Monday, January 23, 2012

My favorite sister.




I don't remember the first conversation I had with my sister wherein she told me that our parents weren't like other parents. By the time I was five or six, we would sit around after the bopsy twins had left for the night,   run my mother's good name through a wringer, and howl with laughter. Of course it was six and twelve year old humor.  But for those days we worked blue. It's hard to put a G rated spin on some guy nailing your mother while you dad's at work.
I have this flicker of her broaching the topic for the first time. Her sitting me down to make it known that our parents were not like other parents.  I remember me giving her the four to five year old version of duh duh duh duh. Ya think? I had sleep overs at friend's. I knew something was not right.
My sister and I played board games all night long and we would talk about about our mother.  I had not started school yet, so after summer vacation was over, I would fill her in on what all happened during the day.  My sister taught me how to play chess. And monopoly.  But no one taught me much else. Like how to tie my shoes. I still can't tie my shoes. Not like other people. I use a method that looks like Woody Allen strangling himself with a microphone cord. It's nothing like the way other people tie their shoes.
 I have a lot of quirks like that.  I am not impaired. I was just a little bit out of sync with the chronological development adhered to by other kids.
It was like living at the south pole and expecting today's issue of the wall street journal to show up on time.
The best thing about having an older sister is having the older sisters friends hanging out in the room next to me. They were compelling.
They "forced" me to hang with them and play barbie dolls or else receive a "beating".
One day my sisters friend Patricia called me into the room. She sat me down close to her.
Doug she says, I called you in here for a reason.
I was eager to please.
Doug she says, see this lamp in my hand? The light bulb has been removed.
 I need to know if when it was taken out, was the switch on or off?
 Her asking me to come into my sisters room was a red flag. Nothing good was coming of this.
Doug she says.
I am going to plug this lamp in.
I want you to stick your finger in the socket and tell me if it is on or off.
How will I know?
Oh you'll know.
I stuck my finger in there and lit up.
I went back to my room.
I think she set me up to do something stupid.
I also think it's hilarious. That this chick would go to such a length to mess with me, and that I would actually fall for it.
I told that story to my mother shortly before I went no contact and I thought she would bust a spring.
She told me that I dreamed it all up.
She is told me I am permanently impaired.
If anyone knows anything about being impaired it would be her.
I think she thinks one story will tarnish her image as a perfect mother. Like someone will hear it and after decades of bulldozing her kids under, someone will suddenly say hey! I am not so sure you aren't a lousy mother.
I don't know where she was when they were testing my conductivity, but I can guess.
I bet a gust of wind blew her skirt up over her head and she tripped and fell on some guys penis.
But I could be wrong.











Sunday, January 22, 2012

“Respect was invented to cover the empty place where love should be.”








“A man is like a fraction whose numerator is what he is and whose denominator is what he thinks of himself. The larger the denominator, the smaller the fraction.” 
― Leo Tolstoy


I never talk about my father much except in regards to his final night and to try and portray him as a loving man consumed by the barbarian.
 Which is what he was.
Kind of.
When she was in full on stunt, he was as shameless as her in taking no prisoners. He had no regard for the peace and dignity of others. He would sink low to garner attention.
 I want to share with you what stops me from distancing myself from that night.
It has nothing to do with the Barbarian, and everything to do with him. His actions were so scrambled that after 37 years I have made less than zero progress.
Motive is always the question people ask first about a suicide. Why did they do what they did? Who were they pandering to?
About two years ago, I was talking to my SO about that night. I ran down a synopsis of how it all unfolded. My father and mother were up at the farm having a sling fest of a fight.  I was at our house in town heating up some chow. I didn't know where he was. I didn't know where she was. Later I saw broken picture frames at the farm and I knew they had been at it and she had been throwing things at him like she always did.
 I was about to eat when my father pulled up at our house. He came in and told me to get in the car. We were going to the farm. I got in and we drove away and left the food on the stove. On the way up, I tried to reason with him. He had swallowed a bunch of pills that afternoon, but it just made him sick. I knew what his plans were. But I couldn't make the leap to it becoming reality.
After we stopped in my grandmothers driveway, I made him look me in the eye and promise me that he was not going to go through with what he had been talking about. His shoulders shrugged and he said not to worry, everything was going to be OK.
We both got out of the car and walked to the front door where my grand mother was waiting. I went  inside and he stopped and said a few words to her. She closed the door behind him, and I walked over and stood in front of the butane stove. It was September and close to a hundred degrees outside.  I stood with my back to the heater and rubbed my hands together as if it were freezing. It was all out of habit.
It was maybe 20 seconds after my grandmother closed the door behind him that the gun went off. He let out this long wail and called my mothers name out twice. There was no other sound until the police arrived.
 It was long before 911 and we had to look through the phone book to pick out which number to call. My grandmother dialed a wrong number first, and rambled something to someone that had no clue why we were calling them. She finally got through  and a policeman arrived some 20 minutes after and I heard him say to no one that this man is dead.
So I am telling all this to my wife. About as straight forward as I am telling you now.  Something that you would think is glaringly obvious, but was not. And it all came in with a rush.
He went out of his way so that I would be there and witness it all. He could have done this first and left me in town. He could have gone off and done it alone. He could have given it up and stuck around and been a father. But he didn't.
He left the farm.  Drove straight to town and picked me up. Then drove straight back to the farm and in less then two minutes was dead.
Why did he have to make sure that I witnessed this. Was his message of look at what your mother has done to me so important that he needed me to see it all go down? What satisfaction was derived by becoming a martyr.
Here, I focus more on the murder because I figure people want to hear about that. It is sensational. It's true crime. It shows just what a sociopath can do.
As nice of a guy as I am sure her victim was, it still had no long lasting effect on me.  After her trial we moved on and started over because that's what you do. If that was the end of the story I would not be blogging now. I would never open myself up to douche-bags on ACON sites. I would  have considered myself  lucky to have so little baggage and be able to move on and forget that time ever existed.
But the soundtrack of that night rules supreme. It is one I have played over and over in my head since. Every day, dozens of times.
To try and move forward, which is what a normal person would do, there has to be conscious thought of the thing to move on from. Conscious thought of moving on is not followed by the thought of how to move on. Conscious thought of moving on takes me back to that night.
In the middle of a crowd of people
I can go there.
Sitting alone at home.
I can go there.
 Christmas morning and new years eve.
I can go there.
 Anything can pull me back into that nightmare all over again.
The barbarian set the stage for all this. My father took what she started and raised the stakes. He went out of his way to maximize the impact his actions had on others. He inflicted himself on us in the harshest and most enduring way possible.
At this endeavor he was successful beyond his wildest dreams.
  

Friday, January 20, 2012

NPD forum's revisited.




More thoughts on my last post about forum dynamics. It is usually right about now that I wonder how much my history bias's peoples perceptions of me. This is another one of those blind spots for me.
I don't share my past with people in my real life.  Being this vocal on-line is pretty new.
People are so eager to devalue and discard.
  I can hear the haters on forums thinking to themselves, Ooh, you think you are so cool having a murdering lunatic for a mother. I could of had one to if I had been a little more lucky.
. The quick to snit's parents can't hold a candle to the Barbarian. It's easier for me to walk on than it is to butt heads with people that already know they are right.
It is here that I pull the pissing contest card and no where else. In this respect, and this one only, will I declare myself possessing more knowledge than most. Not wisdom. Just the knowledge that given the right circumstance, disordered people are capable of anything.
I don't throw this out as a badge of sociopath endurance.
Any one reading this now would have fared just as well as me and my sister.
In the middle of writing, I will stop and remember that this is all too real. All that I speak of is the absolute truth.
That truth is always there, lurking.  It is all that I know. It steals thunder from me whenever it feels.  It never takes a day off.  As long as I live, each day will be more of the same.
It is just something that happened around some kid.  That kid is gone. I am what is left. It's just the way it is.
It wouldn't have taken much to save us. Me and my sister. But the time to do the right thing came and went.
If any forum douche bag would like to trade my experience for his. Look me up.











Apathetic Selflessness on NPD forums.



There is one in every crowd. The passively hip are masters of the soothing demeanor while still frustrsating a person to death. They are just as much about things being their way or the highway as any raging narcissist. When a raging loon pisses you off you know exactly why. The acquiescent bully will never raise their voice, yet leave a person every bit as pissed off and befuddled as any cluster-B. 
They are measured and polite. They carefully consider their words and seem willing to meet you somewhere in the middle. But it is you always capitulating and them never budging an inch. 
They are generous. They are willing to devote their time to you.
They want to enlighten you.
You are angry.
They are not.
You are unhinged.
Not to worry they say. I, the altruistic humanitarian, will be leading you  to a new way of thinking. 
Which is another way of saying, I will speak and you will agree with me, and if you don't, I will gently but firmly keep nudging you back to the correct mind set.
MINE!
I also question the members that are never going to go no contact. I know how presumptuous that makes me sound. I would never try and force that decision on another. But it makes me question the severity of the underlying disorder of their narcissist. 
I've seen people driven out of their homes. I knew of a homeless woman who posted from the library. And these people are told to shut their yaps by someone who's father made him go into the family medical profession. Had a medical degree paid for and was set up in practice.
Ans boo fucking hoo because their real dream was to sell salvage auto parts out on route 66.


Here are the posts that led me to leave a support group. Not all posts on the thread are here. But the ones here have not been altered.
There was an ongoing debate about the difference between narcissist and sociopath's. I say potato and they potahto. I called the whole thing off.   


Forum Member:
I am glad I was born. We would not exist had our parents not had us. There are so many screwed-up parents in this world, I find PD parents are merely a strange subset because they appear so normal. If we mandate CPS take children away from PD parents all hell would break loose, it is very hard to prove someone is PD and it's a false charge that would be very easy to make stick.
I really think the damage occurs after we're 18 in very large part. I have no regret that I was allowed to stay in the home I was.
Doug.(me):
I agree. That my mother seduced my sisters boyfriend and had him rob and murder my fathers boss was a one off.
Forum Member:
You read about parents starving their kids, and PD people are so good at appearing normal, you just know if we mandate CPS take kids away from PDs it's the PD people who are going to PROJECT the PD onto otherwise normal parents, and here comes CPS to take their kids away from perfectly normal parents.
Forum Member:
Ns are a mild form of psychopath, with more vanity, is my understanding. AN overlap rather than strict subset.
Forum Member:
Someone I know from another support group refers to my NM as a P and it's really irritating. It's jarring enough to deal with all of this stuff, and I'm already NC and taking care of myself. She's an N, which means she'll go to a lot of lengths to protect her own ego and remain superior.
I don't think it's anyone's place to assign labels to my own parents. And frankly what is the point, how does it help? It hurts more than anything.
Forum Member:
I don't see why this should be a point any of us need to get caught up in, and I very much dislike the splitting and bickering that result from persuing such arguments. It may harken back to our habit of living in our heads (ie, dealing with intellectual information only and to the exclusion of dealing with our emotions). Or perhaps it speaks to our ACON heightened sensitivity to any perceived criticism since we grew up feeling attacked for "being wrong" and/or "being bad". We don't need to pick out someone to be right and someone else to be wrong here in this group. We need to remind ourselves that this group is our safe place to bear witness to each others painful experiences, related to our common history with narcissists, and our place to give and receive the support we need to heal. Can we please let go of the other stuff? Thank you.
Forum Member:
I hope we don't lose the honesty here, I very much appreciate the honest feedback. Im so used to lies that its refreshing to have an honest opinion. I think we need that to grow in our journey.
Me (getting tired of the touchy feely):
I have a sociopath. She is also a narcissist. She is an N 24/7. You wouldn't call her a sociopath except for her yearly episodes of sociopath behavior.
There are sociopaths. And there are narcissist's who will become sociopaths. For all of you that wallow in medium chill. Tell your N you are tired of their shit and you will be leaving never to return. Watch them ramp up into a person you have never seen before.
No really.
Go do it.
Right now.
Call them up and tell them you are tired of their incessant hounding and badgering and you are removing yourself from the equation. Then tell me there is a difference between a sociopath and a narcissist
Forum member:
Seeking to understand why these discussions are polarizing, on both ends. Why is it constructive to some? Why is it upsetting to others?
Douche bag mod wanna be:
My impression is, by the way, that this whole area isn't completely 'clear cut' even when listening to the experts. Some even say that 'sociopath' and 'psychopath' are interchangeable terms, while others say they are labels for somewhat different things. Also, I've read that 'psychopath' isn't always considered a professional term but that it's supposed to be 'antisocial personality disorder'. Lots of variations 'out there'. I'd agree that these types of more 'academic' matters aren't necessarily the foremost concern here, but rather support/validation and communication with others in acon type situation.
Me snapping:
You can ignore my post all you want to. But spending time trying to differentiate between an N and a sociopath is differentiating six and half a dozen.
Douche bag:
Doug,I may be wrong, but I think ****** meant that 'academic' discussions (like she herself might write) could be skipped by those who aren't particularly interested
Me again:
So our pathological thinking is our fault and not the fault of our disordered parents. And we have no right to feel what we feel, and be triggered by what triggers us. What stuff do you want us to let go of? Can you give us a list of allowable triggers so we don't offend you. I read yesterday that NPD's are merely quirky. But all in all no big deal.
Do you believe this as well?
Douchebag:
Doug, I imagine she didn't mean that disagreeing with downplaying the destructiveness of these n's and p's should stop. Any such downplaying should be scrutinized very seriuosly, and I'm picturing ****** would agree, but that she thinks no one should be 'cast' here in a role as 'academic' (and have to defend such a role), since we're rather all here as hurt victims.
Me ever the horses ass:
Why don't you let her speak for herself. I don't speak for others and I don't want to listen to others rationalizing for them. If she wants to start a war she can stick around and fight it herself.
Douchebag:
My comment was because the post read different to me than how it seems to me you perceived her meaning.
I trust you have good reason to see her message as you did, and, again, the reason I'm commenting is that, like I mentioned in another reply, this topic isn't one I have strong feelings about.
My intention is not to rationalize, but to offer that from my point of view her intention may not have looked we expressed, but my impression is she didn't try starting a war, but had a more peaceful intention.
I'm offering you my view on her post, as a kind of neutral third party.
Like I say, I don't support her view that these topics shouldn't be discussed.
Me:
It was you that said NPD's are quirky but not really a problem. Instead of speaking for "********" explain that. If NPD's are merely quirky why are you here?
My great grandmother chewed tobacco. That was quirky.
My mother destroyed my family and caused collateral damage in the families of all the guys she had affairs with.
Can you compare and contrast that?
Douchbag:
I am ******* and I must have serious multiple personality disorder if I posted that yesterday. :-P
The view you mention is one I couldn't disagree with more.
Whoever posted the 'quirky' comment yesterday here was someone else. And probably in the extreme minority on this particular mail list.
Me:
Quirky may not be the word but it was you who said they were harmless.
Douchebag:
Again, I don't see how I would have ever expressed such a view. I've never held that view, Doug. My wording may have been poor, it probably often is. I don't remember what I wrote here yesterday, but I'll be happy to clarify whatever it was.
Me:
It may have been a one off but you said it. I couldn't miss it blindfolded. There is so much shit from you that it is impossible to sort through it all. (this guy posts something every 90 seconds)
Douchebag:
Your wording could have seemed unfitting in this particular forum, for people who have in fact suffered from being around n's.If you're upset with something someone say, it's ok to say that right away. I, for one, am at least happy to hear about it.I'm not discounting your feelings. However, if I helped create them by how I expressed myself yesterday, there has been a misunderstanding.
Me:
One other thing. I never said anyone was against me. Those are your words. Let others speak for themselves and I will speak for myself.
Me again:
Sorry. I don't need this ********* guy telling me what every one else means. I don't need him interpreting my own words to me. I don't want him telling me what I will regret when what I am supposed to regret in the world according to ******** is telling him to let some one speak for themselves.
He hasn't been here long. And even if he had been here since the get go that doesn't mean he gets to tell me how to feel.
I haven't acted out in a destructive way. I am asserting rights my narcissist never afforded me and I will not have my fingers rapped for doing so.
*****Watch this. This is me reeling it in and trying to make amends*********
Despite how my words may seem. I don't have as big of a problem with you( ********) that it may seem. I think you are so comfortable here that you are taking on more of the group think than is what is healthy. Like I said before. I trust anger. There is truth in anger. I see a bunch of people still walking on eggshells. I think it is healthy to respect others and tip toe around them. But how can you guys not be angry about what you suffered at the hands of your tormentors? Get mad! Don't measure your words. I want to hear how pissed you all are. This isn't a tea party.
Douchbag: ******(passively not accepting me making amends)********
Well, you're confusing me. :-) I could have sworn you were pretty angry. So if I wrote in a way easy to mistake yesterday, you're doing it now.
If you're not angry at me, you have to be more careful if you don't want me to think so. I pretty sensitive, to say the least (which may also be the case for others here, I don't know).
I take my anger out at karate practice and playing Assault Cube. :-) In here I'm just trying to 'crystalize' a lot of very confused thoughts.
Forum member:
In the vein of Telling It, I'd like to mention to this Doug guy that he doesn't have any business saying that he thinks I wasn't exposed to a true NPD. I did not seek out this forum by accident. :p What I would like to request is that the forum remain polite. I would like to imagine that if someone, even me perhaps, has something to say, that one can say it without walking around on eggshells, as you say, first. I suppose that there is a time and a place for everything, anger too. I just was hoping that this would be a place that I could gain some tools for dealing with the hostility, malice, and profound selfishness that I get from one of my parents. If I've got an inbox full of vitriol to me that's counterproductive.
(I used the words some of you. So of course that meant specifically her)
Me:
Fair enough. 
And I clicked out of the group

  

Thursday, January 19, 2012

Seven Month's in the Hole.



The seven months I lived with my sociopath mother was the first time in over 40 years I had spent a night under the same roof with her. It became a creeping  nightmare.
 The stay with her was chock full of small anecdotes of her crime. Observations of her of misdeeds that brought the family to it's knees.  I knew what she had done.  She knew I knew.  I saw the endless parade of men to her bedroom each day. I saw my father die. I was there when her and her boy friend committed the murder that undid us as a family.
The closest she came to acknowledging her role in my father's suicide were these words.
"I don't know why he did it. ....I gave him some that night."
 Like her vaginal magic would be enough to give any man hope. She never mentions the first part of that week end was spent with the guy she had left him for.
My favorite words out of her mouth was a remark about what lousy luck our family had. Like damn! Try to whack a guy in your driveway  and park him and his car out on a country road, and every body gets all pissy about it.
After she demolished my rose tinted lens, the holocaust on our family was complete. Every one is gone. Save my sister and me.
My sister moved as far away as she could get without a boat. And I kept my head buried in the sand.
I never lost the walking on egg shell feeling in her presence. I rationalized, minimized, and justified her behavior for the next 40 years. Not living with her allowed me the illusion of the quintessential southern boy in denial, trying to love his mother and see beyond her faults.
It was all behind me.
Not good enough.
As lily white as she projects herself, she likes her instability on the back burner so you don't forget.
She minimizes her past. Unless she volunteers full disclosure.
Peppered in conversation about women being sluts. Men and their bothersome penis's. And how every one is a grifter and charlatan who have her pegged as a mark.
Every one alive has screwed her over.
Every single person.
Oh except you!

  






Sunday, January 8, 2012

Face to the floor



I always said better me than someone less able to cope. Better me than someone who would be eaten alive.
This isn't a zero sum game. Every hit we take doesn't mean one less for someone else. It means one more score for the sociopath.
 Must we all be consumed in their bonfire just to illuminate their vanity?

 One day I picked up a two by four. I am grown and my hands are full. I pressed the wood down on the floor with my chest to reach as far to the other end as I could. It was the first time I understood the effort of shooting yourself in the chest with a rifle. Hemingway pulled the trigger with his toe.  My father used his finger. It is not a fluid act and is just this side of difficult.
It would give me pause to reconsider. But I am not suicidal.  I am supposed to be more at risk. I went the other way. He didn't have any fun out there. I might go that way but never that method. He knew it would hurt. The night before, after I unloaded his gun,  I heard him telling her that he swore he heard the shot and in his mind felt it. I think he was wrong. I could tell that when he made it happen he felt it. I am sure of this and I know he was too. I am sure that he didn't think it was his mind filling in blanks for continuity. I am sure that he was sure. Other than that I am sure of little else.  I am sure it hurt. A lot. Trust me on this one thing. I am also sure that a person can be dead pretty fucking pretty fucking quick. I wonder what his last thought was? I am sure that the silence after is as bad as the sound.

In the end, he lived for the glory of death. Romanticized it. The underdog of unrequited love finally takes a stand. I will not go quietly.
   He got that right.  The triumphant cry of a desperate lover didn't last much longer than the sound of the shot. If you didn't hear it, you will never know.  It wasn't human. And he isn't animal.  That second was somewhere between.
 I saw his life flash in front of my eyes.