Raised By Wolv.., Uh, Cats

Part of the process of coming to terms with the odditiy of my childhood family is finding new understanding of situations and events. It's a freeing process if not always comfortable.

Because the behaviour of people was not always predictable my understanding of people is far from ideal. My understanding of cat behaviour, however, is extensive. Cats were predictable. I could count on the reaction of a cat if I petted it, or fed it, or if it fell into the tub where I was bathing. Cats didn't strike out for no apparent reason. If a cat was aggressive, I could always find a good reason. They had times they wanted to be alone and times when they wanted attention. Cats have good boundaries. If they don't want something, they're not shy about it. Unlike people, with cats I'm comfortable.

In the spirit of full disclosure, there have been two cats I couldn't befriend. One was a friend's pet who fought with things that weren't there and obviously had a mental impairment. She was a unique cat, special in her own way. The other was a kitten born to one of our cats. This kitten was different from all the others in the litter. It never wanted any contact with other cats or humans. It was almost as if it was born feral.

So now I understand why my feline friends have been so precious to me. They were the only living beings in my household that made sense. It explains, too, why losing them saddens me so, whereas losing my parents has/does not. To my feline friends, now long gone, who helped me keep my sanity, I owe you more love and thanks than I can ever hope to repay to your kind. I'll still keep trying though, one scritch, one catnip ball at a time.

Secret child had divided Covina gunman and his wife

Scary. I mean really scary. As more and more details come out about this guy, how he methodically planned and used technical knowledge to carry out this thing, including the release of gas reminds me far too much of my father. The Santa suit, booby trapping the car and suit, it's all eerily within what I grew up to consider "normal". Even his lawyers description of him as a calm guy who gave no indication of what he was planning, is all too familiar. It gives me an appreciation of what my mother may have faced if she ever considered leaving him. No one outside our house would have believed what he was capable of.

For me, the most interesting thing is this killer blew it. He'd planned on fleeing the country, securing air tickets to Canada and wrapping a large amount of cash to his leg. The suicide was a fallback position. We'll likely never know, but my guess is he was overconfident and he made a literally fatal mistake.

OK, so I don't know this guy from Adam. It just feels like I do. My prayers go out to the family who discovered too late, and in the most heinous way, of what he was capable.

In Praise of OJ Simpson

The temptation to call this entry "The Left-Handed Benefit of OJ Simpson" left quickly when I remembered my militantly left-handed grandmother. But, that's fodder for another post.

I received a great benefit from the trials and tribulations of OJ Simpson, especially the recordings of him in his more, uh, candid moments. You see, all the yelling, screaming, swearing and sounds of stuff being tossed about seem normal to me. When I listen to the recordings, my first reaction is, "yeah, and?". It strikes me that I see very few other people reacting in the same way. This confuses me. It also gives me pause because I've learned my gut, which in this case tells me to trust other people's reaction. So OJ's rantings are unusual? They've crossed some line? OJ repeatedly screaming obscenities out his car window at the prosecutor's house isn't just something people do?

Even contemplating these last phrases seem silly. Surely his behaviour (apart from accusations of burglary, etc.) isn't that out of line. He was angry and that's what people do when they're angry, right?

I have no idea where it comes from, but my ability to doubt what I know I've heard and seen is amazing. Perhaps I misunderstood people's comments. Perhaps OJ was just angry.

To friends and colleagues in Mumbai

Our prayers are with you. Please be safe.

Stress = Compromised Immune System

Although some people may be naturally more susceptible to the common cold than average a growing body of evidence suggests that the ease with which we are infected is directly related to the amount of stress in our lives. People who endure large amounts of long-term stress are more likely to become infected with a cold or flu, and suffer more from cold and flu symptoms.

Ah, so that's the reason. Given the energy it takes to produce and deal with anxiety, stress causing susceptibility to illness makes sense. Of course, the next question is: is it possible to undo?

"White Indians don't get any money."

It's what a young Cherokee girl told my young son when he told her that we have a Cherokee ancestor. He was appropriately puzzled by the response.

Undoubtedly my son looking more Swedish than Cherokee is at least part of the reason for her response. Our Cherokee ancestor is four generations back. His mother was Cherokee, his father, a white man. Born just after the turn of the last century, as a mixed-race child he was looked down upon. He was given to a white family to raise; he was not treated well, and left home as a boy to find "his people". He spent much of his youth looking for his family, white and Indian, to no avail.

The same desire for belonging the young boy sought more than a hundred years ago, his great, great, grandson still seeks. Thankfully, my son wasn't discouraged by the odd response to his attempt at friendliness and commonality with a potential friend.

Pilot blinded by stroke is guided safely to ground

Without a doubt, this is one of the most incredible things I've heard of in a long, long time. A former pilot myself, in theory this should be fairly straightforward, but I can't imagine anyone willing to try it just to test the theory. Landing at night without a landing light can be challenging enough, but with NO frame of reference save what some stranger tells you (albeit a member of the RAF), boggles the mind. For all the training pilots have in trusting their instruments, literally flying blind, having to trust one's knowledge of where everything is in the cockpit would test anyone's intestinal fortitude. Think of driving blind at 60+ miles per hour (97 kilometres per hour) and having someone guide you. Now add in that you can't just pull over and stop. Eeeek.


It occurs to me that sometimes our walk with God is like this. Mine certainly has been. At a time when my marriage was rocky, I had no friends or family to support me, and my church had just abandoned me, I felt like I was flying blind. I knew God was still in control, but I wondered if He really loved me and, if so, why I was so alone. I can imagine the pilot felt entirely alone when he found himself blind at 5,500 feet. The pilot's only way to survive was through listening to a friendly voice that would tell him things he had no way of verifying. Still, he knew the voice was of a fellow pilot who was there to help. I can't imagine, though, that there wasn't a measure of apprehension and doubt, a thought that "I can't do this". Then again, the pilot had little choice. In an interview I saw with him, he spoke of the people on the ground who might be killed if he crashed. I can't help but wonder whether that perspective isn't a certain amount of the key.

Rats

I thought I saw something odd when Sarah Palin spoke to her young daughter on an interview on October 30th. Her comment, about it being nice how Willow(?) didn't have a sense of time, just wasn't...nice...or appropriate. It immediately raised flags. Now much of the news coming out about her behaviour fits all too well with those comments.

Unnamed sources reports of throwing things amidst temper tantrums (dare I say rage?) and bad reactions toward critical newspaper clippings are disturbing. The refusal to have additional interview prep after a shaky performance, her reported gaps in knowledge, and much of her attitude add up to something that isn't pretty.

I can only hope that the reports are exaggerated or nasty political back-biting.

Five Minute Bedtime Stories

"Only 5 minutes!" It's the phrase my mother repeated after giving my children a new bedtime story book for Christmas. "The stories are only 5 minutes!" She winked and grinned. Then at bedtime, she grabbed the book and started it all over again.

The meaning was obvious: when it comes to bedtime stories, the shorter, the better. At least for the adult doing the reading. Only five minutes.

It was so bizarre at the time. I'd never considered looking for a book of 5 minute bedtime stories. Sure, there were nights when I wasn't up for a long story. They were more than I would have liked. I actually enjoy reading aloud. I enjoy the snuggles as I read. I enjoy sharing that time with my children. Why would I want to limit that to 5 minutes?

Beyond that, there was something so -- wrong -- about the way she kept repeating "only 5 minutes". At the time, I was offended by the implication that getting my children shoved off to bed as quickly as possible was a good thing. But there was something more. I found that something more tonight.

My mother never put my children to bed. She never showed any interest, either. So, it wasn't as if she personally experienced inconvenience putting them to bed. She's never had any children stay overnight with her, either, so it's not that she's experienced pain reading other children bedtime stories. The only child she's ever spent time with during bedtime is...me. I am her reference for bedtime stories. Ouch.

Bedtime stories will never be the same for me. I now have a better appreciation of just how important they are.

Three Little Words: We'll Talk Later

The New Pastor has been with our church a while now. Not unexpectedly, the first few services he wasn't used to our church's normal order of worship. There were a few slight rough spots. It was not a big deal -- except, I was sure, in the mind of the narcissist. After all, an entire congregation was watching. Ouch.

The church staff are known to make friendly jabs at each other during Sunday services. This past week, it was the new pastor's turn to be on the receiving end. A comment was made about the rough spots. Anyone else would have taken it as a moment of friendliness that just happened to mention the understandable mistakes by someone new. The new pastor's quiet reply of "we'll talk later" was obviously not a continuance of friendly repartee.

I have no idea what actually happened behind the scenes and I like it that way. I've spent more time than I care listening to the rantings of a narcissist who believes he's been slighted. When it came to his job, its impact was felt for weeks and even months. I feel for the pastor's wife and children.

I am comforted, however, in my belief that if there were anyone able to handle the workplace ramifications, it's our church's senior staff. They're not wishy-washy. They know where they stand and why they stand there. Given that the common wisdom is there's really no way to reform a narcissist, perhaps this guy has a chance to experience the one surefire way of reform: God's grace.

The Narcissist's Daughter

What if.....

...there were a young man who was handsome and charming. He had several girlfriends, and he shared a sexual relationship with at least one of them. One day, a girl friend tells him she's pregnant. He asks all the usual questions. Is she sure? Has she been to the doctor? She's sure. She doesn't need a doctor to tell her.

They are quickly married. Eight months later a baby girl is born.


During the pregnancy, the young man tells his young wife that if the child is a boy, she can name him; if the child is a girl, he gets to name her. The young man never asks what name his wife has chosen, nor does he tell his wife the name he's chosen. Finally two days after the baby is born, the nurses insist the child must have a name. He names the child Elizabeth.

Elizabeth is the name of another of his girlfriends, a rival he had told his wife he no longer dates. Elizabeth is often mentioned and complimented by the young woman's mother-in-law. At the same time, it's obvious the mother-in-law doesn't like the young woman.

Everything starts to fall into place for the young woman. The odd excuses, odd coincidences, and the lengthy courtship now all made sense. Now, for a final slap in the face, her daughter bears the name of The Other Woman.

My Narcissist's Code Words

When my mother would get angry with my father his typical reply, said with an annoyed voice, was "Oh Susan!". The translation: "Oh no, here you go being unreasonable *again*!". It was one of the family codes. The meaning was clear: there was no use trying to discuss it with him; he didn't believe your premise was even valid; you were over reacting and that's all there was to it. It was the perfect brush off. The words weren't offensive. If someone from outside the family heard them, they wouldn't think anything of it. Yet, it elicited the desired response.

It didn't take long before she was so overwhelmed with life with her narcissistic husband, that she crawled inside her own shell. By the time I was eight years-old, she was in self-preservation mode. This self-preservation quickly became self-absorption.

His brush off for me was different. It was a humorous phrase. People outside the family would likely smile if they heard it. It's sting was in the way it mocked my feelings. It made a joke of them. When I was young, even after hearing the phrase, I would still try to explain. He would only smile and repeat it, multiple times, if necessary. It was infuriating.

The phrase itself, I can't bring myself to say, or type, or even put the words together in my head. It's actually quite a clever saying and requires some thought to figure out, or at least it did when I was a child. In essence it says: you may or may not get over it, but either way it'll be a long time before it happens. In context it meant: your concern doesn't matter.

Some years later I wondered why I no longer told my parents about events in my life. It's only since I've learned about narcissism and NPD, that I see why sharing the events of my personal life with them was so distasteful. Even good events in my life were only worthy of notice if my father approved of them. By the time I was an adult, good events in my life were only worthy of his notice if they had some benefit for him.

There is at least some peace in knowing why I feel such apathy toward my parents. The peace, however, is tainted with sadness.

Outakes of Flywheel: My Narcissist's Cameo

It left me dumbstruck. In a part of the DVD that was supposed to be light-hearted and funny, There...He... Was. I wasn't ready for it. Perhaps that's why I can't get rid of the uneasy feeling it gave me.

Of course, it wasn't really, physically, my narcissist. But, it was him in spirit. A scene is cut. The director enters from off screen. A child, maybe seven to nine years-old, holds a boom microphone at least twice as long as she is tall. With obvious false severity, he "reprimands" the girl for her handling of the mic. Beyond being part of an outtake, it's clear that he's just goofing around and teasing the girl.

When I was that girl, it wasn't teasing. Curse words were involved. Gritted teeth were involved. And, I was afraid. It didn't happen on a movie set. It happened in our garage, or basement, or backyard, or barn, or kitchen, or somewhere private where only family was present. To me, the outtake wasn't funny. It was sad and scary.

It took me a few days to wrap my mind around the reason for my inability to shake thoughts about the scene. It was the first time I'd viewed such an incident from that angle, from the outside looking in. It was like watching myself. Not only did it leave me uncomfortable, it also left me with some hard questions, all of which boil down to: is that sort of behaviour wrong?

Had the director in the movie been serious, rather than goofing around, then I can easily say yes. Yet, I can't see the whole issue as that cut-and-dry. For whatever reason, it doesn't help to put some other child in my place. Because, let's face it, any situation is much more complicated than what's happening at the moment. There's a back story, a history. But that line of reasoning comes much too close to rationalization of bad behaviour, situational ethics, and "a certain moral flexibility"(1).

So, I find myself uncomfortable with either a 'yes', 'no', or even 'it depends'. I'm stuck. Ironically that's the same position in which I found myself as that little girl facing my narcissist's anger. It's disconcerting.



(1)Grosse Pointe Blank movie

Actions Speak Louder Than Words

This was one of my narcissist's favourite say when he was "disappointed" in me. It's the reason I hate it so, despite my belief that it's true. The saying, and an illustration of its application, ended the chapter of the latest book I'm reading. It struck a chord.

Oddly enough, or maybe not, "actions speak louder than words" is something I heard a lot, but never with respect to the actions of my narcissist. When I consider its application to my narcissist...it's quite, hmmm, I guess the word is educational or, perhaps, liberating. It turns the saying on its ear; something I *know* my narcissist wouldn't have liked at all. Having his actions scrutinized would not have been acceptable. I can just hear the justifications, rationalizations and topics to which he would change the subject. It's actually amusing. Of course, I'm sitting here in MY home, in MY recliner, and MY narcissist has been dead more than six years. Even now, it isn't always as amusing.

It's also a good reminder to listen to my own actions. I'd hate to be misquoted.

Walking A Tightrope

Being an adult child of a narcissist (ACON) with children is a lot like walking a tightrope. Much of the experience I would draw up on how to parent, I have to seriously question and often throw out. So many seemingly simple things like how to hold a birthday party, or even more serious things like what is appropriate behaviour for a child in public.

It's even struggling with things like breakfast. When I was a child, breakfast was seen as a hassle. It was something done only for me and it was obvious it was a pain. Breakfast was either a chocolate poptart on a chocolate instant breakfast (made with premixed powder and milk). By the time I was 8 or 9, I was making my own breakfast usually after my parents left for work. This experience left me feeling that I should always make breakfast for my children, that to do anything else was selfish and wrong. It's taken a while for me to see that it's not terrible for my children to pour themselves a bowl of cereal once in a while, or for my child who enjoys cooking to be given the freedom to be the one to make breakfast.

The hardest of all, though, is the whole issue of boundaries. Being wary of selfishness, I have difficulty identifying when it's OK for me to say no. I don't want to expect their lives to fulfill my needs, at the same time, I don't want to spoil them into thinking the world is all about them either. It feels like I'm walking a tightrope.

Sometimes I wonder if it's as common for people with narcissistic behaviours to skip generations as it is to inherit them directly.

In Case of Emergency, Check Your Clock

Because officials say New Orleans' population is down from 2005, the evacuations may not be as bad: still a daunting task to coordinate, but officials say this time, they're ready.

Red Cross officials say you can apply to volunteer with them, but because they do background checks and training, it will take a few days, so strongly recommend signing up soon.

The Red Cross will be closed through the Labor Day Weekend, re-opening on September 2nd. You may sign up to volunteer online, by logging on to ....

I just couldn't resist this news story found on the website of an area where Hurricane Gustav evacuees may seek refuge, as they did after Katrina. Now for disclosure purposes I have various experiences with The Red Cross. When I was a child, I took Red Cross certified swimming classes. My spouse previously worked with The Red Cross on disaster preparation. My father was a volunteer fire fighter and dealt with The Red Cross.

Like any organization run largely by volunteers, there will always be areas that aren't run well. My spouse experienced this in the form of politics and, now that I think of it, serving in an area run by a very narcissistic man.

My father ran into something more disturbing. As a volunteer fire fighter, fighting large fires sometimes in the middle of the night, or when the windchill is -20F/-20C, often for several hours, there were times when Red Cross services were appropriate. Families of the fire fighters did our best to support them, bringing them coffee and sandwiches, but there was only so much we could do -- we had school to attend and jobs to go to.

Getting Red Cross services required filing paperwork before any services could be rendered. Since fire fighters rarely schedule their calls, it meant they were ineligible.

Let me be clear: The Red Cross having a system to make sure the money entrusted to them is wisely spent is a good thing. The problem isn't with the system itself, but with its application. This is the same problem I see in the article above. Now, as the article describes, the need for volunteers may not be eminent. May not. Still, it seems foolish for The Red Cross, who needs several days to do background checks on volunteers (which is also a good thing), to close for Labor Day when the chances are good that New Orleans may experience another Katrina. The message is bizarre: we need volunteers to apply soon, but we're taking a long weekend. Huh?

I can't end this entry without saying one more thing. When it came to the fires in the middle of the night, or with 20 below windchills, or on 90F/30C hot humid days, or all the other difficult conditions, there was one organization that could be counted on to be there: The Salvation Army.

Eating with My Narcissist: Dinner and a Show

Meals with my narcissist were rarely dull. They ran the gamut from frightening to elegant. Of course, where it appeared on the spectrum depended entirely on how my narcissist felt that life was treating him.

When I lived at home, my family ate only dinner together most of the week. Since both my mother and my father worked outside of the home, and had a 45 minute commute, dinner was rather late and rushed. My narcissist despised waiting. He wanted, and expected, the things he wanted instantly. Think of an anal-retentive efficiency expert after drinking four pots of coffee. We were taught to anticipate, to not need words, but to be able to read what someone wanted and do/get it NOW. The no words part was especially important because dinner was made during the nightly local news.

Dinner was eaten during the nightly national news. Dinner was eaten listening to the nightly national news. Here at the table, no words was important, too, as was the placement of the furniture. The television HAD to be viewable from my father's seat at the dinner table. Talking was strictly forbidden except commercials, and then only if my narcissist didn't want to talk himself. We used hand signals to indicate if we wanted something passed to us. If one spoke during the news, then my narcissist would hiss through gritted teeth to be quiet, and then turn up the volume on the television. Sometimes the volume was increased because of the noise of lids or glasses being set down, or silverware clinking together too loudly. This brings me to another requirement of the furniture: the television had to be close enough to my narcissist's chair that he could quickly and easily reach over and turn up the volume (for this was loooong before remote controls). Often the television was painfully loud, but asking to have it turned down was a sure way to have it turned up instead.

My narcissist liked to eat at nice restaurants. Thankfully, usually nice restaurants care what their patrons want and bend over backwards to give it to them. My narcissist very much liked this treatment. On these occasions, I could sit quietly (as was expected) and read or do puzzles. If, however, there was some trouble with my narcissist's order or the service, look out. Only on very rare occasions would he handle it politely. Usually it involved loud voice, gritted teeth, and rudeness. At less fancy restaurants, food throwing was even a possibility. Embarrassment at its worst. I was thankful when my narcissist would get so upset that he insisted we leave. At least then all we had to worry about was him throwing a violent temper tantrum in the car. This was also a good time to be completely quiet. Drawing attention to one's self only invited a verbal attack.

Perhaps this explains why I enjoy eating in a restaurant alone. I'm used to being quiet while I eat, and this way, I can do so without worrying about some sort of angry outburst if I use my tableware too loudly.

The New Pastor

I met The New Pastor this past weekend. It was his first church service with the congregation. I also read his CV. You've heard it said if something seems too good to be true it probably is? It seems to apply here. Everything is just a bit....too much. I stand by my first comments after reading his of his accomplishments and credentials: there's something wrong here.

After meeting the man, I don't feel any better about him and I *really* tried. Call it intuition, vibes, a gut feeling, or whatever, but when I feel this way it's nearly always turned out to be right. Something was just not right.

I was so troubled in my spirit -- I couldn't believe this was the man God had called to our church. It all seemed impossible. I trust the people who selected the man, so how had this happened?

Then I remembered prayer. (OK, so I'm not the sharpest knife in the drawer....) After worshiping God, pouring out my heart to Him, praying that His will be done, I still felt uneasy. So, I prayed for God's help, for His reassurance.

I was turning to the appropriate scripture passage for the sermon, preached by the pastor who will be the new pastor's boss, when God spoke to me: "who better for this man who troubles you to serve under than this man?". Answer to prayer is so sweet! Over the past months, this "boss" pastor has boldly preached his way through very challenging parts of God's word. He's pulled no punches. He's faithful preached The Word, even when it flew in the face of political correctness, even when it made him less than popular. I couldn't imagine a man more capable of shepherding this new pastor. God is indeed remarkable!

Although my spirit was no longer troubled about this new pastor, I now knew that his boss would need much prayer for he had been given a challenge.

The Golden Child

I've blogged before about my role as The Golden Child as well as the other roles that I played in my narcissistic family. My narcissistic father raised me to be exactly like him. He trained me to think like him, like the same things he liked, behave like him, and to look down on those he looked down upon. Think clone.

Being a clone was a great ride. Until, just like in the science fiction movies, I became self-aware. It took me until I was in my 30's to get to that point. By that time, I had graduated from university and worked in my "chosen" career for a decade.

Until that time, I lived my life as the perfect clone of a narcissist. I behaved in the nasty way he did. I looked down upon those he had taught me were unworthy. I sought a career in an area that met his approval. I took a large portion of my understanding of what was good from his teachings. I knew that these were the correct ways of behaving and thinking and being because I knew that my narcissistic father was right. He had told me so.

The only chink in my clone armor was my Christian faith. How I reconciled my faith and my clone behaviour is still puzzling to me. The most likely reason lies in the immaturity of my faith, combined with my earthly experience of an angry, autocratic, judgemental father colouring my understanding of Father God.

Then reality hit. Suddenly I could see being The Golden Child as the curse it truly is. I had no idea who I was -- something with which I still struggle. I didn't know what *I* liked, only what I was taught I was supposed to like. I didn't know what I wanted to do with my life, only what I was taught I was supposed to do. I didn't know how to evaluate other people's behaviour, my own behaviour, or even how to live life itself, in any way other than within the strict framework which I had been taught. *I*, my self, my human person-hood, was hiding all those years, pretending to be the person I was taught I was supposed to be. All those childhood experience of trying things, forming an opinion, finding what I liked and those things in which I found special satisfaction, they didn't happen. The learning and growth that comes from it didn't happen either. My scope was arbitrarily limited and I made the best of what I was allowed.

My childhood compliance that served me so well at the time, is now an adult challenge. As I strive to find what *I* like, the results are fascinating. I enjoy the creativity of art, playing my piano, making things with my hands, all things I was taught were a waste of time and entirely worthless.

Being The Golden Child certainly had its advantages at the time. I bought years of approval from my narcissist by being who he wanted me to be. I also lost years of my self by being who he wanted me to be. Given a time machine and the choice, would I make the same choice? I have no idea.

Looking a Chinese Gymnast in the Mouth

The controversy about the age of some of the Chinese woman's gymnasts appears to be going nowhere fast. I first heard about the questions regarding the youthful appearance of the Chinese gymnasts while watching the preliminaries, specifically just before the one who looks the youngest to me smiled. That was all I needed to see.

I'm not a dentist (nor did I stay in a Holiday Inn Express last night); however, I am the parent of a 10 year-old child who has EXACTLY the same gap in his teeth. According to our dentist, our child's a bit early; the age is usually 11.

Certainly there are other ways the young gymnast could have lost her teeth, due to an accident or dental work, for example. Could a qualified dentist tell the difference? My guess is yes. My guess is also there's no way any of this will make one iota of difference.

There won't be looking any Chinese gymnast in the mouth any time soon. Their "gift" to the world of gymnastics has been accepted. This "gift" reminds me of the Big Lies my favourite narcissist would tell. Everyone involved knew they were lies, but for various reasons, usually fear, we all agreed to "believe" the lie and thereby not tip our precariously balanced life. So, the various governing bodies serve as enabler to the Chinese to provide them international narcissistic supply. Bully for them.

I acknowledge that I obsess on the death of my n-father. Today is no different. It's made worse by the expected news that our beloved elderly cat will not live much longer.

I can't shake the thought that when she dies, I will be profoundly effected. She's been my dear friend for many years. She's given me immeasurable joy, happiness and unconditional love. Having her in my life has made my life so much better. I'm brought to tears just thinking of her dying. Yet, I have absolutely no problems with my feelings toward my feline friend dying.

Where I run into trouble, of course, is the feelings toward my dead n-father and the knowledge that some day my mother will die. I've never experienced sadness over my n-father's death. I'm not numb or in denial. My life is better without having to deal with him. At best, I feel ambivalent. Regarding my mother, I am not currently in contact with her. I have no plans to change that. I may never know when she dies and I'm OK with that. In a way I'd prefer not to know so I don't have to deal with the same feelings of ambivalence that I have with my n-father's death. Yet, I would be able to breathe more freely knowing that there would be no surprise telephone call or ring at the doorbell.

Simply put, I'm bothered that I grieve the death of a cat more than the death of my parents. There, I've said it. Yet, I can name the logical reasons: she's been my friend; her presence has made my life better; I will miss her; to my parents, at best, I was an appendage, and not always a convenient one. This "knowledge" doesn't help, though.

I don't know how to reconcile this. "Shoulds" don't help me any more than logic. I'm missing a piece to this puzzle. I think I'll go look under the pile of laundry on the laundry room floor. Maybe it's hiding under there.

Preacher Guilty of Road Rage

I know nothing about this preacher other than what's in the article. I'd like to say I'm surprised the man is a pastor but, sadly, I can't. I'd also like to be surprised that people attend his church, but having seen it for myself with another man and another church, I can't say that either. What does surprise me is the number of warning signs of narcissism that such a small article contains.

Thomas Howell, founder and preacher

By itself, this doesn't seem all that narcissistic. Many sincere people found and serve in organizations who aren't narcissistic. But this man's position does mean he created a place for himself where people would follow him, see him as an authority figure, listen to his sermons as being messages from God and, in general, hold him in high esteem.

[The other person involved in the incident] testified the preacher pulled up alongside her car, pointed a gun at her, called her a name and asked if she knew who she was messing with before threatening to shoot.

Apparently Mr. Howell believes his position, the one he created for himself, is such that he should be treated differently. Then, there's the matter of calling her a name. The article doesn't report if it was an expletive, but it seems logical that the name wasn't something polite like "ma'am" or "miss" or even "hey lady". Mr. Howell is again claiming a position of superiority over this woman. Lastly, there's the threat. Mr. Howell seems to believe that he has the right, the position, to determine this woman's punishment and to carry it out. Is this beginning to sound like a so-called God Complex to anyone else?

Next "[t]he cars chased each other through parts of Clifton, Avondale and Walnut Hills." During this time, the other person involved in the incident reported that Mr. Howell pointed the gun at her several times. I'm not familiar with the area, but it appears Mr. Howell had some time to think over the situation, reconsider his actions. Following the car chase, he repeated his initial threat:

He said, 'You don't now who I am,' called me another (name) and said ... 'I'll shoot you.' "

This belief that he is extra special is obviously strongly held since he repeats it. The chase ends when Mr. Howell parks his car near his church and the other party runs to a nearby store to call 911.

When police arrived, Howell told them he had a gun - it was in a holster strapped to his hip - and he had a permit to carry it.

Following the typical narcissistic pattern, when confronted with a misdeed, change the subject.

Howell denied to police and at Monday's trial that he ever pointed his gun at her. In fact, he said he never removed it from his holster that day.

Then, when he can't successfully change the subject, lie. But more on that below when the case goes to trial.

Then how, the judge wondered, did [the other person involved in the incident] know that Howell - a man she'd never met before - had a gun.

Oops. Big logical fallacy here. But, you see, when one is in a position of ultimate power as the founder and head of an organization, one's words usually aren't questioned so making sure one's lies are plausible doesn't matter.

I may know nothing about Mr. Howell other than what I've read in this article, but I do know that his deacons/elders should remove him from his position. This assumes that the deacons/elders actually have any power to do so, and I suspect they don't.

The other thing I know about Mr. Howell is that he needs lots of prayer. For a man who leads First Commandment Church of the Living God, it appears he has problems not only with the first commandment, but also at least the sixth, ninth, and tenth.

The Dying Narcissist

One wet May morning the phone rang. It was him, my dying narcissist father. His first words were complaints about the terrible weather. It had rained for several days and he was unhappy about it.

I tried empathizing and then commenting that it had been so dry, farmers were likely glad to get the rain. No success. "April showers may bring May flowers, but May showers only bring MUD." I tried the beautiful, peaceful noise of falling rain. Nope. I tried the since-we-can't-change-it-we-might-as-well-try-to-find-something-good-about-it. No again. "There's nothing good about it." OK, so he wants to be unhappy. I listened to more of his complaints, but when I stopped trying to cheer him up he angrily ended the conversation.

One phone call I initiated ended in him angrily ranting about his civil rights being violated because a restaurant wasn't allowed to serve him beer on Father's Day. Actually, the call ended after my mother got on the phone and chided me for stirring up his anger when I wouldn't agree that his civil rights had been violated.

Then there was the first call I made with my cell phone. I resisted getting a cell phone for years, but relented when my father's end was near. I called him to give him my number when he went into his routine of angrily telling me what I should stand for in my life and what I should value. It ended with him mocking me after I tried to turn the conversation away from his rant.

When the end was near, I investigated hospices. I found one that was nice; one where if I was terminally ill, I would chose for myself. He would hear nothing of it. He didn't trust me. He *knew* what those places are like. I was shocked (and obviously naive). How could he believe I would put him in some awful place? It's just....not me. But, looking back, it was perhaps quite telling. When my father's mother (my grandmother) needed extra care, she refused to even live in an apartment complex that catered to senior citizens. It frustrated him to no end. It made me wonder, would he have put her in some awful place if he thought he could get away with it?

The last conversation I had with him, was so very typical. I visited him at home. He complained about how he felt. He lectured me on what I should stand for. He gritted his teeth and hissed angry, hurtful words at my mother when she didn't supply what he wanted immediately when he wanted it. Ever the enabler, my mother explained that it was the cancer; it had moved to his brain. But his behaviour was nothing new. He'd been like that for as long as I could remember. And, so had she.

The Narcissist's Only Child

As I read the title, it's unintended irony gives me a chuckle. Since in a narcissist's world there are no other people, just people-tools to be manipulated for the narcissist's pleasure, the narcissist is his/her only child. But that isn't what I meant.

Several times now, I've read comments from other adult children of narcissists (ACONs) about how being the only child of a narcissist would be an added challenge. Without siblings with whom to relate, compare, commiserate or whatever, a big chunk of perspective is missing. The thought was new to me. I very often felt alone as a child, and in a very real way, I was. Yet, there are many good examples of ACONs with siblings who were also very alone because their sibling was The Golden Child and/or narcissistic themselves.

I don't know how it works for other only children raised by narcissists. In my childhood family, I played many different roles, sometimes simultaneously. I was The Golden Child, a source of pride and honor to my parents because I excelled academically. I was The Scapegoat, the lowest rung on the ladder to which the responsibility for every bad thing fell. I was The Therapist, the one who would listen and empathize. And, all this seemed normal. Even today it's impossible for me to conceptualize that it could have been any other way.

Would having a sibling or two have changed my situation for the better? That can't be known, but it does make me wonder: was part of the reason I so desperately hated being an only child because, as the child of a narcissist, I was so alone?

The Narcissistic Family

This book hit the nail on the head in so many ways. Much underlining was involved. Some things are just too uncanny to believe.

The Narcissist and His Money

For my Favourite Narcissist, money was King of The Trifecta: money, fame and power. Money was the one he could most easily use to manipulate those around him. Starting with his kids. Money and it's cousin, stuff, were the measure of love. When I made the impertinent decision to become Christian, the natural result was for money and stuff to be withheld and, of course, their will to be rewritten.

Money was used to keep me in the narcissist's world. When I decided to get a job the summer after I turned 16, you'd thought I had abandoned them in their hour of deepest need. The truth of the matter was by controlling my purse strings, the narcissist exercised control over me. My narcissist had no problems giving money, and he knew all too well the power it gave him.

Correspondingly, the strings attached to the money were many. Anytime my narcissistic father felt the need to work, I had to work. For him, there was always more work to be done. Sitting, resting, or doing anything but working while he worked was shameful and certain to elicit at least one comment about being lazy. In the unfortunate event that I was watching television, the comments were more ugly and likely to be combined with the television being turned off or the channel changed. Of course, he'd do this just for fun, too.

Money played a big role in guilt, too. The chorus of "after all the things I've done for you..." often involved the spending of money for something. The message was clear: I gave you these things, now you must do fill-in-the-blank.

Another function of money was to enhance my narcissist's image or gained power. If my narcissist could be seen owning or spending money on something good, by people whose respect he sought, then nearly the sky was the limit. Of course, money could be spent for the narcissist's pleasure alone, but there were always opportunities for the narcissist to let it slip that he was at The Very Post Restaurant last Friday, or that he saw World-class Performer at the symphony/opera/theatre.

Even as I became older, money and expensive gifts were the elastic that kept the family together. In a truly odd way, I was paid to be the child my parents wanted me to be. A paid acting job, if you will. (Hey, I wonder how I work that into my resume?) It likely would have worked for years longer, too, had it not been for befriending someone whose family did not operate the same way mine did.

And, speaking of gifts, with the narcissist involved, gift giving occasions were a painful chore. Literally anything he wanted, he had. With gifts, it was never the thought that counted, either. If he didn't like it he simply looked at it, grunted, and set it down. Gift giving occasions are so much more fun now that the pressure is gone to find something interesting, unique, functional, impressive and not ridiculously expensive that he doesn't already have.

In the end, literally, the narcissist's focus on money was likely one of his biggest disappointments. No amount of his money, or prestige, or power could do one thing to cure or comfort him. He'd worked years to make money to get what he wanted, gain power, prestige and a retirement in which to spend them all-- a retirement he never lived to see. King Money, it turned out, was the wrong master to serve.

I *Can't* Relate To That

I was sitting in Sunday School today when a mother shared her concerns, and a prayer request, for her son in boot camp. The class's teacher, a man, did a good job of empathizing and then assuring her that her son would be OK. I wasn't ready for what happened next, although there really was no surprise. The teacher commented that being a mother, her concern for her son was understandable. The whole class verbally agreed.

It was then that I knew I was in a room full of people with whom I shared an entirely different experience of "family". It was a type of loneliness I've never felt before. In the same way their experience was so foreign to me, so mine would be to them. In "Birth of A Self in Adulthood", there is a chapter where McArthur describes reinitiating or maintaining a relationship with what she calls an "enmeshed parent". I've not researched McArthur's background, but I'd guess the parents she describes in the book are not like hers. She states it's natural for adult children of "enmeshed parents" to desire a relationship with the parent(s). Where I think McArthur misses the boat is the belief that such a relationship can exist with the enmeshed parent. Where a relationship is one-way and is based primarily on a shared dysfunctional history, learning techniques may allow these adult children to manage some sort of what McArthur herself describes as a superficial relationship. Every time I consider this, I can't escape coming back to the same question: why bother putting so much effort into pursuing a superficial relationship with a person simply because they were one's parent?

Birth of A Self in Adulthood, by Dorothea S. McArthur

I found an old hardcover of the 1988 edition. It's dated (but then again, so am I), yet it's been an interesting read. I have lots and lots of comments on it, and not a few down-right disagreements, but I can't be bothered to blog any of them right now. Any brave soul who decides to read my copy after I'm through with it will have to contend with the multitude of comments I've scrawled in the margins. Although an ample amount of it applies to me, other parts much better describe my (late) narcissistic father. It's a thoroughly uncomfortable combination.

Singing A New Song: But, but...now it's ME!

Listening to talking heads discuss the future of drug research and development in the USA brought to mind a sudden change in my narcissistic father. He worked in the R&D department in a major pharmaceutical company.

He described the years it took teams of scientists to do the necessary work to discover, test and develop a drug before it could even be considered for presentation to the USA's Food and Drug Administration. He described the problem of the US patent being granted years before the drug was even approved for use in the USA, making each year of additional research necessary to get the drug to market raise the cost of the drug just to recover the costs put into research. It was all so logical to him.

Until he got sick. Then, out came hatred for the horrible greedy pharmaceuticals who didn't put enough money into curing the terrible disease he had. Didn't they understand that he was dying? How dare they consider anything but that he needed.

This change in him was one of the most eye-opening. Before he became ill, he was adamant that pharmaceutical R&D was doing exactly what was best by concentrating on those things that could help the most amount of people and had the best probability of success. When the shoe was on the other foot....well, then the system was obviously a horrible one because it wasn't helping him.

The father who had always prided himself on his thinking and reasoning abilities, suddenly did a 180 degree turn because it benefited him. Cool logic went out the window when it was him dying, not some other slob.

This was long before the initials 'NPD' carried any meaning for me. Still, it was obvious listening to his vicious, and sometimes violent, rants there was some serious self-absorption going on. It was a turning point for me. And with that, it's time for me to go take my allergy medication.

Letters From Home

I have no idea who kept them or how they survived so long, but a few days ago I found letters that my mother sent to me while I was at summer camp. They were filed away in a folder labeled "Personal Papers". Oh, the irony.

It's only now that I have some inkling why my counselor and the other campers found them so weird. You see, they were typed: the addresses on the envelope, the letter itself, everything. On some even the "signature" was typewritten. Perhaps that wouldn't be so strange now, but these letters are from a time long before the advent of the personal computer. They weren't just typed, either, on the trusty old mechanical typewriter in the closet -- you know, the one with a tendency to drop an occasional 'e'? These letters were quite obviously typed on good quality, white typewriter paper on a professional electric typewriter and mailed in a standard #10 white envelope. Picture a legal document, block paragraphs, complete with the initials of the person who typed the document in lower case, followed by a colon, and then the initials of the author in upper case.

The letters themselves tersely detailed my parents' activities. There was the obligatory sentence about hoping I was enjoying myself. Thankfully, at the time, I didn't see at the time just how completely impersonal they were. They were definitely odd, and not in a cute way.

It's times like these that I still wonder about people who watched this bizarre family. I suppose it would be very difficult for anyone on the outside to know just how odd our lives really were. And, let's face it, weird letters from home while at summer camp don't a problem make.

Jesus

I trusted Jesus as my personal saviour twenty-seven years ago. (Has it really been that long?) Even so, there always seemed to be something "there" in the way I see and think of Jesus. I have no doubts of my salvation, nor of the amazing love and grace of God's son being fully God and fully man, paying the righteous penalty to reconcile sinful man to a Holy God. It finally hit me a few days ago what it is that makes the way I see Jesus different: Jesus was a man, a human. You see, humans scare me.

Part of my problem relating to the person of Jesus is His humanity. How ironic that the one man who "did humanity" correctly is difficult for me to relate to simply because He "did humanity". It proves to be an ugly stumbling block.

Ghost Town

"Ghost Town" goes to a daily devotion from Our Daily Bread, part of RBC Ministries (formerly Radio Bible Class). They're not necessarily deep theology, but they are good food for thought akin, shall I say, to a morning snack.

It's likely no surprise that I am uncomfortable with having cut my self-absorbed mother out of my life. It's been three years now and, although I have great misgivings, the amount of relief involved in ditching the stress a relationship with her brings, speaks volumes. There is a certain peace that comes with it.

So, why the misgivings? Perhaps it's that same nagging feeling that I should feel badly about not having her in my life. One thing is for sure. I do not have complete peace about not having any contact with her.

First, I have no illusions that I am God. I'm not. I do believe, however, that His Word show us the character of God and that character is something we are to follow. In the devotional, we see God allowing His people to be scattered as a means of teaching them what the outcome of their behaviour was. It's here I begin to wonder if there's some insight here for me with respect to my mother. Where I get caught is in the reconciliation part. When God's people realized their sin and turned away, He restored their relationship. God desired to restore the relationship.

I have no desire to reconcile with my mother. None. On the deepest level, having her in my life means fear and pain. It means seeing very clearly what I don't have in the way of a mother. That hurts. It underscores just how alone I was as a child. It means steeling myself against what bizarre or nasty thing may happen. No doubt what I'm missing is the confidence that something will or has changed. I have no idea how to determine when, or if, a positive change has come to pass.

What I Like

I've done this exercise a number of times. Each time, it becomes less difficult and more natural. Making a list of the things *I* like, just because I like them doesn't come naturally to me. I hope someday for it to be second nature to know what I like.

I like:

• teaching myself to play piano
• taking a hot bath
• organizing things
• making up silly ditties
• driving go-karts
• water slides
• having my arms massaged
• solving puzzles
• dramatic reading
• history

A New Height In Societal Evolution

Pregnancy pact results in lots of teen moms


Just as when I heard of the terrible events that happened at Columbine High School, I'm not surprised. One article I read quoted the principal as saying most of the girls were known to have low self esteem. A former student at the high school is quoted as saying the girls are looking for unconditional love.

It may be a gigantic leap, but I smell narcissism. I'm not talking Narcissistic Personality Disorder (necessarily), more like societal narcissism. Perhaps this is even projection on my part, but I have difficulty in believing teenage girls who have a healthy relationship with their parents would make this pack.

From my perspective, these girls are seeking to build something they don't have, but strongly desire: a place where they belong in a family. News articles report that the girls planned to get pregnant so they could raise their children together. They were building their own family.

While it's true teenage years are frequently difficult ones, I firmly believe if a child has a family in which she feels like she belongs -- whether she gets that belonging from a parent, a grandparent, aunt, older sister or even an unrelated mentor-- a teenager won't go to such extreme measure to create a family of her own.

Obviously there are more reasons than just narcissism for weak to non-existent relationships between parents and their children. Illnesses, whether mental or physical, certainly can take a toll.

For years blamed my lack of relationship with my mother on her working out of the home. My theory was, if she'd only been there, I would have had a mom. My theory met it's fatal flaw when I talked with another latchkey kid. His mother, a widow, *had* to work full time to put food on the table. His sense of family and love for his mother was strong even though his time with her was limited. He *knew* she loved him. It was a given, an indisputable fact, something he knew in the innermost depths of his being.

So, if it's not that parents are too busy working, or even too stressed as was the widow mentioned above who struggled to feed her children long before men and women received equal pay, what is it?

Narcissism is on a steady rise in our society. Thirty years ago women in L'Oréal commercials proclaimed that the product may be more expensive, "but I'm worth it!" said in a way that leaves no doubt as to the woman's sense of entitlement. Today we live with road rage, the most frivolous of law suits, children's picture books that explain mommy will look different because she is getting plastic surgery to be prettier, and the idea that if something offends us it should not be said, done, taught, on display and perhaps should even be illegal, especially in public. We are The Me Generation come to its fruition: The Embodiment of Narcissism.

Teenagers making a pregnancy pact? Why not? If it feels good, do it, right?

Resurrecting The Dead

For me, part of being raised by a narcissist was learning that in all things my narcissistic father is Right. His choice of music is Right. His choice of television programs is Right. His philosophy of life is Right. His opinion of me, his child, is Right. As a kid who was I to question that? So I learned it, lived it, trained myself to love it.

Part of becoming an adult was the realization that I had nothing that was mine. The things I liked, believed, etc. were his. I had learned them, rote, much like my multiplication tables. Behind them was only the passion of knowing that I was taught they were Right. As it is taught, so let it be done. *gong*

When I was 16, I discovered that spiritually I believed something different than my parents. This caused me to be rejected by my self-absorbed, self-righteous parents. In making my own spiritual decision I had, unknowingly, committed the unforgivable sin against a narcissist: I had made up my mind for myself. I was flabbergasted when the swift slap of renunciation seemingly came out of nowhere. At that time I was truly naïve. The thought that there was something amiss with my parents child-rearing philosophy never crossed my mind.

Now, I find myself on a life journey to think for myself. At age 43 I have come to the startling discovery that I don't know what I like. It's been a difficult exercise to discover those things which are my own passions. It's meant digging back into my childhood and find things that I very much wanted, but for whatever reason were deemed unacceptable. It's meant finding those things that I didn't even dare acknowledge to myself that I liked for fear that simply in liking something I was trespassing the unwritten rule that Daddy is Right.

This self discovery closely ties into goals. I must know what I like to set goals and I must know ways to reward myself for achievement. It's something that's been sorely lacking in my life. It's certainly played a part in my recent stagnation. When I have no idea where I'm going, I have no idea when I've arrived and the journey becomes meaningless.

Fear Cultivated

There's an image burned in my mind. It's of my n-father lying on the floor, just sort-of staring straight ahead, out into space. My mother had tried to help him to the bathroom and they'd fallen. Beyond my father being much larger than my mother, she also had a bad back. Expecting her to help him get around was, at best, fooling, at worst horribly selfish. Such is the stuff of narcissists.

It was the beginning of the last 24 hours of his life. By that time, the cancer had aggressively spread into his brain. He'd insisted at staying at home and forcing my mother to care for him. He was adamantly against hospice, even though I'd spent quite a bit of time researching facilities to find one that was well-run. But that's the stuff of another entry.

As I stood in my parent's home, looking at my collapsed father, the oddest thing happened: I kept my distance. That sounds terrible, even to me, but it's the truth. It's also entirely inconsistent with who I am.

I'm not an outgoing person, yet I'm a person who willingly goes to hospitals to visit people. It's a God thing. Visiting or just sitting with people who are even seriously ill doesn't bother me. It's something to which I'm naturally drawn. I'm also a person who gladly goes along with people to the hospital to visit sick friends and family, or to wait in the dreaded surgery waiting room. It's not that I enjoy those places, but I am comfortable there. As I said, it's a God thing.

Despite this, I was repulsed by the situation. It's hard for me to fathom, since if I think about it being anyone else, I'm right there next to the person doing what I can to reassure them and help them be more comfortable. But not with him.

I've done some reflecting on this. The nearest I can come is that my father was not like other people. Had he been able to respond or communicate at all, even by only changing facial muscles, his reaction would almost certainly been one of anger. Nothing I could have done would have been right or sufficient or quickly enough. No matter what I did for him, it would have been wrong. He'd been on his way to the bathroom. If he could understand that, then he'd expect me to get him there, never mind I simply didn't have the capabilities to do so. Had he not been able to wait, he'd be angry that no one had gotten him where he needed to go in time -- it would be someone else's fault; the result would have been rage. He was already angry that he was dying and that no one could/would do anything to save him. From the moment he knew for certain that cancer would soon take his life, anger and unhappiness were his defining traits.

For years I've felt guilty about how I reacted. I didn't understand it until I started looking at it in depth. It was fear. My father cultivated fear in his family. It worked quite well to control us. The only way to quell his rages were to give him what he wanted ,or if that wasn't possible, to keep one's distance. My response was the response I'd been taught. When things weren't going dad's way, the safest course of action was to be far away.

Father's Day and Tim Russert

It's another one of those holidays. Father's Day. This one is especially weird for me because I was the golden child, a "daddy's girl". I now hate the association I have with that phrase, but it doesn't change what was.

Father's Day was always such a pain when my father was alive. Gifts were either a resounding success or a miserable failure. There was no inbetween. The success was difficult to achieve. The thought never counted. But none of that is new to anyone who's anyone who's had much contact with a narcissist.

Perhaps that's why much of the coverage of Tim Russert's death makes me so uncomfortable. I've never read his book "Big Russ and Me". Given the descriptions I've heard of it, I likely never will. Reading about someone's tribute to their father sounds too painful. Someone made a comment today about Tim Russert's father being his hero and followed it up with something like, "as I'm sure all our fathers are to us". Uh, no. It's not even close. I'm not sure people with narcissistic fathers can begin to comprehend the concept. I certainly can't.

As I near Father's Day, I'm relieved my father is not alive. Were it so, this holiday would become a sham. It's hard enough for me to comprehend how to teach my children about honor one's father without factoring being a hypocrite into it.

So, what does one for whom Father's Day makes as much sense as does Groundhog Day do to celebrate fathers? Beats me. It's much too far beyond my comprehension.

This is where, too, I get caught in the fifth commandment:

Honor your father and your mother, so that you may live long in the land the LORD your God is giving you.

Exodus 20:12

How does an ACON honor their n-parent? Do I honor them by cutting off contact? Does that change if I continue to pray for them? What about if I continue to teach my children about their good qualities and try to avoid why we don't ever see grandma and/or grandpa? Is continuing contact and doing my best to help them honoring them?

I don't claim to have any concrete answers. I'm flying blind in this. Some claim that honoring one's parents ends when their actions become/are seen as evil. I haven't yet found a way to reconcile the fact that we all sin -- we all commit evil acts. Even after we accept God's gift of salvation, we still sin. Christians are called to witness to the lost...how then can I justify cutting a parent out of my life? Right now, I can't.

Father's Day is full of things I don't understand. I'm thrilled for people for whom their father is their hero. It must be an incredible feeling.

I'm saddened for Tim Russert's family. Father's Day will likely never be the same for them. Yet, even in that, I hope that Big Russ and his grandson have memories of heroes, and honor and respect. Even in poverty, an ACON can rejoice in other's riches.

It

When my grandmother would speak of one of her nieces, she always had to tell me that the parents would tell the girl how special she was because they chose her. It bothered my grandmother a lot. I don't know whether it was on grounds of principle or being competitive, but it obviously put a bee in her bonnet.

I was exactly the opposite of this girl. I was the surprise child that changes everything about my parents' lives, and not necessarily for the better. At times I've wondered if I was someone's idea of a plan to keep my father from being drafted and sent to Vietnam. At others, if I was a hook to cement a potential marriage. I've thrown those ideas out. It was the look in my mother's eyes when she told me she knew how to take care of "it". There was a pause and then she returned to the present. The next sentence was something to the effect of, "But, now I'm glad everything turned out the way it did." It wasn't convincing.

This is not meant as a discussion of abortion. I don't want to go there. For the record, I believe abortion is wrong. Still there are times I wonder if it wouldn't have been a better idea in my case. She didn't want a kid, wasn't prepared for a kid, and didn't have a good father-figure to help her nurture a kid. It feels weird knowing I truly was a problem from the first, knowledge of me was considered very bad news. I suppose it would be different had I been raised by a mother who soon discovered her own motherly side and cherished being a mom. That didn't happen.

One phone call that went particularly badly had her sniping at me that she had friends, and she would watch her friends' children and how she could see they enjoyed spending time with their parents and doing things together, and how she didn't have that. And, she doesn't. The thought of getting together with my mother and "doing something" brings anxiety and revulsion. There's simply no enjoyment there. How could there be? The woman's known me 40-some years and has no idea who I am.

Thankfully, I didn't think to ask her if possibly *I* had felt the same way when I was a child watching other mothers with their children. But my mother would never understand this. She saw that I was fed, clothed, and had lots of nice things. To her, these are the things of a Good Mother. She doesn't see that what was missing was the specialness, the knowledge that my parents wanted *me* in their lives. It goes beyond simply wanting a child, to wanting to discover who your child is.

I've heard of a theory that says we all have an emotional bank account. People's actions deposit or withdraw on that account. My mother added precious little to my account; my father practically nothing (unless I was doing what he wanted). They had very little to withdraw before they were overdrawn.

Grocery Shopping Alone

One thing about being an only child is the necessity to learn to play by oneself. When I was eight, we moved into a neighborhood where most of our neighbors were senior citizens. I became very good at playing by myself.

The past few times grocery shopping, I noticed most people who were there alone were talking on their cell phones. Even some people who were there with other people were carrying on a conversation on their cell phone! At times, it appeared that I was the only one there who didn't have their cell stuck to their ear. I was alone in the grocery store even while I was surrounded by people. It felt strangely comforting. It was sad, too.

For me, grocery shopping is some time when I can be alone and quiet with my thoughts. I don't *have* to interact, I can just think and concentrate on my task. Sometimes I wonder whether we're losing our comfort with just being alone with ourselves. It seems for many people if they aren't talking on their cell phones, they're listening to their iPod or radio. When do these people take time to just ruminate? Have we gotten to the point where not having something going on in our ears is just too uncomfortable?

Finding Self

Every so often I stumble across this. Yesterday was one of those days -- a day when I struggle to know who I am. That sounds so cliché (or stupid, depending on your bent), but I can't find better words to describe it.

My father decided to mold me in his image. I was told what to like, or rather what was acceptable to like. Being a compliant child, I followed his lead. Somewhere around 30, I discovered that what I'd been convinced to like and be, wasn't what I wanted. Thus started the process that got me to the place of learning about NPD.

When it comes to goals of my own, I don't have a lot of experience. I was a pretty good stooge and as such all I had to be good at was following and doing what I was trained to do. Yeah, a lot like a puppy. But, now that I'm no longer content to live like that, I need to find my own goals, and even my own likes. It's proved a difficult thing to learn.

Yesterday I started thinking: for most humans, they begin to develop their own likes, dislikes and goals as a child. Kids try stuff. New stuff. Different stuff. They explore and find what they like. And, if done properly, the kids do this naturally without a thought to whether they succeed, or do it well, or the people around them approve of it. Eventually they find their own self, what they like, what they want to do, to be, how they want to live.

This seems like it's becoming the stuff of a mid-life crisis. It's not that I'm unsatisfied with my life. It's that I have no purpose in it other than being a good spouse and parent to my amazing small humans.

The question, "where do you see yourself in 5 years?" has always puzzled me. It's the goal thing. I've rarely had an idea where I was going to be in 5 years, and when I did, it was because someone else had prescribed it for me.

This all came about because yesterday was a gloomy Monday. I needed something to keep me on track and give me a reason to continue what seemed like only drudgery. I couldn't find a reason why I cared if tomorrow even existed. The thought of the future is blank. Why bother if tomorrow is going to be more of the same, followed by another day, week, month, year, decade of more of the same. I need a goal. Or two. I need a reason why I care if tomorrow comes.

Remembering Important Things

Found here, this peaceful photo is of a very important place on this 6th day of June 2008. In truth, it's an important place any and every day of every year. This is Normandy Beach. On this shore many, many valiant young men gave their all to secure freedom for so many others. I am among those others. Words cannot express my gratitude to those who landed on this and other beaches in France in 1944. D-Day. The beginning of Operation Overlord.

My father-in-law came in D-Day plus five. He spoke little of what he saw. What he did say was explanation enough to know why.

On this day I honor those young men who did what needed to be done 64 years ago today.

God Works in Mysterious Ways!

Today, one of the children decided to listen to Focus on the Family's audio production of Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol. I hadn't listened to it since I'd heard of NPD. It has new meaning to me now.

I understand that Dickens' wrote the story as an allegory. It tells the well known story of Scrooge ; it also tells the story of a culture losing the value of human life. It would be hard to argue that there's lots of narcissism involved in both stories. Is it safe to describe Scrooge as a narcissist?

At university, one of my literature professors made an interesting observation: in a good piece of literature, a character never does anything that is not in some way foreshadowed. In theatre one might say that the character would always behave "in character". I believe this is true in real life also. It's why some people can read others so well. People's behaviour should never really surprise us.

So what of Scrooge, the narcissist, making such a radical turn around with his life? Is it the remembrance of the loving kindness of his sister that ultimately softens him? Perhaps. Might it be remembering his first employer and the way he lived his life? Maybe. Could it be the knowledge that despite his nastiness, his employee and his nephew still loved him? Possibly. What of the people who so callously stole the dead man's possessions? I think not. The same Scrooge who wouldn't sign Marley's death certificate until after the close of business would think nothing of the living appropriating the material possessions of the dead.

So what's the point? While not ignoring the fact that Scrooge is fictional, what changed Scrooge's life with, of course, the help of the spirits, was love. It was love, even in the face of nastiness and cruelty. Now, to be sure, the people who purposefully engaged Scrooge the narcissist and treated him with love were people who had the ability to be secure in themselves with a support system to help anchor them. In the end, their relationships mattered.

As an ACON, I may not be in the position to engage a narcissist, but I'm glad there are people who can. I watched people like that engage my father. I have no idea how the Holy Spirit dealt with my father, but I'd like to think that the seeds planted and watered by those godly people who put themselves in the path of a narcissist could have bore fruit. I'm glad, too, that I can have the same hope for my culture.

A Tale of Two Deaths

It's an odd thing, the difference between how I felt when my n father died and when my father-in-law died. Neither man professed any real interested in their Creator, although my father often cursed God. I was there when both died, both of cancers.

My father-in-law died, with all his children, his adult grandchildren, and the spouses there. Out of town family members had stayed in contact daily with local family and drove through the night to be with him before he died. It wasn't a conflict-free time, but we all made our way through it, still caring for one another.

While sitting at the foot of my father-in-laws bed, listening to him struggle to breathe, I felt an amazing *need* to pray. It's not something I can easily describe. It was a deep, urgent, feeling that I must pray. So I did. I prayed in a way that day, pleading and praising like I never had before, or since. I could feel an amazing spiritual battle happening around me, but I had no idea how or why. It was only months later that I was told a family member there, who was taking a lead role in caring for my father-in-law, had been studying and practicing shamanic rituals. She'd been working with my father-in-law with special stones and other objects. I believe this was the reason my spirit felt so burdened to pray.

When he died, I was sitting next to his bed, holding his and my mother-in-law's hands, listening to her share loving family memories.

When my father died, my mother and I were there: she asleep after exhausting herself attempting to meet the demands of my n father, I by his bedside. I advocated for him, for pain management and other comfort issues. I watched and listened to him die.

The scene was so different from that of my father-in-law. There was no spirit of family, no shared comfort in a time of distress. It was just me, a sleeping mother and a dying father. And the machines.

I tried to talk to God, but there was nothing there, only a stagnancy that defies description. I was not without God presence, but there was no call to pray, no spiritual battle. My father's impregnable fortress of narcissism had held strong. I couldn't even muster a struggle to find sadness. He had made his choice.

My mother awoke just before his end came. As he struggled for breath, panic-stricken she urged him to keep breathing. Before long the time came that I needed to urge her to let him go. He died with his anxious wife and stoic daughter at his bedside.

Now, years later, after typing all this, I see that both deaths are a perfect summation of the lives that preceded them. My father-in-law knew he was far from perfect, but he had done his best to be a loving husband and father. He died surrounded by his imperfect family, doing its best to make it through a difficult time. My father was perfect in his own mind. He'd done all he could to make the world around him serve him. In his death he was surrounded by the anxiety and cold distance he had so well cultivated. The world provided its service to him one last time and then it was finished.

Dear Shame

Driving through town today, what should come on the CD player but an old Newsboys CD. The words rang true especially with me today.

Dear Shame by Newsboys

I catch you digging in my trash
for stuff I've long thrown away.
You bring it back on a tray.

And I hear you wheezing in the hall
spreading gems and old news.
You always love to confuse.
I flee the light just to live in your shadow.
I'm needing mercy and you offer me blame.

Chorus 1
Dear Shame:
You're oh so eager to toy with me.
You're always stealing the joy in me.
You love to whisper my name, Dear Shame, Dear Shame.

You've got me living like a bug,
crawling in fear.
(It's been a very long year.)
I dream of growing some wings,
I think I'm flying away,
then you point and you spray.
All my hidden secrets
crave the light of forgiveness.
You pull the shades,
you accuse and you blame.

- Chorus 1 -

I fled the light just to live in your shadow.
I needed mercy, and you offered me blame.

Chorus 2
Dear Shame:
I think I'm wise to your strategy.
I won't be needing your company.
My name's eternally clear,
Dear Shame,
Dear Shame.


lyrics copyright and property of Newsboys

Letter to My Burden

Dear X,

It's been years since we've been in contact. I still think of you often, but likely not in the way you'd assume. I don't hate you. I don't yearn for your approval. I fear for your soul. I pray for you often.

I can only guess what life was like in your house when you were a kid. I would guess, though, that perhaps you never were enough in your earthly father's eyes. Was it hard to gain his approval, maybe even his attention? Was it hard to every do it "right enough"? I fear you tried to live to a measuring stick on which only the super-human could even register, let alone measure up.

Was it hard being the youngest? Everyone else had more experience, would develop capabilities before you, and you were the one who was behind. With gaining accolades being so important, did it seem impossible to find something to achieve that someone hadn't done before? Something that was your very own, worthy of approval? The idea of love gets pretty muddled when it's mixed with accomplishments, when much needed attention is based on what you do, rather than who you are.

You did become Someone, though, didn't you? There are news articles and photographs and quotes and Internet sites that prove that. Is it enough? I'd guess not. There's always something else, eh? A project to complete, a VIP to please, financial goals to meet, growth to be shown, innovation to achieve, progress, results....maybe that will be "enough". But it never is. Is it?

I'll even go so far as to guess your career choice was dictated by a desire to please an earthly father. His Legacy looms large. Too large. His standards are impossible, his favour unattainable. You're striving to fill a bottomless pit that will consume every part of your life you dedicate to it.

My friend, the stress shows in your body. You're physically paying for this struggle. Your wife is paying. Your children are paying. Dearly. You have foisted on them the same standard of perfection that was foisted upon you.

I pray for you often, X. I commit to do so for as long as I have breath. This side of eternity, I may never know whether you've thrown off the oppressively heavy weight that you and your family carry. God graciously holds my curiosity and hope for me. I leave you with a prayer for


Peace in God's perfect love,
Ella

Pollock

Movie Spoiler Warning!

Finally, after several years wait, last evening I watched Pollock. Starring Ed Harris, Pollock tells the story of the life of Jackson Pollock, the well-known artist.

The movie didn't disappoint. It didn't hurt that I enjoy Ed Harris' work, and Pollock's even more. Whenever the opportunity presents itself, I make a beeline for a Pollock.

I did find Pollock disturbing, though. It wasn't that the movie was dark, or that I had quite a few problems understanding the dialogue, or that the artist's life was a troubled one. The first was appropriate, the second annoying but workable and the third I already knew from previous study. The disturbing part was Harris' portrayal of Pollock. It was......I hesitate to say it, but it was familiar.

I'm tempted to say that Pollock was a disturbed man and write it off right there, but I don't know that that does it justice.

In the movie, Pollock's family, especially his mother, were all disturbing in their own rights. The mother seemed entirely oblivious to Jackson, whether it be his failures or his successes.

The more I contemplate the movie, the more disturbing it gets. From Pollock's girlfriend, and later, wife Lee Krasner's seeming inability to talk about anything other than Jackson or his success, to his mother's ambivalence, to Pollock's entire focus on HIS art, to nearly every other person around him with their own disturbing character traits, the movie is almost a study in dysfunction.

On purpose I'm ignoring the cliche of the tragic artist figure. That's not the point for me. It was the way I cringed when Krasner read Pollock an art critic's review, or the way I expected Pollock to grab the turkey carving implements and become violent. It was the display of entirely inappropriate behaviour that didn't make the perpetrator a complete pariah. It was the overturning of the dinner table, and the reaction from those seated. It was the mother at the dinner table peacefully eating whilst ignoring her youngest son, who was sitting next to her, having a break down.

It was Pollock adjusting the radio to his pleasure, entirely irrespective to the wishes of anyone else. That really is it. That's the nutshell. The core.

What's My Line?

I worked with a man who, along with his wife, had adopted eleven children from the foster care system. Each of the children had his or her own challenges. Some had been abused; some had learning disabilities; some had emotional problems. His wife had professional training in helping special needs children and they felt it was their calling to care for children who so badly needed a loving home. Theirs was a full and active house!

He would occasionally talk about the differences in his children's needs and the need to know how to handle each child individually. One that made a great deal of impact for me was how different children needed different kinds of discipline. For some children, "the look" was enough to communicate to them. For others, words or loss of privileges was needed.

I'd never seen human beings as that unique before. My world had been one-size fits all. With an egotistical, judgemental father, whatever he said was Right. Everything else was Wrong. Period. End of Story.

It's this need to cater to the specific needs of a child that has me puzzled when it comes to calling the way narcissistic parents treat their children abuse. It strikes me that perhaps what would be abusive for one child, is not for another. Yet, this idea of relativism bothers me, too. It's a slippery slope.

I'd like to think somewhere there's a pat answer, one that is reasonably concrete. I fear that I'm wrong.

My Compass Needs Calibration

As I read accounts written by other ACONs about their parents, events of their life, and familial relationships, I find myself thinking, "yeah, and...?". Many, many times I find myself wondering why some parental action would be odd/wrong/narcissistic.

I've decided I need to recalibrate my relational compass. My spouse grew up in a challenged household, but certainly not one devoid of parental love for their children. These same actions would NEVER happen in my spouse's FOO. NEVER. EVER. In a million years. In a million googolplexes of years. My mother-in-law and father-in-law often had trouble relating to things that happened with my parents. Now I know why. True to form, I always assumed that my family was normal and my spouse's atypical. It's something I still can't seem to wrap my mind around.

To Still A Mockingbird

I awoke just before sunrise this morning. I'm blessed to have a balcony off my bedroom and I wandered outside to enjoy the beautiful morning. All was quiet. Occasionally I could hear a car pass on a road on the other side of our woods. Birds of all kinds were singing their songs. A hint of colour was forming on the horizon. What an incredible creation!

I was lost in the birds songs when I heard an odd click behind me. I went back to listening to the birds, then I heard the click again. When I turned around to see where the noise came from. All I saw was a mockingbird standing next to a chimney on the roof. There just happens to be a nest in the chimney.

The bird clicked again, and then flew to a tree on the edge of the woods. There the mockingbird began to make an incredible racket. I enjoyed the fruit of it's distracting technique. I lost count at somewhere over a dozen different calls. It was quite impressive.

It's only been a bit over six months since I first learned of NPD. I still tend to see interactions through a lens coloured by the discovery of narcissism.

As I listened to the mockingbird's cacophony, I reflected how it was protecting it's young. It was behaving like a good parent should. My parents protected me from harm, sometimes this required great effort. Yet, I don't think of my parents as good parents. (Even typing that feels uncomfortable, but deep down I know it to be true.)

On reflection my mockingbird was only behaving according to its God-given instincts. It wasn't trying to distract me away from its nest out of love for its offspring. There was no reason involved, perhaps not even a decision per se.

So where am I going with this? I have absolutely no idea, but I know I will look differently at animals as they parent their young. They go through the motions, but it has nothing to do with love.

Stolen Childhood

That sounds harsh. It is. Yet more and more, as I reflect on my childhood, I see a big hole that normally would be filled with parental love.

As I think of what a stolen childhood is, my first thoughts go to children in impoverished areas. Their lives are plagued by not enough of life's necessities, perhaps not even enough to sustain life itself. Their childhoods are spent working to get food, or clean water, or shelter, or to survive without them. When I think of a stolen childhood in these terms, I had more than enough.

But...

Years ago when I was moving into my first house, I spent a day papering the kitchen cupboards with a good friend and my mother. Having company wasn't my idea, but that's the way it turned out. It also turned out that my good friend, M, didn't know that my mother was going to be there. M's mother had died two years earlier. Later, M she told me she was uncomfortable with my mother being there. It reminded her that she didn't have a mother anymore.

M's perspective surprised me. M had been very close to her mother. There was obviously a very special bond there. M might not physically have a mother any longer, but she carried her mother's love in her heart. I physically still had a mother, but love was a missing element of the relationship. To me, there was precious little value in having a mother. M had had a Mom; I had a biological parent. I'd gladly trade the latter for the former.

Well-worn as it is: "it is better to have loved and lost, than to never have loved at all" rings so true here.

OK, so what?

For human beings, life's necessities are more than simply the food, water and shelter that animals require. Humans need love. One morning at a Mothers of Preschoolers (MOPS) meeting one of the discussion questions was: Did your parents give you unconditional love? Everyone, except me, answered in the affirmative. The follow-up question assumed unconditional love as a given.

In fact, I'm not sure there is such a thing as conditional love, but that's another entry.

Approval was the substitute for love in my FOO. Approval was doled out, sometimes lavishly, when I (meaning my behaviour) was good and removed when I was bad. I was perceived in terms of my behaviour. My childhood was spent working to gain my parents' love, to be "good enough", to give my parents enough of what they demanded. My childhood was spent trying to fill a bottomless pit.

No wonder when I see children, I feel sad for them. Maybe childhood doesn't have to be such a hard thing.

The Other Parent

I think that narcissism is something The Other Parent "catches" if they stay in a close relationship with the narcissist. Narcissism can be seductive, after all, especially in regards to children. If they're not people, well then, it makes caring for them a lot less demanding, and potentially uncomfortable compromises easier.

I watched my mother grow more and more self-absorbed as time went by. It's certainly possible that her adoption of the narcissistic traits was an unconscious one, done in self-defense. Since she was only an object to her mate, self-care could drive her inward, and away from the child. Of course, narcissists are also good at pitting one family member against another. It was certainly true in our family.

While I do feel empathy for my Other Parent, I can't help escape the fact that she was an adult and I, a child. I had no way of defending or protecting myself from the influences of my n father. As much as she might plead her own helplessness, she did have options. There were a lot of cultural and familial taboos with divorce. Economically it wouldn't have been easy, either. Even a difficult option is an option.

Yet, all this empathy is tempered any time I ask about something that seemed odd, or was definitely wrong. I meet a wall of defensiveness and anger. There can be nothing wrong, the standard response goes, I don't know just how good I had it. Attempts at dialogue are futile.

Every time I contemplate my Other Parent, I keep coming back to the same thing: how could she not see something was wrong? Or maybe the question is more correctly asked: did she really think what was wrong was insignificant? The wall of defensiveness would seem to argue against that.

I want to see my Other Parent as an innocent bystander. I want to see her as another victim. No matter how I try, my Other Parent invariably looks more like an accomplice.

The Perfect Family

I was raised to believe we had The Perfect Family. My parents were proud to think of themselves as ahead of their time. Smaller foreign car, only one child, both parents employed full-time, latch-key kid -- all these were unusual things in the 1970's. Oh, and the parents didn't let the needs of their child get in the way of what they wanted. I was quite adept at spending hours sitting in a pub/bar or a fine restaurant, reading, whilst my parents enjoyed their grown-up pleasures.

From the outside, We Looked Great. Whether people saw us only occasionally or all the time, the image we portrayed was that of an ideal family. All the world's a stage, eh? It was for us. It's a common thing in families with n parents, but I'm still amazed just how our phony façade fooled so many people. We deserve Lifetime Achievement Oscars!

Sometimes I wonder, though. A few people dared to fly under the radar after getting a glimpse at reality. I can't help but be thankful to the school teacher neighbor who learned that I hadn't been scheduled in AP classes and took it upon himself to get my class schedule changed. It was wonderful to be reminded that someone did see me. What was it that allowed some people to see beyond the façade?

Yet even today, nearly six years after my father died, I hear stories of our Perfect Family. Some legends just never die.

Narcissist at the Movies

My kids and I watched Fiddler on the Roof yesterday. It's one of my favourites. I'll be humming and singing selections from it for days.

I don't remember when I first watched Fiddler on the Roof, but I do remember the first time I watched other movies. Like my first James Bond flick in a theatre. I was 7. Much of it frightened me. It wasn't until later Bond movies that other parts made me intensely uncomfortable.

It shouldn't be surprising that my n father would have no idea that it was inappropriate. Just like he had no idea that it was inappropriate to pose his then 5 year-old daughter nude with a Playboy magazine.

What about The Other Parent?

I'm not trying to rake anyone over coals, but how does the other parent stand by and put up with this sort of stuff? I know just how nasty the narcissist is, and just how extreme their rage and manipulation can be, but.....isn't there a line somewhere? Or is the ability of the narcissist to pour on the charm, or skillfully apply the invalidation just too much? Interacting with a narcissist can definitely be crazy-making.

What is it that allows the narcissist to get away with it?