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.

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.

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

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.

What's the Difference?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Person 101

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

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

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

Do I Know You?

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

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

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

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

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