Mom's Surprise Visit

I suppose it wasn't as bad as its potential.

She called from a nearby truck stop and asked for directions. My dear spouse, not knowing what else to do, gave her the directions.

In retrospect, the visit was simply to show off her new toy. This time a new vehicle. She wanted attention and affirmation. It's a long-standing pattern I've fathomed just now. It's a pervasive theme, in fact; I'm dumbstruck it's taken me this long to see what was in front of me all along.

In a perverse way, it's soothing to know that because I, as a person, don't exist to her she'll not likely be back until the next time she has some special toy. While it is possible that she'll seek attention for other things, I've learned how not to give encouraging attention.

She's found another dear, sweet family member on whom to attach herself. This lovely lady has physical and emotional abuse in her background, and I worry about her. She's a grown woman, though, and has a husband I highly respect, so hopefully she'll be able to navigate her way through.

I fear a family funeral is in the near future. Several family members aren't doing well. I've not done a lot of thinking about how I'll handle these sad events. I very much want to show appropriate respect and love for my loved ones who die. There is, of course, the great potential that she won't bother to tell me until well the event. If this happens, I'll deal with it as best I can.

The Day With No Name

In Louisiana, a woman lies buried beneath a grove of 150-year-old oak trees in the cemetery of an Episcopal church. Only one word is carved on her tombstone: “Waiting.”

Short and sweet. Oh, so sweet.

Clearing Out The Clutter

Paul pointedly asked, “Do you not know that your body is the temple of the Holy Spirit?” (1 Cor. 6:19)—which makes me wonder if God often feels like He is living in our messy garage.

Some years ago, a charity touched my heart and I felt led to donate to it. The problem was, there was no extra money in the budget. Inspired by the homeless people I'd seen scouring the trash cans for pop bottles to return for the ten cent deposit, I decided to scour our garage.

I found a goodly amount in the recycle can, but I knew there had to be more. Indeed there were. I searched every inch of the garage, crawling into icky spider-web ridden corners, moved snow blowers, stretched my arms to their limits behind boxes of assorted junk and generally worked hard to retrieve every can I could find. The result wasn't some huge sum of money. It did, though, give me an appreciation of the people who struggle to live on the money they can find in trash cans.

Lately, I have this feeling that I need to do this same sort of scouring, with respect to my life, when it comes to the negative effects of the past. I need to find those things that are holding me back and do battle with them. I have no illusions that this will be an immediate or short-lived thing, but I'm tired of letting it hold me back.

It's funny, just six months ago, the idea of "getting better" was a scary thought. Now the idea of not being "sick" isn't nearly as scary. I certainly retains some of its scariness, but it's also exciting.

"And Every Virtue We Possess"

Once God has begun the process of sanctification in your life, watch and see how God causes your confidence in your own natural virtues and power to wither away.

I've never heard anyone put this process so very well. Wither away they did and in an awfully painful way. My pride held on much too long, but God was faithful to rid me of what was holding me back even when it meant having to face a harsh reality.

It's taken a long time for me to appreciate the growth that took place those long years ago. The result is wonderful, though I couldn't begin to see even a glimpse of wonder while I was going through it.

Forgiveness Without Repentance?

This is likely a repeat for me, but often I need a reminder. Like many Christians, I've heard countless messages about forgiveness. Some pastors contend that forgiveness is as much for us as it is for the one who wronged us. We feel better if we forgive regardless of what the other person does, and it allows us to go on with our life. Others say that because God forgives us, we must forgive others irrespective of whether the other person is sorry. It took years for me to find a reputable organization that shared my view:

Unconditional forgiveness is canceling a debt to all those who intentionally offend us, whether or not they own up to what they have done. Offering forgiveness without repentance, however, does not follow the biblical model of forgiveness (Luke 17:3,4).

I yelled aloud when I first read this. Someone else *does* get it. God forgives us when we repent -- why would he set an example and then expect us to do something entirely different? The logical answer is (and, for all Christianity's detractors, I contend Christianity is ultimately logical), He doesn't. In the same way God doesn't willy-nilly forgive us our sins, we're not expected to do the same for those who wrong us.

I find this particularly important when considering narcissists. Because a narcissist is never truly sorry they wronged someone, only sorry they were caught, forgiveness doesn't enter the picture. This is why, too, forgiveness *is* conditional on repentance. Repentance doesn't simply mean one verbalizes (or writes) an apology, it means the person agrees that the action was wrong with no qualifications or excuses, decides to rectify whatever they can, and then doesn't do it again.

Once I received a letter from a narcissist that said, roughly, "I've forgiven you for what you've done. Let's see if you can do the same." Beyond the fact that I have no idea what I did, and therefore can't repent of it, the other person doesn't doesn't offer an apology, and in fact, uses the issue of forgiveness to manipulate. When I think I've been too hard on this person, I go back and reread this letter. The letter, a representative example of communications with this person, helps me remember.

Forgiveness is a good thing. Without it, life would be a pointless exercise in physics, chemistry and biology. Forgiveness is also a valuable thing, much too valuable to be thrown around as a freebie. My forgiveness cost Jesus his life. His sacrifice on my behalf should serve as a reminder of just how precious forgiveness is.

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.