Saturday, April 26, 2008

What's the Difference?

Now that our family gathering is over, I've been reflecting on the differences between a week with in-laws and a week with my parent(s). I'm having trouble putting my finger on it, but there *is* something there.

Maybe it's the lack of corporate anxiety and the notion that at any moment something may be said or done to cause spontaneous combustion. That would certainly be the case with get-togethers with my mother. If my father were there, the whole thing, of course, would be about him.

That brings me to an entirely different topic that I started with, but I feel like going with the flow, so whatever.

My final year at university I lived alone in a small house within walking distance of the campus. One night, I woke-up to what sounded like a mouse scratching or gnawing. I lifted my head in an attempt to get a fix on it, but it had stopped. It was a hot July night and I was buck naked, lying on top of all the covers. I had fallen asleep reading and all the lights were still on. I laid my head back down and started to fall back asleep, when I heard the noise again, only this time I could hear it wasn't a mouse, it was a human voice whispering just on the other side of the window over my bed. It said, "She's lying right in there." Enter Fear.

To make a long story short, I called the police who confirmed that there were men's footprints at and leading up to my bedroom window. I didn't sleep much that night. The next morning, I called my boyfriend, how husband, who came to stay with me.

I never considered calling my parents. It wasn't until recently that I had any idea why and that bothered me. You see, I believe it was wrong to have my boyfriend come and live with me; yet, I couldn't imagine doing anything differently. It seemed like my only possibility. I think I've finally figured out the reason I didn't call my parents. Had I done so, my father would have sprang into action, taking charge and running the show. While that's not necessarily bad by itself, I would have become a minor player without any say in the matter. My needs and feelings would be immaterial. It would be all about Him and all the wonderful things He did to help His daughter. Whether I felt safe(r) after it was all over wouldn't even enter the equation.

So, what does this have to do with my in-laws visit?

I have a medical problem right now, and many days I need to nap. One day during the visit, while my spouse was at work, I needed a nap. One of my sisters-in-law volunteered to watch my kids so I could rest. She cared for them, fed them, but didn't make A Big Deal about it. She didn't draw everyone's attention to it or bring it up in conversation multiple times afterwards. She didn't announce all the troubles she'd had with them, or how she'd had to sacrifice to look after them. In fact, I don't remember her mentioning it at all except to tell me that she'd fed them pizza. It was all so......low key. It was all so foreign.

I'm not sure how to put it into words, but that's the difference.

Wednesday, April 23, 2008

On Being Invisible

I was just sitting here contemplating if and how it feels having my in-laws around compared to being around my narcissistic parents. I found myself wondering if I feel invisible.

I don't have an answer. It occurs to me that there may be degrees of invisibility. For some reason, the thought of that makes me uneasy. I don't suppose it should be a surprise that such things likely occur on a continuum. I guess I chalk it up to experiencing such complete invisibility when it came to my family, that the thought of being at all invisible is so unpleasant.

One of the topics of discussion these past few days has been how my fun/tacky theme for the gathering would have been the impetus for my (now deceased) mother-in-law to give me all sorts of similarly themed gifts for birthdays and Christmas. That would have been just like her. Invisibility was never an issue with her. It's something that I liked, but also something that at times made me uncomfortable. There was no blending into the background, no just sitting and watching. She was good at making sure that everyone was always involved.

So, I'm the hostess for this get-together. I'd like to think I could do half as good a job as my mother-in-law at making sure everyone is included.

Tuesday, April 22, 2008

Saying Goodbye

It was odd when I learned that my father would soon die. I felt no emotion, no grief or sadness. It was a very matter of fact thing. In the more than five years since he died, it hasn't changed. I don't miss him. I had a chance to try to talk to him about things that are important to me before he died, but he preferred to lecture me. I tried; I have peace.

Having heard all those heart-warming stories of parents reconciling with their adult children when told they would die soon, I quietly hoped. I was naive enough to hope that his impending death would cause him to look at his life and perhaps try to mend fences, get closer to family, take advantage to enjoy the life he had left. Nope. He became even more bitter and angry. If my mother didn't get him his medication as fast as he wanted it, he'd grit his teeth and curse her slowness. He continuously lectured me about what I should stand for in my life and what I should find important. On Father's Day, he railed that his civil rights had been violated since the city government had outlawed the serving of beer on Sunday.

I suppose that's probably a common marker of narcissists: even pending death doesn't effect them in the same way it does other people. My father took a look at life and he was disappointed, not because of the choices he made, but because of what life didn't give him.

Thursday, April 17, 2008

I Learned A LOT From My In-Laws

I credit my in-laws for opening my eyes to the oddities of my parents. My in-laws were entirely different from what I knew parents to be. They were actually interested in the lives of their children. That's not said with sarcasm, just awe. It was amazing, odd, strange and entirely unfamiliar to sit at their kitchen table and listen to my mother-in-law ask about my spouse's childhood friends. She knew their names, their parents' names, where they lived, their interests, even their personalities. And she cared. It blew me away. It was like I'd been transported to an alternate reality.

My spouse would call my in-laws when something special happened. Job changes, promotions, a new project or a new car -- they cared about these things. They'd smile and listen. They'd take pictures. Things going on in my spouse's life was important to them. All this was so foreign.

My in-laws even cared about me. They always gave me thoughtful birthday presents. They treated me like a member of the family even before we were engaged. It took my mother nearly two years after we married to remember my spouse's name. We dated for four years before marrying. After nearly twenty years, she still can't remember when my spouse's birthday is. She doesn't have it written down anywhere. She doesn't know her two grandchildren's birthdays either.

I'm sad that I only recently gained the knowledge to understand the precious gift they gave me in showing me what loving parents are like. I wish I had understood earlier so I could have thanked them.


Wednesday, April 16, 2008

Family Visit: Two Days and Counting

Yes, that's right, a family visit, more precisely in-laws visiting. Eight of them. My mother-in-law kept the family together and now that she's dead, I'm impressed that we all haven't gone our separate ways and completely lost track of one another.

When it comes to *my* family...well, I don't exactly keep track, or even in touch, with them. I like it that way. Family, my family, brings to mind demands of obligation and responsibility. It means sacrificing whatever I have and/or want and do whatever is demanded of me. It means accepting that I don't matter. Given that I have challenges feeling like I matter, family gatherings have a big impact on me.

Family visits with my in-laws aren't like that. Like most people, each of them has their quirks, and we'd drive each other crazy if we spent a lot of time together. I do need time-off during the visit, but everyone seems to be OK with my quirk.

As a kid, I wished to live closer to our extended families. I idealized what it would be like to have big family gatherings around birthdays and holidays. When I've talked to my cousins about it, they say they enjoyed. Yet, when I think of family gatherings, there was a certain tension there. I don't have any idea what it's all about, but it was certainly there. It's interesting to note that my family rarely gets together anymore, even on Thanksgiving or Christmas.

Sunday, April 13, 2008

Guilt

Guilt and I are Siamese twins, joined at the hip since birth. I feel normal taking the blame for nearly anything. My spouse trips over the coffee table? It's my fault because I could have put it somewhere else. Can't find the television remote? Even though I wasn't the last one to use it, I should make sure it's in plain sight. Child drops a cup of milk? I should have reminded him to be careful. There's always a reason why it's my fault. The worst part of it all is that I do it to myself. I apologize for everything. I feel guilty for everything. It always seems that I could have, and should have, done something to make the situation better. I should have anticipated better.

Anticipation. What a word. It was the best thing to be good at when I was a kid.

Perhaps that's why I fight not to feel guilty when my mother calls and tells me all about getting in a car accident in sparsely populated west Texas. She tells me about being all alone and having no one to help her. She had to walk everywhere she needed to go, even to find the bus station to get a ticket home. I had to struggle to apologize for all her troubles, for saying how I should have been there for her. But the truth is, I do feel guilty that I wasn't there for her. Of course, she didn't call, so I had no way of knowing. I didn't even know she was traveling. And truthfully, as badly as I feel admitting it, I don't want her to call. She travels around and gets herself in strange situations, wandering with odd people. I don't want to be the cavalry, riding in to rescue her from her latest bad decision. I don't want to be responsible for her. That sounds terrible.

Since I was a kid, there has always been some reason that my mother was fragile. Physical problems, stress, there was always something. We had to take care of mother. It was a standard refrain. When I had a bad day at school, she didn't want to hear about it because she'd had a bad day at work. So, I'd listen about her bad day at work and bring home the straight A report cards and all was fine.

When my father knew he was dying, he moved nearer to me. More specifically, he moved my mother nearer to me. It was always clear that I was to take care of her. She had been mine to take care of as a child and now she was still mine to care for. It was something I'd dreaded for years. Once my father was gone, I was it. It was like a sentence to return to childhood all over again.

Saturday, April 12, 2008

Acts of God

Recent weather has afforded us several opportunities to closely examine the inside of our storm shelter (and then survey the storm damage before calling the insurance company). The amazing strength of nature is humbling.

To my narcissistic father it was maddening. That the weather would not cater to his wishes was a frequent source of his anger and one of the bests reasons he had to curse God. Whether it was too windy so he couldn't do what he wanted or that it was raining and he didn't want it to be dreary, when the weather didn't fit his wishes, he treated it like a personal affront from God. How dare God not give him what he wanted! His plans were important and good, and here was God ruining it with this cursed weather!

Driving through areas with storm damage and listening to people talk about them boosts my faith in the ability of humans to behave humanely. While many buildings are missing windows, especially in areas of older homes or where the people are poorer, still the overwhelming attitude expressed is relief that no one was badly hurt or killed. I've yet to hear one angry complaint because their plans were spoiled.

The gratitude is refreshing.

Friday, April 11, 2008

Grandchildren Are Us?

Not only do you feel bad that your poor kid doesn't have a real grandparent and is missing out on such a special relationship, you can't help but be reminded that's exactly what you had to deal with for most of your life.

from The Narcissist as Grandparent

This sentence is hard for me to read. It's even harder to think about it. Is this true? Is how my children are treated by their narcissist grandparents the way I was treated? I can't wrap my brain around this. Perhaps it's just that I don't want to do so, or that I'm not ready to do so. Just the thought of it and I'm sad beyond words.

The grandparents who didn't bother to show up for their grandchild's birthday parties, or who showed up three hours late, treated me the same way? The grandparents who, upon hearing that their first grandchild was on the way, changed the subject to how riduculously expensive their cell phone service was? The grandparents who didn't bother to acknowledge the birth of their second grandchild? It's a scary thought. Scary, though, isn't a severe enough word. Sad, depressing, devastating.

I suppose I know it's true. Maybe.

Narcissist In A Nutshell

It's not the most extreme or terrible example of my father as narcissist, but I think it does a good job of demonstrating his attitude toward life.

First, a bit of background. When I was about 11 years old, my father suddenly decided he liked mushrooms and green peppers. Before that we NEVER ate them because he didn't like them. However, now that he did like them, all food dishes now needed to include mushrooms and green peppers, along with onions, whenever possible. I had a problem. I didn't like mushrooms or green peppers or onions.

So, one night we were at a pizza parlor preparing to order. My father, of course, wanted a supreme pizza with, of course, mushrooms, green peppers and onions. I asked if we could get half without the mushrooms, green peppers and onions. The answer was no. This was before my mother adopted all of my father's narcissistic qualities, so she advocated for me. This time the answer was an angry NO! Because both he and my mother liked the extra toppings, it meant that he would have to eat 1 or 2 slices from the half without all the things he liked and he wasn't going to do that. My mother even went so far as to suggest she only eat pieces without the extra toppings so all his pieces would have what he wanted. That also was unacceptable because he didn't want his wife to have to give up something she wanted.

I became very good at removing and eating around foods I didn't like.

Thursday, April 10, 2008

Permission to Say "No"

As a way of saying thank you for help with the last days of my father's life, my mother offered my spouse and I a night out with another couple. She had a voucher for a free dinner for four at a posh restaurant in a nearby town. As a newly widowed woman with no friends she had no way to use it. She would be the childcare for our children and those of the other couple. This was after showing my kids a movie I'd specifically told her I didn't want them to see. Beyond having her watch our children being unacceptable, I didn't want to go. I hadn't seen the other couple in nearly a decade and the whole getting back in touch thing just was too stressful considering all the other stuff going on at the time. I knew I would stress for weeks beforehand and wind up a stressed-out mess even before we all crawled into the same car for an hour drive to the restaurant. Unfortunately she first offered it to my spouse who accepted the offer without talking to me about it. Ooops.

So, I took the bold step of calling her. I NEVER call anyone. I hate telephones and avoid them at all costs. I thanked her for her nice offer and did my best to gracefully decline. I attempted to explain it would be very stressful, but she would have none of it: it was already arranged; what would she tell the other couple? I hadn't anticipated her reaction, silly me, but I was proud that I was able to maintain composure. I apologised for the trouble caused by our decline. I suggested she tell the other couple that we wouldn't be able to make it, but that she'd still very much like them to go anyway. But she was already in a fluster and would have none of it: my not wanting to go was silly; this wasn't something stressful just dinner; etc. After more apologies on my part yet remaining firm on the decline the phone call ended unpleasantly. I don't remember whether she hung-up on me, a not uncommon occurrence, but I do remember being entirely puzzled. In order to thank me for my help, she was insisting I do something I did not want to do. A fascinating strategy, no?

That wasn't the last phone call on the subject, though. Oh, no. She called twice more to tell me how difficult I had made this whole thing for her. She had no idea how she was going to tell the other couple that we weren't going. Both calls ended with her self-pity turning to anger and threats of telling the people that I didn't want to have anything to do with them.

I don't suppose there is a reason why the sound of a ringing phone seems foreboding?

I don't suppose there is a reason why it's difficult for me to say "no"?

Wednesday, April 9, 2008

To Grandmother's House We Go

Narcissistic grandparents. That's an oxymoron, right? I wish.

The first time my mother watched my children was a month after my father died. My father hated children so even had she wanted to watch them, it simply wasn't a possibility. They were 2 and 4 years old. She actually offered to watch them. It was only for a few hours while I went out to dinner. On returning I find out that she allowed them to watch a movie I specifically told her I didn't want them to see. She explained that they saw the video case so she *had* to let them see it. Not wanting to make a scene in front of my children, I mumbled an "uh-huh" and said my good-byes. Of course, she couldn't let it go at that. She followed us outside and made a big show of telling the children that I was unhappy with Grammy because she had let them watch the movie. It was the perfect end of me ever leaving the children with her.

My father, on the other hand, didn't bother to put on the allusion that he was their grandfather. He talked to the children only when reminded to say goodbye. He picked each child up once on the prompting of someone else. He made absolutely no attempt to have anything resembling a relationship with them. They were of no value to him. They only served to take the attention away from him or to annoy him by making noise. He literally sulked in a corner when we combined the celebration of one child's birthday with his.

Whenever I hear a grandparent lovingly describe spending time with their grandchild I can't keep my eyes dry. A few Sunday's ago, our pastor talked about a grandchild due not long in the future. He spoke of loving the baby, of holding the precious baby in his arms and getting to know the child, of watching the child grow and develop. What a wonderful gift for a child to have. I can't help but feel sad that my children don't have that same blessing.

Books Trolling

It was a stroll through a bookstore that brought me to the idea that my parents were narcissistic. A friend clued me into the fact that my parents were different. He used the word "self absorbed" to describe them. Undoubtedly that's why the book Children of the Self-Absorbed by Nina Brown caught my eye. Reading it was the beginning of truly believing there was a problem.

Before that I was puzzled by the view I had of friends' families. My closest friend's parents were entirely unlike mine. They made special arrangements to celebrate my birthday and get me a present, even while my own parents didn't even bother to contact me at all. They remembered and asked about things that happened in their children's lives. They even extended that honor to me.

As an adult, my parents would go six to eight months without even as much as a phone call. Then, all of a suddenly, it was like they remembered they had a kid and they HAD to see me and tell me all about what was going on with them. This didn't include listening to what was going on with me. Then, after they had told me about their wonderful life, another six to eight months would pass before the next call -- unless, of course, they needed help or something big and inportant happened to them.

According to my parents, our family was ahead of the curve. We were what families should be. The explanation seemed perfectly reasonable to my child mind. It even made sense to my adult mind until I was in my 30's!

It's a sad fact that children tend to believe their family and circumstances are the norm. It took years for me to put together the pieces after watching friends interact with their parents. Before that, it never occured to me that things I took for granted as being normal were anything but. I still occasionally come across something I assume to be normal that isn't. Such eye-opening realizations add valuable pieces to my life puzzle.

And Then There Were None

It wasn't until age 30 that I realized just how miserable I was and began to question the choice direction I had made for taken in my life. I do understand that it *was* a choice I made, but until then I never considered that I had other choices. Within the framework of what I had been taught was Good and Bad, it was assumed I would work in a technical/scientific field. The only other possible option was in some form of business with the exception of marketing or advertising. Marketing and advertising were considered useless since they had little to do with hard facts and more with perception. Such things were labeled stupid, irrelevant and Bad.


Tuesday, April 8, 2008

Person 101

Being a person is a scary thought. Having my own likes and dislikes, not adopting those that I'm "supposed to". I never really learned this. I liked what was right in the eyes of my dad. He knew what was right; he told me; I liked it. It was all quite easy: hair that looks like "this" is good; hair that looks like "that" is bad. All of life was categorized and there were always Good Reasons for what was good and bad.

Unlearning that mindset wasn't actually that hard. After a few examples that disproved the Good Reasons, a reasonable, critical eye could see how arbitrary the rules were. Still, it took well into adulthood for the process to begin.

Figuring out what I, as a person, like has been difficult, though. It's all too easy to get caught in the prescribed goods and bads. It's also all too easy to just adopt what someone around me likes.

Do I Know You?

A dear friend said this to me years ago. Apparently I'd "disappeared". Rather than disappearing, I saw it as leaving her alone or letting her get on with her life. Keeping in touch is a foreign thing.

Recently I moved close to grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins. I did let them know I was nearby and that my address was temporary. I just never let them know when I moved into my permanent address. It's partly intentional and partly not.

Announcing that I'd moved nearby felt strange enough, I can't imagine writing or calling and saying I was coming for a visit. It seems like such an imposition.

Come to think of it, the whole idea of keeping in touch seems like an imposition. Phoning people seems like an intrusion. In truth, people phoning me can feel very much like an intrusion. I expect to be asked to do something without the option of saying no without much emotional pain and guilt trips. This brings me back up to keeping in touch being a foreign thing. Keeping in touch means obligation and loss of personal choice.

Loss of personal choice is a rat's nest, a tangled mess that I've yet to completely unravel. Personal choice implies there's a person involved. I'm still learning to be a person and all that that means.

Monday, April 7, 2008

My Momma Only Raised One Dummy...

...and, he still lives with her -- or so the irreverent saying goes. The "he" is my dad. He died nearly six years ago. I have yet to miss him.

Those may sound like the words of a monster, an unappreciative child who doesn't realize how good s/he had it. There are times I think that's me. Other times, I'm not so sure.

In no way am I qualified to say for certain, but judging by research I've done, my dad was a narcissist. He was controlling, grandiose, insecure, rage-filled, demanding, vengeful, a perfectionist and a liar. That's not to say he didn't have good qualities or that he was a monster. He was who he was and none of the rest of us existed except insomuch as how we effected him. I have no idea how he grew into what he did.

My journey to understand how being raised by a narcissistic father shaped who I am started six months ago. I've discovered a lot about myself in this short period. The discoveries have helped immensely, even while they've been painful. I am who I am, but that doesn't mean I must remain stuck here.