Sunday, April 29, 2012

Liars




Transposing the rules of engagement of romantic relationships onto the way we interact with a disordered parent may seem out of line in the post-mortem of defunct family relationships, but it works well enough for me.  If we consulted friend's, or councilors, or life coaches, and told them about the lies and two faced bull shit we get from our malignant narcissist parent, but said it was from a significant other, they would tell us to cut and run. 
I am not sure why it should be any different receiving the same bullshit from a parent. Maybe the threshold for taking a walk might be a little higher for a family member,  but why should having blood ties with someone allow them to say and do whatever they want, and that we should sit around and take it?  
I'm tired of the people questioning my wisdom for cutting ties with my mother. You go live with the murdering hag if you like her so much. Leave me the fuck out of it.  The people that I hear that 
Blather- Skype from have never even met her. 

And that it's your family member doing the lying, makes the stakes are much higher. A lover can scorch your ass and leaving is the order of the day.  AND, you can expect to do with out all the chin music from outsiders.
But let it be a parent.... a parent who has made this a life long pattern, and you are supposed to sit there and take it. 
And let them unravel your life. 
Time and time again. 
And I suppose thank them for it. 
You've got two choices with a malignant narcissist. You can stick around for their abuse and like it. Or go no contact.
I say fuck'em. 
When a relationship is based on lies, there is no relationship. It's just lies.
AND!
I'll live in a refrigerator box before I'll subject myself to that shit ever again.  

Saturday, April 28, 2012

The beginning of "The End"



There was only one catch and that was Catch-22. Orr would be crazy to fly more missions and sane if he didn't, but if he was sane he had to fly them. If he flew them he was crazy and didn't have to; but if he didn't want to he was sane and had to.
Joseph Heller




The first sign that things were not going well after I moved in to care for my mother, was the growing sense of revulsion I began to feel towards her. In the beginning I felt the affinity that a son should feel towards his mother, and I was looking forward to helping her after her stroke. I was counting on the proximity it afforded us to be a catalyst for re-bonding. The silver lining of her illness was such that it imposed a way for us to make up for all the lost time from our past.
What I really needed was to keep reminding myself that her absence from my life was from her end and not mine. It was her that created the category 5 shitstorm, and skipped town.
The visits at the skilled nursing facility were always stiff and distant. Something I attributed to her hating her condition and being away from her home and cats. I also became aware of just how biting her remarks could be. Another thing that was there in the small snippets of time we shared during my adult life, but really didn't take root in my mind as this being the way she is 24/7.

  Her house was not the cleanest and so I methodically started cleaning the things that were less than clean. Like looking at the vent over her stove and noticing caked grease to the point of it being nasty.  I would choose a small cleaning battle and when that battle was won another would present itself and I would declare war on it. Mind you, I never voiced any opinions here. I never saw something and said what most people would have said which would be...."Holy fucking Shit! That's just nasty and I'm fixing this before another meal is cooked here. I may have an adult disconnect with her, but the ever present child in me never forgot the things that will induce a narcissistic rage. And what induced her narcissistic rage at this late date was whatever I happened to be doing at any given moment. Even if it was in her best interests. She was getting visits from a home health care agency and they could have yanked the rug out from under her and sent her to a retirement home cat quick. So I did my best to keep her house top shelf clean and her well fed.

I won't go into the months of gas lighting that followed. The rage attacks that came from no where and were inciting by nothing. We all have our stories of incredulous acts by our malignant narcissist. We begin the journey thinking these acts are happenstance. And then we find it is intentional.  I think this is evil and I think they love being this way. If it is intentional, all they have to do is stop. But they do not.
They exist in some alien world the rest of us are not privy to. They are all motivated by a force that none of us can relate to. There are nuances in their perceptions that don't register with the non disordered, but send them on a gas lighting campaign or into a seething rage.
Narcissism has to be a form of autism.  Their interface with the world fits just well enough to make them appear functional, yet keep us shaking our heads in disbelief.
It's hard to shed light on vibe of evil of the personality disordered. Like cock roaches, light is the very thing they avoid. They deny any thing about them that is less than perfect. And they will never be coaxed to examine themselves, or submit to analysis by others.
This is our dilemma. We have a person we want to love, but who wreaks havoc on our lives any time we get near them. And they can't be fixed.

So fuck'em !

Thursday, April 26, 2012

Shredding Party




You know that saying about poker? "If after the first twenty minutes you don't know who the sucker is at the table, it's you."
That's me.
The no hold's barred style I now use to blast my mother is new to me. I would have never talked about her like this in the past. But to find out I was never spared from that mouth of hers was a surprise. I thought the bitch liked me.
Well, fuck her.
My sister and I didn't sugar coat the way she is. Not to each other. We lived with the bitch and knew the harsh reality of her and we knew the truth. Telling others would only get us the John Belushi stink eye and we got enough of that at home.
I told women. I felt I had to. If we were closing in on some kind of relationship. But I kept it to a nuts and bolts accounting of her misdeeds. There's a fine line between disclosure and  having people think you are cut from the same loonistic, babble ass, shit-cloth as her.
If I had known how infinitely crazy this bitch really was, I would have never brought any one over to meet her.
Ever.
No one.
But I was clueless. She ran every one else through a wood chipper when they were out of the room. Why did I think I was exempt?
I think back on all kinds of things people said to me over the years. The really off the wall things that cropped up after someone met my mother. It makes total sense today. Knowing she had told them god only knows what about me. I can malign my own reputation well enough with no help from her.
She trashed us all. And did an excellent job of playing the ends against the middle. It's the only thing she does well.
I'll never forget that smirk of hers. That smirk she gets  as she pops the clutch into narcissistic rage and waits for that dumbfounded look creeping across someone's face when they finally understand what a crazy ass bitch she is.
 Me telling her to fuck off on the phone will have to do. She didn't get to see me when I connected the dots and made it full circle.
That mouth of hers can make a train take a dirt road.
And I never have to hear it again.












Tuesday, April 24, 2012

A Good Day in Hell

 

My parents always shot  fire works on the fourth of July.


Growing up in my house were boring days of watching my parents watch each other like two coke addled drug dealers trying to cheat each other at poker.  Until one thought they had something on the other and all hell broke loose. My father would keep track of the mileage on the odometer of her car to see how far she got away from the house during the day. She called in favors from friends to lie for her, and I was expected to do the same. I don't ever remember having to lie for her. But I was coached each and every day on what to say if I was asked. And I would have done it. The alternative would be for WWIII to break out and after they fought, fucked and made up, my ass would have been in a sling with her for not lying. And with my father because she would have told my father I was lying even if I was telling the truth, and I would have ended up having both of them on my ass.
We always had a good time.

  I know this because I heard them pull this shit on my sister. My mother blamed all her murderous extracurricular activity on my sister because she met the guy who would become her partner in crime when my sister had him over to the house. Another thing I saw with my own two eyes. The instant that guy walked in the door, my mother was dry gulching his leg like a half grown pup. My father displaced his anger and her responsibility on to my sister, and that was the last time she was welcome around those two. I am not sure how she explained how my sister was responsible for her fucking the guy blind and them killing his boss, but she pulled it off.


We still talk about it at family reunions


 If the old man would swallow that load of shit, what hope would I have just saying I wasn't with her all day and I don't know where she had been.
I wish I had bailed out when the bailing was good. Long before it got to critical mass. I remember thinking of running away. Just to send up a flare to remind them that there is a kid living in the house with them. It would have blown up in my face. Some how some way. There was no winning with those two.





Sunday, April 22, 2012

Kudzu


  The mind of a malignant narcissist must be a satisfying place to live. Unencumbered by social graces, they foist an endless procession of mind games and head fucks on every one around them. Their victims litter the landscape of interpersonal relationships as they forge on to new lands taking no prisoners.
  We hear the psychiatric community tell us that their self serving exterior hides an unbalanced and conflicted sense of self.  That shame and self loathing are their constant companions. Spoken like someone who has read every book on personality disorded people, and really sees no need to have face time with one.
     I've never seen any evidence of their distress. Unapologetic and aloof to the end,  they lord their entitled selves over the poor slobs (that would be you and me) without the means for escape.
    I might could live with the qualities listed above if it weren't  for the hypocrisy.
  Two faced, candy ass, make you want to punch them in the face hypocrisy.  A narcissist will lecture someone one on the evils of smoking while they hold a lit cigarette in their hand.
   For an NPD,  hypocrisy is more that a persistent pattern of behavior. It's a lifestyle. They are forever telling lies and using transparent, counterfeit charm, in a constant attack to disarm and exploit.  Any tactic they can think of to deceive you and achieve the upper hand. All while proclaiming themselves a paragon of virtue. Noble benefactors of human kindness to the unwashed.
  Every malignant narcissist I know would crawl over their dying mother to fuck their sister.
   My mother says every woman in existence is the cheapest of sluts. Every woman but her. She would jabber on about all the cheap, lying,  faithless, sluts. Never stopping to think that I saw men trample her carpet threadbare in the pilgrimage to the bed she shared with my father.
   Not even a psychopath would run their mouth like a narcissist and not cringe.  Their words are like shrapnel. They keep flinging them in every direction until they hit something. Doesn't have to make a lick of sense.
  My mother once told my wife to tell me that while she was in the hospital I could use her house to boink  women on the side.
If they ever listened to themselves they would shut the fuck up.

  As if it's not bad enough to sit there and listen to them churn out the most stinking bunch of bullshit one has ever heard.  To call them on their obnoxious mouth is to invite all the lies and character assassination that follows. I mean even more character assassination on top of all the business as usual bullshit they dole out anyway.  They expect to steamroll every one their whole life through, and we are just supposed to take it. They don't notice the rolling eyes. The mouths falling open. The fervent glances from others in the room that says,"surely she didn't say what I just heard her say"?
  Oh she said it.
  My mother called me a liar for pointing out things I saw her do with my own eyes. Lectured me on how to feel about things she said. Or told me any dust up was my fault for not understanding what is was she was trying to say.
  What I do want to know is how do they sustain this perfect art of self deception. What allows them to inhabit this fairy tale that exists between their ears? How do they hold on to two completely differing realities without one crowding in on the other.
Can they hold mutually exclusive beliefs simultaneously?
Can they shift from one reality to another that quick?
Do they know what kind of wing nuts they really are?
   No normal person could stoop to the depths of a narcissist and not feel shame. I guess when an NPD does something morally reprehensible he just declares himself morally righteous? Even when their words fly in the face of their actions.  Who gives a fuck what others think.  I have liberated my realities by selectively disavowing contradictory moral imperatives. Thus, I can merge these realities and they can co-exist without conflict.  
  Sounds like denial to me. But in the spirit of narcissism I will say they accentuate the positive and eliminate the negative.
What I really think is that their head is one huge tangle of misfiring synapses, and if you are saddled with an NPD you should just be glad they can shit and hit the can and manage to flush without rubbing it all in their hair.








Thursday, April 19, 2012

Born under a bad Sign


Calling a personality disordered person an enigma, is to call Van Gogh monochromatic. Mean, ornery, and cantankerous are for the readers of Dickens. Words can not capture the twist of the personality disordered.
The world has been populated with greedy and entitled people since we came down from the trees. Those that take in a way that adds needless suffering to others, and take without remorse, are beyond the grasp of people in touch with any sort of humanity.
The world exists only in their eyes and is exists only to serve them. Insulated and isolated, they feel nothing. Care for no one. Their only endeavor is thinking of new ways to exploit.
Few people are luckless enough to know someone like this. History will remember a Stalin. But the less ambitious live hidden in the quiet folds of desolate families. They will never be known for their abominations.
PD's enforce edicts on the obligated in a reciprocal vacuum. Forcing themselves into the hub of a family, they shed misery down each spoke like an over greased wheel. They rule with an iron hand,  and use guilt to run roughshod over the peace and dignity of those with a conscience..
I will never understand the black morbidity of my mother's soul. Her spirituality of crime, chaos, and insanity. And the irony of knowing she knows what she is. If she were unaware of her defect, she would not bully those around her into artificial compliance.


In her wake our family has been destroyed. Our good name indelibly soiled. Lives ruined and any legacy hoarded and squandered.
*In my darkest hour I knelt and yelled at the heavens and asked,
"Why god? Why me?"
And the thundering voice of god answered.
There's just something about you that pisses me off."*
*Stephen King*


















Wednesday, April 18, 2012

Walking the Green Mile

So many accounts of those that have a malignant narcissist for a parent, are about being subjected to violence. I read the most god awful stories of beatings and of being slapped around. There is little that can be said but to say how wrong it all is. Of all that I suffered at the hands of the Barbarian, the one thing I can say is that she never raised a hand to me in anger. Except once. But don't think she wouldn't. She was just to lazy. We lived in Texas and beating her kid would have wilted her.  It was hard enough to fend off that less than fresh feeling after screwing some guy all day, without the added exertion of beating a child.
Not long after she put her keys in the trunk of her car and sent me to slam it shut, she was asking me to do it again.  Of course it was my fault. An eight year old should have known his mother was dumb enough to put her keys inside the trunk and then ask him to close it and should have searched it. This time the keys were in the ignition where they belonged.

  We were living at my grandmother's while her murder charges were pending, and I was trying to blend in with the wallpaper.


If something was where they couldn't reach from their bed, I was mustered front and center. 
Mother in lily belle bloom. 
My delusional father checking to make sure no one disrespected his fine fine, sweet and fine lady. 



So the Barbarian initiates a ten minute harangue on turning the car off, taking the keys out, and slamming the trunk shut while holding the keys in my hand.
"Yea, I got it."
"Well you locked them in the trunk once before."
I was nine now and it never dawned on me to tell her if she wasn't such a dumb fuck, she wouldn't have left the keys in the trunk in the first place. Who does that? 
My mother is the queen of reiteration.  She repeats everything until your head spins.
She would harangue. I would confirm that I was reading her loud and clear. And then she would tell me that....well... I had locked the keys in the trunk once before. Then back where we started.
This went on for ten minutes. Over and over.  Until she had driven me to distraction.
So finally I walk out the door, across the porch, down the steps, up the walk and spun around and flipped her off with all the shaking of end stage Parkinson's.
Did I mention the part about my grandmother having a french door? As in one of those doors with  18, 8" by 10" panes of glass in it? About the time I was turning back towards the car, my mother opens the door and  says, "I saw that!"
Holy effing shit!
I had to continue walking calmly to the car. 
Turn the car off. 
Slam the trunk closed.
And walk back into the house knowing that the Barbarian was inside waiting.


It sort of felt like this.

It was too goddamn cold to cut and run.
It was winter and the farm was a couple of miles from the nearest house.
I would have looked like a fish stick after a year lost in the freezer.





So I had to go back and face the executioners song.
 I was going to catch it no matter what.

So I went in the house and she slapped me a few times and that was that. Not much worse than any whacking I got at school. This was in the days they would bust your ass at school and you made sure your parents didn't find out because you'd get it again at home. No news crew interviewing your mother about the legal action she would be taking to correct the heinous treatment of her child. Only a just wait until your father gets home. Except I was too smart to ever let them find out I got a beating at school.
I was talking to my mother about this during my seven month's in the hole and she swears it didn't happen. 
One more thing I think is funny, but casts her in a less than prefect light that gets discarded to make way for her ego.
So to all you NM's and F's. 
Suck it!

Monday, April 16, 2012

One Trick Ponies.


I didn't realize how one dimensional personality disordered people are until I started reading blogs and  started one of my own. I had never heard the words personality disorder until after I went no contact. Her insanity could be fascinating. At least from a distance.
I had this idea of  her being a snow flake in the sun. And not in a good way. She took on the aura of a uniquely twisted, one of a kind individual that dimmed the lights and sucked the air out of any room she entered. Knowing her past definitely cast a Hannibal Lecter light about. If she doesn't project one, I project it on her. Knowing she shot and stuffed a guy in his car, and parked him on the side of a country road.
  This is when I began to understood what a flat line they all are. As unique as they hoodwink you into believing them to be, there is little there.  Outside of them being pushy, trouble making boors. Like cats that by pass the scratching post and cheap crap and heads straight to your favorite piece of furniture and claws the shit out of it. Then looks at you like an idiot when you take a whack at it with the broom.
I deleted some posts a while back and am thinking better of it now. One of my favorites was one recounting the last conversation I had with my mother. I had told her to fuck off. She had recovered from her stroke well enough to more than care for herself. She is far too passive aggressive to just tell someone to get on with their life and she'll call you when she needs you. You must be toyed with on your way out. You must be gas-lighted.  It's so much more fun than to just say what she means and mean what she says. I finally had enough of her shit and left.
  Later, after I got word of her trashing me to others.  I called her asking if this was the thanks I got for helping her back on her feet.
  This resulted in the N rage retaliation tirade of her life. I had every thing I have ever done wrong thrown in my face. Blah blah blabity blah blah.
 After a couple of minutes I just said, "Mom you killed a guy."
(Sounding like she had a mouth full of shit to spit out she says)
"Oh I DID not."
"Mom you may not have pulled the trigger but you were in it up to your neck"
"OH I WAS NOT!"
"You even bought the gun the day ya'll killed the guy."
"THAT"S NOT EVEN THE GUN WE USED!"
.
.
.
Well fuck me.
My mistake.
You used a DIFFERENT gun and I know the rules of order.  Confronting a killer and mentioning the wrong  weapon exonerates them.
That's the last words I ever heard from her.


Sunday, April 15, 2012

Cheap Shots.



Personality disordered parents find it hard to understand why a child chooses no contact.   They have done as they damn well pleased, for as long as it damn well pleased them. They don't care how they crowd you. And they don't understand why they should change something that works so well for them.  Never mind what it does to your life. 
Like house breaking a dog, the narcissist must be called on their boorish acts each and every time they act up, or the teaching opportunity has been lost.   Whack them on the nose with the proverbial rolled up magazine at the time of the infraction, or it's as if it didn't happen.  Out of sight, out of mind.  They have no concept of themselves as  repeat offenders.   They have no concept of their chronic bull shit backing up until it reaches a tipping point.
 Then we look like selfish ingrates for railing over some incident that seems to amount to nothing.  
They say they can not heed objections that were never made.  One can't self correct  if one doesn't  know one needs correcting.
I call bull shit on this defense.  N parents wouldn't take the shit they ladle on us for two seconds. And they know this. You can't get me to believe they are so far away from the rest of humanity that they are oblivious to the ways they suck the life out of you.
We all have a line that can't  be crossed. Be it one despicable act, or that they have hammered and pecked at you a life time for the last time.  But cross that line, and I lose compassion and tolerance for them. 
If a parent wants to risk losing their child by crowding this grey area, let them step on their dicks and squander us. 
In my family there seemed to be an unspoken rule that no matter what my mother was into, there was always to be a soft place for her to fall. It would be nice if she could respond in kind.  
I spent my life over looking her actions. No matter how her actions impacted me.  In those days it was one adult to another, and I was just a luckless kid caught in the crossfire.  Insufferable as she may be, I was a spectator in her game.
This all changed in later years.  As time faded and she depleted her usual targets and took her savage amusement from me.
Who knows why malignant narcissist keep rolling the dice when what is at stake is their children. The odds are with the house. No one rolls and wins forever.
When we go no contact we regain our sense of being an "I."  And they become a child left alone in a house who knows they can now do anything they want, but find there isn't much they want to do. 
Narc's never  give get out of  jail free passes, so they shouldn't expect them.



Friday, April 13, 2012

It's not the heat, it's the stupidity.



  Has anyone noticed how the thoughts of personality disordered people are always diametrically opposed to your own? No matter who is talking about what, there will be two schools of thought. Camp logic, where long suffering ACON's reside, and camp disjointed, somewhere out in the La La land of disordered.
 You can say black, and they will say white. Up, is met with down. In, begets an out. Until you realize that ringing sound isn't coming from outside your head.
  Even when it comes to things all about you and none about them. They still have to be heard.  And have the last word. It must reward the "I told you so." region of their brain. They will wait around, and hope your life becomes a ten car pile up, so they can cluck at you like a chicken.
  Even when things go well, they would have surely gone better had you followed their directives.  No matter how unrealistic their advise might have been.
  My mother holds conversations like a dog with a large bone in it's mouth runs at a small hole in the fence. She just keeps ramming things until something gives.
  If she has no facts to shore up her rants, she'll make some up. Her embellishment might be what the rest of us call lies. I would call her a pathological liar, but that would be a disservice to pathological liars. Pathological liars are resourceful, and almost always entertaining.
My mother says any mind numbing lunacy that pops in her head. And her head is a deep well of mind numbing lunacy.
  One day the drain on my mothers air-conditioner was stopped up and water was over flowing into her house.  I was trying to blast the clog out with compressed air, but she kept getting in the way and insisting the clog was in the hose feeding the pan from the condenser... which is ABOVE the pan.
No mom, I am pretty sure it's the DRAIN that is clogged.
Well why don't you try the other one?
No, if the hose ABOVE the pan is clogged, the pan wouldn't be over flowing now would it?
I don't see your point, but you could try blowing air through it just to see if it works.
Mom....unless the water in your house runs UPHILL, I am pretty sure it is the DRAIN.
How do people get like this? I know nothing about air-conditioner's, but if water is backing up, it's a pretty  safe bet the clog is BELOW the elevation of the water.
Was she such a handful growing up that every one indulged her rather than tell her to shut up and sit down?
By the time I got saddled with her, she was all entitled temper tantrums, irrational mood swings, and speaking with authority about things she knows nothing about.
Shad up ya fucking wing nut!
I couldn't take it. Even for seven months. My father was married to her for 23 years, and my step father was married to her for twenty eight. Now I understand why my father did what he did.  He just shot the wrong person.
This isn't some dim wit with a heart of gold. She's as mean as a snake.
Let her get a guy off to one side and she's on him like a duck on a June bug. Doesn't matter who. Or if it is a friend's husband. Or neighbor. Or best friend of her husband.
I used to go grocery shopping with her and she played this "game" to see if we could get through the check stand with out being charged for the sack of potato's under the cart. I think that's called shop lifting.
Her whole day is an exercise in pushing people until someone pushes back. Then flying into a rage until people let her have her way just to shut her up. I hated to be out with her. You could count on  her to cause a scene somewhere before you make it back home.
  What's scary is most PD's are just like her. The really fucked in the head ones.
  She will lie to someone about their own actions.
   Mom, I am pretty goddamn sure, that this sales clerk knows you are lying, because, you are lying to him, about him, and he is the only person standing here except me, and I am trying to find somewhere to hide and watch his face, until I see that moment he realize's he should have let this one go. I would feel sorry for her latest target. But not too much knowing it was better thee than me.
It was like two mirrors facing one another.
He knows you know, that he knows, that you know you are lying, and he knows you know, that he knows that you know, that he knows that you know..................................................................
That he knows you know.
Oy Vey!
I just want my compressor back.

Tuesday, April 10, 2012

It's not what they call you. It's what you answer to.


I am amazed at malignant narcissists and their win at all cost approach to life. Even with nothing to win, the  struggle wages on in their mind. Long after every one else has folded up and gone home.
There can be no winners in their grab for power, only varying degrees of loss.
For them. For whom they engage. For the innocent that get caught up in their lunacy. For everyone who is forced to come in contact with the narcissist.
And still they fight. Grasping at straw logic. Babbling in some tongue only they can decipher. 
Down they go, gurgling like DeNiro at the end of Cape Fear.
Sit back and watch them unravel.
"I know you are but what am I."
Their final call to arms.
Even as they melt into primordial narcissistic jabbering oblivion, we are supposed to treat them with the respect they give no one. Handle them with kid gloves. Walk around them on tippy toes. Treat them like royalty surrounded by egg shells lest they get their fragile feelings hurt.
All while they blast us with that Howitzer mouth. So intent on having the last word it matters not if any one can understand.
"I'm rubber and you're glue and ......hey come back here and listen to ... hey! I said come back!"
"That's what I thought." "Can't fight my razor's edge logic and my size 27 clown shoes can ya?"
Honk!
Honk!
Then, like a cat who just had the hair on his ass bitten off by the dog, they stroll on, checking to see if anyone saw.



Saturday, April 7, 2012

Enmeshed and Engulfed.


I shouldn't feel sorry for my mother. Though sometimes I do. 
She lives like a bat in a shuttered house. Her television stays on 24/7 whether she is sleeping or not.  Her only outside contact is her knifing one friend to another on the telephone.
 She won't drink milk and gets so little sun her doctors prescribe her vitamin d. Which she refuses to take.  She thinks checking her blood levels is a scam by her doctors to get money from her insurance. Although she allows them to draw blood. Over and over. And she fills her prescriptions. She just won't take the med's. So they can't titrate the dose and bring up her blood levels. That's how crazy she is. 
When I first went no contact, I sent my sister the link to this video and joked about how this is what it was like to live with her. She has been lining both of us up like a pool shot for years to be the one who would take care of her when she was too old to care for herself. Her problem was that she can't trust the hearts of others. Not when she knows how black her own heart is. 
So she always hedged her bets. It wasn't enough to trust us to have a sense of decency and commitment to family. She had to chisel away at the relationships in our lives. Always trying to isolate us from spouses and friends with god awful lie's about what ever flew into her mind at that moment. 
Maybe that worked on people in the last century. But people are a bit more free thinking now days. So her single minded determination to drive wedges between us all got her no where fast. Even then I hung in there with her. Instead of trusting me to do the right thing she just stepped up her onslaught of bull shit until it drove me screaming out the door. 
I feel sorry for her. Not because every thing she did in her life was leading to this existence. Because this kind of life was a goal for her. To lay in bed in a house coat and do nothing is her glorious achievement.The culmination of manipulating every single person her whole life through with out ever  performing any real work. 
So she can lay in bed and molder.

Wednesday, April 4, 2012

Delores


I stumbled across this obituary last summer. Lisette at House of Mirrors had posted it as well as myself. It bears repeating because it attests to the hard feelings we accrue over a life time of narcissistic wringing out at the hands of a parent. This obit made it all over the internet. It prompted some to contact the family and ask if it was real. And would they take it back if they could. 
There was no dissent from the family towards the son who wrote it. And they all insisted it be published as is. It perfectly captures the feelings I have about my mother.
She would rather be remembered like this, than to expend one calorie of energy to redeem herself.
 It's too late for her and I. Her actions after I went no contact were such that I could never trust her again on any level. 
It's apropos that my mothers middle name is Delores.  


Dolores Aguilar
1929 – Aug. 7, 2008
Dolores Aguilar, born in 1929 in New Mexico, left us on August 7, 2008. She will be met in the afterlife by her husband, Raymond, her son, Paul Jr., and daughter, Ruby.
She is survived by her daughters Marietta, Mitzi, Stella, Beatrice, Virginia and Ramona, and son Billy; grandchildren, Donnelle, Joe, Mitzie, Maria, Mario, Marty, Tynette, Tania, Leta, Alexandria, Tommy, Billy, Mathew, Raymond, Kenny, Javier, Lisa, Ashlie and Michael; great-grandchildren, Brendan, Joseph, Karissa, Jacob, Delaney, Shawn, Cienna, Bailey, Christian, Andre Jr., Andrea, Keith, Saeed, Nujaymah, Salma, Merissa, Emily, Jayci, Isabella, Samantha and Emily. I apologize if I missed anyone.
Dolores had no hobbies, made no contribution to society and rarely shared a kind word or deed in her life. I speak for the majority of her family when I say her presence will not be missed by many, very few tears will be shed and there will be no lamenting over her passing.
Her family will remember Dolores and amongst ourselves we will remember her in our own way, which were mostly sad and troubling times throughout the years. We may have some fond memories of her and perhaps we will think of those times too. But I truly believe at the end of the day ALL of us will really only miss what we never had, a good and kind mother, grandmother and great-grandmother. I hope she is finally at peace with herself. As for the rest of us left behind, I hope this is the beginning of a time of healing and learning to be a family again.
There will be no service, no prayers and no closure for the family she spent a lifetime tearing apart. We cannot come together in the end to see to it that her grandchildren and great-grandchildren can say their goodbyes. So I say here for all of us, GOOD BYE, MOM.

Tuesday, April 3, 2012

Being Human


 Last night we were watching something called "Being Human." It's a story about a werewolf, a vampire, and a ghost, all hanging out in one house. They offer support to each other as they face the trials and tribulations of blending in with "normal" society.
The werewolf is really getting tired of being a werewolf. It led to the untimely death of his fiance, and  Match.com has banned him for life.
His "maker" doesn't understand.  He thinks being a werewolf is the greatest. Except for that it really got in the way of his marriage to a non werewolf. So he finally sat his wife down and fessed up. She accepts him and wants to make the marriage work.
The lessor werewolf found out that the only chance for him to return to normal is to kill his maker. He went  over to whack him and that led to a conversation about how werewolves can assimilate into a non werewolf environment, provided the humans in their life know and understand the werewolves predilection for running people through a wood chipper. At this point, I was oblivious to any analogy between the story and malignant narcissists.
So the maker turns to his protege, and with the straightest face I have seen since Hillary listened to Monica's public apology, and he says this:

My wife and I get along fine. I just have to spend one night a month shackled in a steel lined basement.

I about fell out of my chair laughing. I wondered why no one ever took this tack with my mother?
But you know? If I have to metaphorically chain someone in the basement to keep from being eaten alive, I think it's time for me to move along.
And that's exactly what my mother was doing with her N rages.
Medium chill might work for the engulfing narcissist. But a malignant narcissist won't be managed this way.
I was a 51 year old man, walking around my mothers house like a mouse between two cats.
That's no way to live. Just because some mean ass bitch is bored and likes drama.