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.

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.

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.

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.

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 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?

Real Parenting

The LORD God made garments of skin for Adam and his wife and clothed them.

Genesis 3:21

It's one of my favourite verses. Even leaving aside the deep theological issues, this is a picture of real parenting at work. Adam and his wife blew it. Big time. (And, just in case you think I'm casting stones, I have no doubt that in the same situation I would have done no better.) They deserved the severest of consequences. Yet God, a loving God, clothed his children even as he sent then from the garden. By all rights, God could have taken an attitude of "you made your bed, now lie in it", but He didn't. God provided for His people.

With amazement I watch as God provides for His people still today. As I strive to learn and heal from the bumps and bruises of life, God brings exactly what I need into my life. It's comforting to receive some real parenting.

I still don't understand the whole principle of Mother's Day. But as I contemplate the goodness of God and the loving kindless He's shown me, maybe I can get closer to understaning the celebration of a real parent.