour before I left for school. Especially in the winter when their drive could be as much as 90 minutes, I was usually just fresh out of bed when they left for work. I'd dress, fix myself breakfast, pack a lunch if needed, and then watch TV and wait. The result was my parents had no idea what I looked like when I left for school. It only recently struck me that my classmates telling me I needed to wash or comb my hair likely relates to this. I endured a lot of teasing because of my appearance: my odd clothes, being overweight, and of course, my hair.

In the past I've had good hygiene. In the past I felt the need to push myself to do what was expected of me. Now, I'm too physically and emotionally tired to care. And I don't like it. It all seems like such a tremendous amount of effort to put forth; I can't find the umph when all I really want to do is curl up and sleep. Sleep is my happy place, my hiding place, my fortress.

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It's the whole death of a parent thing. Again.

It's been a stumbling block for me since my N father died. I did what a good daughter is supposed to do. I listened. I kept in contact with long-distance relatives so my parents did have to -- I hate, hate, hate telephones and talking to people on them, but it was something I could do, so I did. I even consented to getting a cell phone so I would be available for calls at all times.

My very first phone call on my phone was to my father. He complained the entire time. About what I don't remember. Oh, yes I do. He kept telling me what I should stand for. It wasn't a good conversation.

I investigated and visited hospices. My father absolutely refused to consider any part of it, insisting that he *knew* what those sort of places were like and he wasn't going there. I'm sure the irony of his mother saying the very same thing to him didn't strike him. Perhaps it was that he *would* put her in a place like that....I don't really know. It said a lot to me when I tried to truthfully assure him that the place was a very nice, homey place, a place I'd chose for myself -- that he was even more adamant. He had no trust in me. I'm just now realizing that that actually hurt. How odd.

I kept watch the night he died. My mother had been awake the whole night before and she was exhaused. The kind people at the hospital made sure we were in a room with a sofa so my mother could lie down and sleep. I watched while he died. I advocated for those things I thought would make his life easier. I even tried sitting by his bed and touching his hand. It just seemed so wrong. I had no affection for that man. I had no hatred either. I was numb. I am still numb.

I would have felt more watching/advocating for a dying stranger. At least I could be under an illusion that the stranger was loving and loved. My father was neither of those. His wife, my mother, held on to him because it was all she knew. I was there because I felt it was my duty.

Each time I hear about someone's parent dying, I feel very empty. I was relieved when my father died. He became progressively more nasty as he became more ill. Far from embracing family and wanting to reconcile, the last conversation I had with him he was angry. I don't even remember about what, but it seemed unimportant. He cursed my mother because she didn't get his shot of insulin quickly enough for him. It wasn't atypical.

I don't understand the feeling of loss -- I don't even understand the feeling of caring -- when a parent dies. I truly wonder that it matters to some people that their parent has died. I've watched friends and coworkers struggled to grieve the death of a parent. I've watched as years go by and, though it gets easier, it's still something that effects them deeply. It feels like it's something I should grasp. But, I don't. It's a feeling of something missing. Something I don't get....no, more like something that's a basic part of understanding.

In a way, it feels like part of me isn't human.

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It still amazes me how people react when they see or hear a father pitching a fit, cursing, and acting out. My father had a bad temper, cursing, throwing things, kicking things, punching things (not people, though), and generally trashing stuff was normal. I was 16 when I saw it for what it was: an adult pitching a toddler-esque temper tantrum.

This comes to the surface again with the so-called Bubble Boy incident. It reminds me so much of my father. Oddly, I find this whole thing amusing. I'm not sure if that's appropriate, but it's like watching my father getting caught in one of his more outrageous lies. I even "hear" the rationalizations and explanations my father would give for all of it.  When the guy announced he was taking questions in his box....that was just too perfect. I still find myself incredulous that all fathers aren't like this.

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The way I found out the circumstances of my coming into existence disturbs me to this day. I can picture the scene so clearly: my mother sitting in one of the chairs of the dinner table turned sideways to the table, and me sitting in the adjacent room in the floor looking up at her. It seems ironic now, but then it seemed completely normal. I'm a floor sitter.

I don't know whether I'm compressing two different events into one or not, but it may be that the conversation started out with my mother bringing up the subject of my (then) most recent birthday. It was my 16th. They hadn't celebrated it or even mentioned it at all. Apparently I was being too much of a b!itch, and she/they decided I didn't deserve it have it celebrated. When I reread that, it seems so harsh, but at the time it didn't seem so. In fact, I didn't remember that they hadn't celebrated it; I still don't. Anyway, after her explanation she gave me a very touching present that was very special to her.

Again, it may or may not have been the same talk/day, but she then went on to tell me information I really didn't want or need. She told me that she and my father were married because she was pregnant. She told me about how my father had asked if she was sure and asked whether she had gone to a doctor. Her reply was this was something she KNEW and if he wasn't willing to believe her then fine. She told me that if he had decided not to marry her, she "knew how to take care of it." This was when a far away look came upon her face. Anyway, she told me, they were married, they loved each other very much and I was a very wanted and loved child. The tone in her voice wasn't convincing. She sounded more like she was trying to convince herself than comfort me.

The whole talk has haunted me to this day. It was so....odd. It's like I'm missing something. But, I have no idea what it might be.

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About stuff. I'm too attached to it. I'm too worried that I may need it someday and therefore it needs to be preserved. I have toys from my childhood that I never or rarely played with because I didn't want them to be used up and not be there if I wanted them later. I wouldn't use perfume, or scented soap, because I might want it later.

Today, it's paperwork: old bills, statements, etc. For years, I've filed every bill, every bank statement, or rather, at some times I've filed them and at other times I've piled them. I've been doing much more piling lately. Recently I heard someone I respected say that bills don't need to be kept once they've been paid/the check is cleared. So, yesterday I shreaded years of bills and receipts. I can only remember one time when I needed something like that, and it was a pay stub, which I'll still keep. This morning I realized I felt like a large weight was no longer on my shoulders.

There's another component to it, too. It's a fear that if I don't save it, I'll need it someday and won't be able to get another. Mostly it's a money thing. A fear of using when I should be saving. Fear of having a need and having wasted the object earlier and not being able to afford it again. Fear of not having appreciated something enough and wasting it. And, a certain amount of it, is not wanting to waste it on me. Yet, as I sit here, I can't think of a time where I regretted using something and no longer having it.

I've gone through this very same thing before. And, I don't remember regretting the purging of truly unneeded things.

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I originally wrote this as a response to the thread about the professor who murdered her colleagues in a department meeting apparently because she didn't receive tenure. It didn't seem to fit there.

This very news story was what brought me back here today. The whole news story is so fascinating to me. My N father was a PhD professor at a university. So much of the reporting about Dr. Bishop sounds too much like my N father: active in university politics, member of the faculty senate, arrogant, troubles getting along with colleagues when there was disagreement, and on, and on. My N father had more of an ability to apply the charm when he wanted something and he was granted tenure. He ran afoul of the department leadership eventually. He expressed such hatred for his department head and such vitriol for the system as a whole. He'd literally be sweating profusely and foaming at the mouth when he ranted about how unfair it was when he didn't get the teaching schedule he wanted for a particular semester. But this was something his colleagues never saw. At work, he was always calm on the surface even while seething under the surface.

Dr. Bishop was denied tenure and thus was losing her job. My father left the university and went to the business world. He did well for a while, until he ran afoul of his bosses. His nastiness and anger rekindled. He changed jobs, and did well for a while there. Again, he ran afoul of authority figures. Finally, he was sacked and it devastated him. Around the same time, he noticed skin changes that were obviously cancerous. He made excuses and blamed the medical system for not being able to get in to see a physician; his lies weren't convincing. In effect, he committed suicide by not seeking medical attention for something he knew to be deadly. He got his revenge, but in a different way. It does make me wonder, if it hadn't been for the cancer, would he have been capable of something like this?

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This topic of this post may be disturbing to some. Self-injury is discussed. If you are a person who self-injures, please do not continue reading if you believe discussion of self-injury will cause you to harm yourself. Methods are mentioned.

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I self-injure (si). There are three people I know IRL who know that I harm myself. Two found out accidentally; one I told under the mistaken impression that the person was safe. That latter person turned out to be very UNsafe. But, isn't that the way with people who were raised by narcissists and/or self injure? Safe people aren't exactly the norm for us.

One thing often discussed in the si community -- how odd to think that there IS actually a community of people who harm themselves! -- is when and how one started to self injure. As I think about why this is, I guess it's a seeking for where it started, why it started. At least, for me, that's what it is. I'm not a teenager or even a young adult, regardless of how one defines the term. I'm 45 years-old. It's difficult for me to remember when I started purposefully injuring myself. Over the years, the start has marched back in time. It never occurred to me that what I was doing was injuring myself until I was in my early twenties. As it stands now the start was at least by the time I was around 13 or 14. Oddly enough, considering the common excuse used to explain away self-injury, I taught my cat to scratch me. Remembering my feelings around the whole thing, I'll not be surprised if I remember some sort of self-injury that I did before that. I certainly had had fantasies of being harmed or humiliated -- something that continues to this day and that I can't really comprehend.

When I was a teen and young adult there was no public "awareness" of self-injury. It certainly wasn't a fad that people shared with their friends. I thought I was The Only One. In The Whole World. When my ex (a person who now in hindsight tips the narcissistic scales pretty heavily) found out, it was ugly. He threatened to expose my terrible deeds to friends and family and generally to humiliate me if I didn't quit. Of course, this is the same person who shortly thereafter blackmailed me into not leaving him lest he expose my secrets.

Must go now.

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It seems I'm alone again. Or rather, it seems my H may be asleep/close enough to sleep for it to be safe to continue.

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As with the last post, topic(s) which some may find disturbing are discussed below. Self-injury and various forms of abuse, including emotional, physical and sexual (sa), may be discussed. If you self-injure, please do not continue reading if you think it might cause you to want to harm yourself. Methods are briefly discussed.

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Self-injury, for whatever reason, has been a lot on my mind lately. There's a component there, a strong desire for the comfort it provides, that I've felt for the past few weeks. It's caused me to wonder from where the original want for that comfort came. In my experience, the vast majority of people who self-injure for reasons other than partaking of the latest fad or, to be honest, for the attention partaking can gain them, there's usually some form of abuse. SA seems to be quite common. I don't fit into that category, though, until well after I started si-ing. It's long been a wonder of mine, why I started harming myself.

At the time I taught my cat to scratch me, my family had recently moved to a new town. A very small town. The elementary, junior and senior high were all housed in the same building. There were 70 some members in my graduating class; we were the largest to-date. I had no human friends, only my feline ones. In a way, I was raised by cats. They were the one thing in my life I could be certain would be friendly, warm and loving. Cats were predictable. To this day, the company of cats is more comforting and normal than that of humans. So why, given this affection I have for cats, would I purposefully train the cat that was my favourite, to harm me to the point of drawing bl**d? In all truth, that was my goal: to draw bl**d. It's always my goal when it comes to self-injury. Seeing it very important. Without it, it is somehow incomplete.

I trained my friend to scratch me in the process of playing. It was a friendly game. A friendly action. So....how does this connect? It's hard for me to remember whether I'd trained any of my cats before that to scratch me. In a way it seems like I might, but it all gets foggy so fast.

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The topic of this post may be disturbing to some. Self-injury is discussed. If you are a self-injurer, please do not continue reading if you believe discussion of the topic may cause you to want to harm yourself.

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After writing my last post, it occurred to me that I'd forgotten about the calming & pleasurable feeling of endorphins that come with self-injury. With that it makes sense. Now, it doesn't seem to make sense why I didn't "get" that before.