Emotional Cliff

       Control. When someone grows up without any control over their circumstances and those circumstances are chaotic, I wonder if they end up needing more control over things than normal?
  For ever I needed control. I remember when God opened my eyes to the fact I have none...not really. I can only control me...the way I act and react, how I treat others, my behavior etc.
Emotion is the first thing, especially for women that gets out of control. It is so easy to just give in and sometimes that is healthy and good, sometimes it is a willful self indulgence. There are times it is wrong, you know...pitching a fit, rage, snobbery and unforgiving.
There are times it is normal.
 I have always been under control, (ok play along with me) except for rage, for years that one had me, growing up with my circumstances bred rage. I stayed away from sadness and pity as much as I could because it was a manipulation of my mother to be a victim of everything- and I did not want to be a victim, so I was angry and IN CONTROL through that anger.
 God left me with many thorns but that hateful anger is something he wiped away. Not that I don't get angry...but that need for power through anger he took, he knew I couldn't rid myself of it.

However....I feel as though I am standing on an a new emotional cliff.  I want to say before you go further I want this post to be about us, not so much me. I know we all have stuff, hurts and disappointments, sometimes deep ones. This is for us, a baring of a soul and a glimpse of within.

  I cry....almost every day. I cry easily and I never used to. Am I depressed? I don't think so but I am deeply sad. September 14, 2015, a year and a half ago we lost our grandson. I had no idea how hard that would be. He was full term and died of a rare disease, I don't dwell on it....but it is there in every breath I take. I hurt deeply and I miss him and what could have or should have been.
 I hurt for my daughter and son in law, how awful it is to go home to an empty home without your baby.  I met a girl via Instagram that just lost her baby 6 weeks ago, when I saw her post I didn't just cry my normal tears but deep heaving hurt overcame me. I was transported back to those horrible days when my daughter got out of the hospital, so thick with sadness, so lost.

 I have some close to me that don't take up the slack or stand in the gap, in fact they exasperate things and make life harder than it needs to be. Sometimes the ones you need to lean on the most, have their own crap in the way and they just are not there and fall short or they may even make life difficult.

I miss my son, he is right here...in this town but his heart is so distant and it hurts. It just hurts.
My father is sick....and his time is limited on this earth, and I am not ready for that.
My dog isn't healthy and she has accidents on the floor which has become a source of stress in our life, not so much for me but.....

so I cry. Every day I cry, sometimes a few tears and other days my face is soaked and my nose is stuffed.

Why do I cry so easily? Why are emotions so close to the surface? Why does life hurt so
 sometimes without any promise to get better?
 How do I tell the girl on Instagram in a year and a half your heart will still hurt so deeply? How do you help your child? How do you talk to someone without ears? How do you make someone's heart soft? How do you make someone care? How do you.......
How do you????
How.
How do you get through hard times, times that seem without end?

 You just breath, you cry if you need to, talk to who will listen. Luckily I have some great friends that will listen.
Do you listen? That is something I struggle with. Listening often means you don't get to talk, or you talk much less than you like. I would like to be a better listener.


God will always listen and we know he is a good listener because we usually struggle to hear him talk.
So back to how... how do you......
 YOU don't. God does.
God heals, he softens hearts, he gives ears to hear. He gets you through although it may be long and hard. So hard.
Pray and trust and wait. He is in control.
I trust God, and he promised me he would hold me, and my daughter and little Caleb, my son in law, my husband, my son, my dad and .....my dog. He holds my life and I can rest in that and I can cry. I can cry deeply and I can hurt deeply and I can still be ok.
I can stand on an emotional cliff and not fall off.
So can you. If your life is a mess, if it is less than you hoped, if you hurt or are angry and your cliff is before you, fall back, not off. Let God catch you, he's there.

My daughter with Caleb from Molly Bears

Sixteen Years Later Part 2 The Visit

Part one HERE

  After a deep cry in the car and catching my breathe I tossed around going to see the woman in the photo. The woman I didn't know, that didn't know me, the woman that has not been a part of my life for sixteen years, the woman who is my mother.
 On the morning my husband and I were to drive there,  I had much reservation, I had fear and I was very uncomfortable. I almost changed my mind. One hundred miles usually takes a while, but on that day it went far too quickly, too soon we were there. I was going to see her and I didn't know what to expect.  During the move from her home to my aunt and uncles home town (also my childhood home) my mother "lost it" she became unruly and they needed help to get her under control resulting her being hospitalized, restrained and eventually moved to the state psychiatric hospital. As of this time I do not know what drugs she was put on but obviously she is on what ever was needed to keep her calm and under control.
  We drove to the old brick buildings high on the hill in a small town we have driven by for years. We passed the building surrounded by high fence and razor wire and ended up in a place that felt more like a nursing home, although not everyone was old. We signed in, we passed two locked doors and the nurse said, "we got her out of the recliner, she was pretty sleepy", she then said the woman in the chair, "your daughter is here to see you."
 Nothing
The nurse looked at me and I said, "it has been over 15 years", she moved us to a private room and said, "she will wake up just give her some snuggles."
  Do you have any idea how bizarre that was? Snuggle the woman who never snuggled me? Snuggle the woman who did nothing but lie, exaggerate, cause trouble, and demand you bow to her every thought and complaint? Snuggle? Did you not hear me lady? Sixteen years......
 It wasn't hers to figure out, she is there to take care of the woman in the chair, not me.

   There she was, right there, with my grandma's hair. "Hi, how are you feeling? Are you sleepy? Do you know who I am? It is me, Shannon."

Nothing.
" mom, it is me, Shannon, we came to see you. Do you know who I am?"
Imagine if you had a terrible headache and you grimaced and placed your hand over your forehead and eye, imagine if you felt shame and tried to hide, imagine if you wanted to avoid something and wanted to get the hell out of there but your body and the drugs you are on physically prevent that so you place your hand over your head and twist away and grunt out NO!

My husband tries, "Jeannie, we came a long way to see you. Do you want to see photos of the kids? "
 Me- " Mom, it is Shannon, do you know who I am?"
 Switch gears....
" How are you?  It is almost lunch time. Are you hungry? Have you seen Aunt and Uncle? They were just here, Have you seen Shannon?"
 Grimace, twist, hide.
She still has refused to even open her eyes.
Now...you may want to say, she was really drugged, she wasn't awake. She was confused.
But.....
Those grunts became coherent, the hand over the eyes became plugging her ears and she physically moved her body as far away as she could.
"Jeannie do you know who I am? I am Shannon, we came a long way, are you going to talk?"
 "I don't care" plugs ears
" We haven't seen each other in sixteen years."
" I don't give a ......"
" Well, we can leave then"
 "Are you leaving?" said clearly, forcefully and with agitation
"If you aren't going to talk, then yes, are you going to talk?"
plugs ears- she still will not even open her eyes

So I stood up, and said
" There you are, you are in there, you have spent your life bitter and angry" she is getting agitated, twisting to trying and get away, she plugs her ears again, " I don't care" and mumbles more I cannot understand.
"What?, I didn't understand. Are you even going to look at me? You have been angry your whole life, where did it get you? I want you to know I am not angry, I am not bitter."
She lets out a groan of disgust.
So 20 minutes later, Sixteen years later, I left.
She refused to open her eyes,
 she did everything her body would let her to get away,
she didn't give a f*&k and she did her best to let me know it.
Now I understand that she is weak, physically, mentally, and she is spiritually void, I know she is drugged and even diagnosed with psychosis and Alzheimer, but my thoughts are this-
 the doctors do not know her history, her behaviors, her patterns and she has never been to a psychiatrist to compare past mental issues. She is forgetful but she has been playing that card for over a decade, she is the boy who cried wolf and she wore out the ability for those she has been around to believe her or to trust anything.
She is an example of how seeking attention for the negative feeds the negative.

That  pretending to be sick, inventing heart attacks, and illnesses will make you sick.

Anger and bitterness will carve deep lines in your face and soul,
plugging your ears only dulls the sounds of life passing you by.

If you refuse to open your eyes, the truth is still there, right in front of you.

I do not know the woman in the chair, yet I know her all too well.

Sixteen Years Later Pt 1

   In 2000 my grandmother turned 80.
  Our family gathered, we traveled 400 miles to see her and my mom was there along with her husband. I don't remember if she lived there or back in Wyoming at that time. I remember the photos of everyone around grandma, she wore a red sweater, she had lovely white hair and she smiled. That makes me laugh because grandma didn't have a natural smile for photos, a stiff, teeth bearing almost painful grimace. We would all laugh at it because she had a natural lovely smile, but, when the camera came out....it disappeared.
  My aunt orchestrated the in-law and outlaw photo sessions poking fun of those married in, as she was. It made no matter, my aunts and uncles through marriage our as much our blood as anyone could ever be. I really don't remember a lot about the visit other than it was a nice time and it was the last time I saw my mother.
  No. She is still alive.
As a mother of two the thought of not seeing my child for sixteen years...sixteen! I would be heartbroken, deeply heartbroken.  As a grandma to an angel baby I would give anything that my daughter never would have had to go through that heartache, that I also could have never felt that deep piercing pain. I would move hell and high water to see my child, to hug them, to tell them I loved them. I would slay any dragon for my son and my daughter.
  But that is not so for my mother. She was content to not see me, and so I became safe in not seeing her. We talked from time to time, less frequently as the years faded away. Phone calls were stressful. When you speak with a narcissist, you walk a fine line, you must not offend which means you cannot disagree- with anything. You must praise, repeatedly, every thought they have, you must compliment every act they have achieved and you must NOT expect any accolades for yourself. In fact, when talking to a narcissist you need to just leave yourself behind.  Our calls were nothing more than her complaining about who did what to her, how awful so and so was and a myriad of hypochondriac complaints.
 Endless complaints.
Exhausting complaints.
  How can you not see your child or how can you not see your parent for sixteen years when you live a few states away? That alone seems surreal.
  I remember her taller than me by two inches,  with over processed, curly, usually brown hair. She had more hair colors, styles and home perms than any head of hair should ever go through.  She wasn't big but she wasn't small, if that makes sense. She had a large smile and it showed her teeth and gums, that is what my memory stored and my photos show.
   As time slipped, so did she. Imagine my surprise when a photo of an old white haired frail woman came to my phone.
My uncle intended to move her to his home town, about half way between her and I. The move did not go well and resulted in her now being 100 miles away from me,
in the state psychiatric hospital.
 Saturday my husband and I went to an estate sale in a small town, as I walked out of the cafe my phone received a text. My aunt sent a photo.....
 it was a woman with my grandma's white hair, deep wrinkles and she was small, very small.
   I stopped on the sidewalk, the comment said, "she is having a good day today"
 Had I not known who sent that photo, had I sat next to that woman in the cafe, had I walked by her on the street, I would not have known her. I would not have known my own mother.

 I do not know my own mother, and my mother does not know me.

My breath was gone, my words were stuck and my eyes were full of tears.
  A deep bizarre moment happened, a bewildering acknowledgement of just that.....I do not know that woman in the photo.
Sixteen years and one hundred miles later-
 I went to see her.

 part two http://shannonspigtales.blogspot.com/2016/11/sixteen-years-later-part-2-visit.htmlHERE

A Fist Full Of Pills

Pitch black, stars shining bright, it was well after midnight. A beautiful summer night with the faint sound of sirens.
   I suppose he came home after the bars closed, maybe after they threw him out. He had been suffering all week from a healthy dose of pity served in a bowl of heaping blame. Mom had cut off his finger, and of course, he was still mad.

  Back in the 70's the exercise fad was a rope device that hooked onto a door knob. You would lay on the ground, head up to the door and place your hands and feet in the stirrups, the right arm and left leg would go up, then the other side, scissoring back and forth. She was getting ready to work out and they were once again arguing, she slammed the door and his finger just happened to be right there. He screamed something awful! Holding and shaking his hand, blood cast from floor to ceiling.
The tip was gone, it could not be reattached. He was sent home with meds and new ammunition.
 If you hit someone it must be their fault.......
    especially if they cut your finger off.
On that starry night less than a week later, they were at it again. I had awoke to screams of "Bob, what did you do?"
It wasn't unusual to see him stumbling drunk, but I knew something was different. He could barely stand, he fell down the stairs, he fell off the stoop, he fell to the ground and he laid there. A fist full of pills and a bottle of whiskey had done him in.
I stood outside watching, I could hear the sirens getting louder and I asked God if he would keep them from getting there on time.
I had become a calloused, fed up, skeptical 10 year old, who knew every bar phone number in town. I knew how to roll a drunk for rent money, I knew how to calm his storm by talking him down, I knew more than I needed to.
I was sick of it. Only 1 year into their marriage.....and I was praying for him to die.
 Violence changes a person, even if it is not directly perpetrated upon you.

4th grade-
 Our grading system in school was not A's and B's but U's, M's and L's. Upper, Middle, Lower- in regards to the rest of the class.
 I had been straight U's
I was now straight L's.
I don't know who noticed, if anyone did.

5th grade-
It was a beautiful day, fall I think. The sun was shining in the screen door, I sat in the cascading light, warm, with my back to the door. I was looking at the rectangle of light before me when a shadow moved in front of it. I turned to look.....that day I learned,
when you check yourself in to treatment voluntarily you can check yourself out whenever you like.
 My stomach sank, he walked in. I don't remember the rest of that day. He came home with more pills. Pills that supposedly made it hard to drink alcohol, he took them and he drank and he was very sick, and of course....very angry.

7th grade-
he had gone on many black out drunks that lasted from 3 days to a week or so, this time he never returned. We knew he was alive because he had called my grandma, whining and crying about life to her. For years I feared that shadow would once again appear in the doorway. That shadow only lived on in my dreams

8th grade-
by this time I was well on my way to being a rebellious teen. No excuses, I knew every time I did something wrong...it was wrong, I just really didn't care. I was willing to test all boundaries, a year from promiscuity, I stood on my own cliff of blame. I really hated him, but I also blamed her for her decisions to even bring him, let alone keep him around so long. He was one of many, he just stayed 4 years too long.
A friend and I decided to skip school, 13 yr olds willing to spend the day with high school boys, drinking and driving around. I guess we naively thought that if we went through our mom's medicine cabinets and did a little mixing we could somehow "enhance" the day. We took two of each, the number 16 sticks in my head, I do not remember if that was the total split or the total taken.
White
Pink
Red
Blue
My own fist full of pills, chased with liquor.
I remember a few things about that day-
a very near miss, had not others walked in my virginity would have ended unwillingly at 13 rather than willingly at 14.
I remember hanging my head out the car window with dry heaves on Main Street.
I remember fighting to stay awake.
I was sick for days.
No one found out or figured it out. I was in my 20's when it really hit me how lucky I was to have survived that day.

By the grace of God I never became addicted to drugs or booze, anger was my vice.
A false power
A false strength
yet, it made me feel in control to be angry.
Anger like pills will poison you.
It does not lead to control, but discontent.
The bottom of a bottle will not soothe, only numb and when it wears off all feelings return and the cycle must be repeated.
The arms of a stranger will not make you feel loved, you will hate yourself in the morning.

We search for answers. We search for reasons. We look to blame, it is our nature.
Things happen
to me
to you.
Don't blame, it won't change things.
Heal.
You may never understand why but you must move on. If you poison yourself- stop.
Stop

Matthew 11:28-30
Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.” - Jesus


To God be the glory, in all things. We do not have to understand it all, but we can trust he is loving, trustworthy and the only way for us to heal.

Mirror Mirror

As the queen stands before her mirror, she waits for the right answer.
"mirror, mirror on the wall, who is the fairest of them all?"
As long as the mirror gave her the answer she was looking for, all was well; but as soon as Snow White became the fairest in the land, the queen was enraged.
Determined to once again capture the mirrors favor she was willing to do anything, and anyone in her way was expendable.
I first saw the concept of associating the world as a mirror when researching Narcissism. It sums it up pretty well. You, in a narcissists life are merely a mirror.
It would seem a cold statement to say you have no value to them, but it would be a true statement.
As in Greek mythology Narcissus fell in love with his own reflection, so it is today with the modern narcissist. Only seeing themselves, unable to love another, the narcissist wastes his or her life admiring themselves and ignoring all others.
If you have one in your life you may wonder what I mean by ignoring, for it seems as though they are the proverbial thorn in your side. Always there, always taking, lying, manipulating, but what they are doing is ignoring you. Ignoring the needs or feelings of others is the only way to survive when you are narcissistic, the world simply gets in your way.
Enter the mirror.
You are a mirror for a narcissist. You must reflect a beautiful image. If you do not, there will be hell to pay.
Should the narcissist gaze upon you, and you in return smile, nod and follow along, you are showing a positive reflection.
Should you frown, disagree or challenge in any way, you have now smudged or cracked the mirror and tainted the reflection.
At any cost the narcissist will not take the blame, you will now be ridiculed, isolated and punished until you once again cast a perfect reflection.
Unable to see both good and bad in a person or situation, they will place you on a list. My mother's categories were 1- They are really shitty to me or 2- they have really changed.
List one was for those who smudged her reflection and list two was for the ones who didn't question her or call her on her lies. You could only be on one list. I often held the number one position on list number one.

Sometimes now as I look back I think it wasn't that bad. All in all, it probably wasn't, but then I read about narcissism, and the pit of my stomach hurts. I quickly get overwhelmed and can read very little, the words cut like knives.
Liar
 Manipulator
 Selfish
Defensive
  Criticize
Jealousy

The most profound and sobering comment I ever read was written by Sam Vaknin in Malicious Self Love.( I have written of this in another post as well.)
I am paraphrasing from memory,
 having a narcissist for a mother is like having a 6 year old for a parent. The child has a doll that it plays with, when the child is finished with the doll or has no use for it, they simply throw it on the ground and move on.

a worthless doll
move on to something better


It was the first time I had seen something that validated how I felt. Something that said, it was real. You're not crazy. You didn't imagine it.


It seems a vague memory, all the hurt. Being tossed aside for something better or being displayed when needed seems so long ago, healing is a wonderful thing. Healing allows you to move on and set boundaries,  it keeps you from being tossed aside and ignored.
 Healing is also ongoing, if you have a narcissist in your life, they will reoffend. They will return to your mirror and check their reflection, some days it will go well, others will not. And there will always be hell to pay, you must as the child, spouse, parent or friend of a narcissist- refuse to pay it.

I have also heard it said it is not enough that the narcissist be the center of their universe, but they must also be the center of your universe.
Wicked really.


Further reading on Narcissism
Characteristics of Narcissistic Mothers
Narcissistic Personality Disorder NPD
NPD Quiz

Little Blue Bike

In an alley where rain trickled down the center drain, I often found myself walking, kicking at the puddles ahead of me. I would soon end up at the end of the road, only to turn and do it again. Our street curved around 2 city blocks, government housing on both sides, mostly single mothers and  a few families.
  All the kids seemed to get along- for the most part, it was our "hood", the projects of small town white America.  We had our drunks, our abusers, knife fights, brawls and secrets.
  Lots of secrets.
We also had neighbors and friends, close friends who would sit on the stoop together for morning coffee or dressed in pajamas after dark.
A family we were especially close to, had mostly sons, I grew up with them. We played kick ball, chase and even went dumpster diving together. One of the boys had a little blue bike. I was around 7or 8 at the time, before the divorce of my parents, I had a bike with training wheels,  I guess it got left behind because I found myself older than most and unable to ride a two wheeler
 That bike was just the right height to sit on and have both my feet firmly planted on the ground. I felt a sense of control on it, so I asked if I could borrow it.
Up and down that alley I went, trying to gain my balance.
All alone, yet determined.
At every fearful moment I dropped my feet to the ground and found myself steady once again.. I don't know how long it took but I finally made a trip down that drain to the other end.
  Gray skies and brick building surrounded me, the water was kicking up behind me now....
A smile on the face of a little blonde girl on a little boy's blue bike.
   Riding on her own.
I did a lot on my own.

When I taught my children to ride, the first thing I showed them was how to "catch" themselves. When fear hit, plant those feet on the ground.
I had them sit with feet upon the peddles and I would wiggle and shake the bike, then say "letting go", they would quickly stomp their feet down and smile at having caught themselves.
A defense against fear.
This gave them confidence and we soon set off down the block, with me pushing behind.  I let go and they went on.
When they came to the end of the sidewalk, the feet went down and they turned to tell me, only to see they had left me behind and had ridden by themselves. They had done it and the look on their face proved it, the same look I imaginge I had ....if only  someone had been there to see it.

That is what mom's and dad's do, they teach and equip, they stand by and if things get rough they are right behind,
watching and caring, at least that is where they should be.
I will never forget teaching my kids to ride bike.
 I will never forget the little blue bike.
I will never forget when I thought I was all alone, I really wasn't.
I may have had to learn on my own but God had my feet firmly planted on a rock that can't be moved and he had his hand on my back, in case I fell.
I feel as though I should kick a puddle to celebrate.



Photo Credit:juan23for

Honor Your Father and Mother

  Commandment
Honor your father and mother, before I became a Christian honoring my mother wasn't a concern or a thought or  a struggle.

I was always either sad or angry with her.
She would  say something unkind at times but usually she wouldn't say anything at all. Nothing really in regards to what I had done, or something I told her about me, it seemed unless it related to her it just didn't matter. That makes you sad, it taps into your, You are not good enough place.
Yeah, it just didn't matter what I did or thought, who I knew or what my day was like, or how I felt; it's not that she didn't know those things or ask, it is more like if she asked, she was expected to ask but unless somehow it was "needed" information, it would then be crumpled  and thrown on the floor like a useless scrap of paper.
I remember being very sick and in the hospital around the age of 5, the halls were long and dark and I was afraid. Perhaps they didn't let her stay there at night? Perhaps visiting hours were limited then.... I really don't remember her being there much at all I just remember long dark hallway.

When I was in grade school the Harlem Globetrotters came to town, we had tickets and I was ecstatic, days before I slipped on the ice and really hurt my tailbone. I told her but I don't know for sure what she said, what I do know is I sat on hard wood bleachers getting more and more uncomfortable as the night went on. I began to cry, I was miserable, and I was told to deal with it. We did not leave early and I did not mention it again although it hurt badly for weeks.

As a teen, mom and I moved in with her boyfriend, her now husband. We changed states, I changed schools and life as I knew it was left behind, I now lived with one emotionally diseased and one emotionally dead person.
H (that will be his name) was rude, catty and arrogant, he would pick fights with me for no reason. Depending on her mood she would either take my side or take his, usually his and if I spoke up in resistance she would slam her bedroom door and not speak to me for days. Days
At 16 no one believes you when you tell them you are the only adult in the house.
At 16 you are not an adult.
At 16 you are left with sadness and anger.
At 16 I was diagnosed with migraines, I was prescribed a couple different meds until one worked, and at 16 I slept every chance I got. I slept deeply.

No one asked how I was doing, eventually the headaches went away, at least the physical ones.
When I moved out....I was told to go....two days after graduating high school.
When I said I was getting married they came for the "party" but not for me.
When we announced our first child was on the way, mom said, "well if that is what you want." and H gave us a thirty minute lecture on how if he had to do it all again he would never have children.
     (H has three children, I only ever met one, she was an emotional wreck to say the very least)
I have been cursed for my weight, my marriage and my religion, by my mother.
Sadness turns to anger and anger becomes bitterness with time.
Walls go up  and defenses are launched toward anyone who dare attempt to enter.
That is who I became, anger in a human shell. I could smile at you and be as pleasant as a Spring day but if you crossed me I could verbally tear you to shreds. I had my moments in which I verbally tore into her.
Not honoring.
Just surviving.

As God began to heal me, his commandment to honor her both annoyed me and haunted me.
I did not nor do I now worry about H, he is really no part of my life, but because on occasion I speak with my mother I  had to find a way to understand what it was God wanted from me.
I spoke with pastors and pastors wives, I cried, I pouted and I argued with God.
Then one pastor summed it up...."how do you honor someone who is not honorable?"

I cannot answer this question for you, it is between you and God, but I can tell you what it looks like for me.

Boundaries- I must set and keep healthy boundaries, minimal contact is best for us. I have not seen her in over ten years and we speak between one and four times a year. If she is not hurtful, does not tear down others or spread lies, we will talk for a while, but if she begins to do any of those things I warn her once, if she persists I end the phone call.

I do not hate her.

I relinquish all expectations of her.

I no longer give her the power to make me sad, or happy.

If I get angry, I process it and hand it over to God.

I have empathy for her.

This is how I honor her.
I had issues on starting this blog....it could be perceived as being non honoring, I went ahead with it for these reasons.
I am not blaming my mother, I am writing about her disease and how it effected me. She has Narcissistic Personality Disorder, it controls her and it defines her. It does not excuse her.
God is honored in his healing work in me, and I trust him in his sovereign design to place me in her life as her child.
Others will be and have been already touched by reading these posts, some have not yet been healed and some are going through the process.  It is my hope to strengthen you and lead you to the only answer which is Christ.

Another Dutiful Call

  What not to expect when you call a narcissist.
Don't expect that they will be glad to hear from you, even if it has been nearly a year since you last spoke.
Don't expect they will ask you how you are or if they should, that they would genuinely care.
Don't expect just because they have only two grandchildren that they would be interested that one is getting married.
Don't expect them to be well or happy or sane.

Not all phone calls to someone with Narcissistic Personality Disorder are like this. It is just so for me, my narcissist isn't exactly text book. She doesn't fool others well. Narcissists are usually smart, clever even, but a healthy dose of hypochondria and a heavy inclination toward lying easily and quickly give my narcissist away. She fools no one, perplexes many, but fools no one.
Still it was Christmas and I felt I should call, not being able to bring myself to it on the actual holiday, I mustered the will the day after. The deep pit of my stomach lead the way and it takes but a moment to wish I hadn't called.
Sometimes hope sneaks in and you think it may be a good day, maybe a civil day- not today.
If you only call once or twice a year it is easier to stay with the pleasantries, the weather, the dog, just chit chat.
Just have no expectations......at least high ones.
I gave up those years ago, I even gave up hope. I set boundaries to keep the damage to a minimum, the damage a phone call could do to me. Hatred and anger cannot be allowed to spew freely. 
Still somehow, silly me, I thought a recently received Christmas letter written from her only child as a new empty nester  and the engagement announcement of her only granddaughter MIGHT spark a question or two.
No
Just health issues...hers, real or imagined
complaints....hers
talks of committing her husband

It is ok, I once again was reminded to lay down expectations from those who cannot fulfill them, to mourn for those who cannot or will not see any blessing or good in their life, and to chalk it up as another dutiful phone call.
We had a merry Christmas as a family.
  My husband and I now have the house to ourselves...a soon to be new son in law, new worries over the choices our children make and will make....life changes everyday, and it is not done yet.
I choose to look at blessings and I wish my mother could see them, even one.
I choose to live life and to love it, sometimes I guess I need a phone call to remember that.

A Prisoner of Fear and What if

From the age of 19 until 44- yep this Spring, I didn't drive on the highway. One or two little jots from one exit to the other in town was all I could muster, Lamaze breathing came in handy there at least.
My mother never drove, we didn't own a car. Growing up in small town ND, not having a car didn't really pose a problem, we just walked anywhere we needed to go. She said she backed into a pole and never drove again, I don't think she ever had a license and her mental state kept her from getting one.

When I finally got my license at 18, I set to driving.  Not a careless driver but a complacent one perhaps, definitely naive,  I had an accident that first year. Mom and Harvey, her husband- or so they said, not legally married but having been together 3 years by now were moving and I was in the way as usual. Harvey never liked me and the feeling was mutual, he by his own admission didn't like his own kids and if "he had to do it all over again, he wouldn't have any kids!" They would probably not have chosen him for a father either. I was not to go with in the move so the plan, unknown to me at the time was to pawn me off on a son of a co-worker. We met, went on a date and within a week I was told I had to move.
Stunned I asked him, David, what to do. He said, "you can move in with me." I don't think he was in on the plan I think he just reacted to a girl in trouble.
By the next week, all moved in I realized I was living with an alcoholic, soon after when he didn't come home one evening I walked to the end of the block where friends of his lived, seeing his car I peeked in the window. Through the blind I saw him, his buddy and buddy's wife, gathered around a glass table with a razor blade in hand cutting white lines of powder.
Stunned again. Deep in the pit of my stomach, I ached, sickened  and frightened with no where to run. We were now in Wyoming, oil transplants...I had graduated high school there but really didn't KNOW anyone, not well enough to ask for help. I knocked on the door, it took a while to answer....she smiled saying "come on in."
I think I made a bit of a scene, much to her disapproval, after all I awoke her small children, sigh, I guess that was worse than their parents doing cocaine in the living room.

Things went from bad to worse, I think we lived together maybe 5 or 6 months, I didn't even like him. I had made a couple trips to where mom now lived, about and hour away, that didn't work either.
On the ides of March I had headed back "home", he had asked me to return, what else was there to do? On the trip I looked down in the car, not sure what I was doing, I may have glanced at my 8 week old Cocker Spaniel puppy or looked at the radio, but when I looked up I had crossed the white line into the oncoming lane. No one else was there.....but I panicked, over-correcting, I sent myself hurling into an embankment . Flipping four times and ejected out the third roll through the front windshield.
I remember placing my hand in front of my face and thinking "oh shit, I have wrecked my car!" Funny what the mind thinks at a moment like that.
I awoke to an ambulance crew and the women who witnessed the whole thing, one went for help the other stayed with me.  They asked my name....I couldn't remember, they asked the day....I was a week behind, but slowly it came back.  I  could hear whining coming from my now teepee shaped Toyota. My pup inside with a scratch on his nose, I looked to see him and saw my car a good 100 feet away, that is what saved me....I was told by the responders usually the person is killed when the car hits them or lands on them in this situation. I was thrown late in the rollover and far.

I laid in the emergency room having a cavern sized tear in my arm stitched, everything ached. Concussion, broken pelvis, glass embedded everywhere and at the time they thought a broken back.
Four days, four nights and my mother, who lived 30 minutes away came...for one ten minute visit. My boyfriend....came once for about an hour then to pick me up when I was released.
Thank God for the old woman in the bed next to me who was my advocate for pain meds, my only company, she at least cared.
When David and I got home I quickly realized he was embarrassed to be out in public with a hobbling, black and blue stitched up mess. At some time during that first week or two we had another argument, he must have been on something because I witnessed an anger I had not yet seen. He grabbed the stair railing and shook it loose from the wall, the entire thing, his face distorted and eyes enraged, I  knew I had to leave for good. By God's design my grandparents were at mom's for a visit, and I asked to go home, back to ND with them. David drove me down that road one last time, and I never drove on the highway again.
  Though my body hurt for years,  I was captive to fear much longer, what if I do it again?   I didn't even drive in town for almost 3 years.
I prayed for strength, for bravery for trust...but fear always defeated me. My poor husband has driven many 15 hour days on trip, and put up with me squirming over ice, speed, what others are doing, I am sure my blood pressure has been off the hook more times on the road than I care to know.
I was a prisoner.
Until...
This Spring, I drove 100 miles on the interstate. A quiet stretch, no snow or ice....I did it.
I had struggled as a Christian with God's sovereignty, knowing nothing would happen to me that was not in his hands and knowing good or bad...it was in his plans. I knew that yet I still chose fear. paralyzing fear.

Isaiah 61

 ¹ The Spirit of the Sovereign LORD is on me,
   because the LORD has anointed me
   to proclaim good news to the poor.
He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted,
   to proclaim freedom for the captives
   and release from darkness for the prisoners,

God set me free from that paralyzing fear,still a work in progress, you won't find me volunteering for long road trips or driving with unsafe drivers, but the beginning of freedom.
God has set me free from many things. Some things I still hold on to.
We are easily captivated, to fear, to addiction, attitude, unforgiveness.  We are captive to what others do or don't do, what they say or don't say, what we need from them and do not receive. But we can be free.
If you find yourself captive, bend your knees.
If your fearful, grab ahold of He who is solid.
If your angry, release.

Staircase

 this post is similar to a previous post called Staircase on Southern Belle





   I grew up in government housing, perhaps a small town white version of the hood. I had lots of friends there, many great memories and more than a few that aren't as good. It seemed like most of the trouble came from our house, the reality is, our troubles were were just the more visible kind. It wasn't uncommon to wake up to yelling there, sometimes it was the fighting kind like when  a young kid pulled a knife on Bob, and they danced through the yards like a poor version of West Side Story. Once we were awoke by our drunk but happy neighbor, he needed everyone to come out and see the fish he caught, we did. Mostly it was just run of the mill domestic "discussions", with an occasional sledge hammer to a truck window.

  Arranged in groups of four,  perhaps 44 total, the apartments were made of brick with small little yards,each with a clothesline. Holly hocks were everywhere, I think they were the only flowers that grew there.
Our place had three levels and the staircase between the main floor and upstairs bedrooms holds many memories for me. At the end of that staircase  was the large gold frame mirror where once a  little girl with an unwanted  pixie haircut peered in crying.
About half way down you could see into the living room and kitchen, if I sat there the wall still had me hidden from view but I could see everything going on in that  mirror, this is how I watched the troubling tv series Sybil. I wasn't allowed to watch it but something inside me really wanted to. I was hiding there in terror watching as Kunta Kinte had his foot chopped off on the series Roots, for years I couldn't sleep with my foot hanging off the edge of the bed. I spent hours there, playing, running and jumping, skipping steps making large leaps to the bottom, but a haunting memory of violence is most associated with the staircase.

      
She sat in a flannel nightgown on the kitchen chair, brown print wallpaper behind her and a small white porcelain stove to the left. He stood in front of her wearing blue jeans and a white t shirt like he always wore, he had just gotten home from the bar. His dead dark eyes squinting in anger, he was yelling, at only 5 foot 7 or 8, he was small in stature, but he was a scrapper. The little girl watched from the staircase, she saw his fist rear back, his other grabbed the flannel, the knuckles on both turning  white. The woman clasped her hands around his and pulled back, the flannel tore and she yelled, "Bob, NO!"
The little girl screamed, every bit of her body seized in fear yet....no sound came out.



To this day I don't remember the sound, I am not sure anything actually came out of my mouth. I don't remember his fist hitting her face, it probably did like so many other times, violence was normal those years, almost daily.
That incident is so vivid yet, so incomplete.

  A little girl on a staircase
with orange carpet
in a brick fourplex
with hollyhocks at the rear entrance,
across the street from a park
in a small town
in North Dakota.

Healing is a Choice

A few years ago I lead a class at our church based on the book "Healing is a Choice" by Stephen Arterburn. I opened with my testimony, what it was like growing up with a narcissistic parent and come and go alcoholics. Knowing the content could be a lot for some to handle, I expected a few to leave, and they did. I was left with a room of hurting, people. Most of them processing, a few still blaming and a couple in willful withdrawal.
On the second night of class Ms. M walked in. She was pretty with long brown hair. She seemed confident, that take charge personality.
She sat at my table and began to talk of her childhood, soon the facade of that confidence crumbled. Having missed the first night and not hearing anything I had said, my jaw dropped when she looked at me and asked,"Do you know what a narcissist is?" I said yes, and smiled, perhaps I smiled out of shock.


She had two parents that fell into that category. Two? Details escape me, but I will never forget how fractured she was- still. At around 40, an adult with children of her own,  the little girl deep within told her story through tears and shaking. She could barely breathe.

So many times I have thought because I didn't suffer physical abuse it really wasn't that bad. I still think that. I figure most of the things wrong in my life are a result of me...and no one else is to blame, yet seeing her somehow validated the hurt that was holding on to the little shaking girl inside of me.

I once heard Dr. Laura Schlessinger speaking on air to a woman, she too had a broken mommy. Dr. Laura told her she needed to mourn the loss of her mother, the mother she wished she had.
I stood in the kitchen and cried, realizing I too had to mourn the loss of my mother, the mother I wished I had, the mother that would be there when I needed her.
I guess it fractures a child when they are forced to grow up. Forced to make decisions or be the adult of the house, to need comfort and receive none. It makes one tough, it can make one bitter, it may make them a bully and it can give them the facade of confidence.
You can't hurt me, I won't allow it.

but then.....
in that moment of mourning came the beginning of healing.
She couldn't be, she was incapable of being that mother I needed.
Narcissism stands in the way of empathy, it annihilates sympathy for anyone but itself.
It moves to the front of the grade school lunch line and punches anyone who tries to get in the way.
Narcissism consumes my mother, it does not absolve her of her behavior but it does explain it.
And, it allows me to lay aside all expectations from her.
She cannot let me down if I do not look to her to lift me up.

Miss M somehow still was waiting, needing validation from her parents. They were unable to give it, she was still allowing them to let her down.
She never returned to the class........Healing is a Choice.

Pretty Girls and Pixies

Pixie- 1) short hair, close to the head, around the top of the ear to ear lobe at longest length, boyish cut
           2) small human-like tricksters that lead people astray, similar to fairies

Around the age of 6 my mother wanted me to get a pixie. I hated them and didn't want one. My hair was around shoulder length but I agreed to get it trimmed, since I had loudly protested against the pixie, I thought we were in agreement.

Some time that same year my grandmother took me to pick out a dress. It was the high end children's clothing store, the one we could never otherwise afford.
 I tried on a blue sailors dress with a crisp white collar that had blue anchors on the tips. It had a pleated skirt that fluttered and whirled when I spun.
I wanted that dress, but walked home broken hearted without it. Too short.
I cried some, whined a lot, and plotted like a pixie on how to get grandma to turn around and get it.
I must have twirled that skirt in my head a hundred times.



At our home was a staircase ,at the end of that staircase was a gold mirror and in that mirror was a sobbing girl with a pixie haircut. It seems when the beautician turned the chair around my mother whispered her plan for my hair and since she was the parent it superseded mine.
I cried for hours, I yelled, I hated it.
I was so mad, how could she do that.
It was only hair but I remember being completely exhausted from crying over it.

Years later, the gold mirror is gone but the disappointed crying little girl still peers in.
Now it is more
a bad hair day
ugly clothes that fit too tight
wrinkles
ugh
I stand there and envy girls that can wear pretty dresses and twirl in them, not dying of embarrassment if that skirt went flying up.
Those pretty girls with pretty faces, long flowing hair and lacy dresses, do they ever cry when they look in the mirror?
of course they do.

Something within women wants to be loved, accepted, valued and pretty. To be special.
A single friend of mine once said, "I  want a man that makes me feel like a girl."

I want to be a girl.
I want to be pretty.
It seems I spend so much time thinking, if I ate less.....exercised more....then I would be, duh....

but then the reality of crunching cookies and hours on the couch crash in.
Fantasy interrupted.
Kind of like when your hair is long and flowing....you chop it off, and wonder why you did it.
I know pretty is not only about the outside. Our identity is not only the way we look...I just wish the pixie inside me would stop showing up in the mirror.

A whiskey drunk

8 am,  bright sunshine warmed my face when my door opened. Barely awake and squinting I saw my mom enter with a man. Bob. He resembled Abraham Lincoln, much shorter but with deep set brown eyes and thick side burns. He was smiling and trying very hard to win me over.
How does a 9 year old know they are trying to be impressed by an adult?
I knew something instantly....I didn't like him, I didn't trust him.
Even with promises of returning later to make a water balloon man and have "lots of fun" I found the pit of my stomach hollow, that feeling of dread, paralyzing dread, not yet fear.
 To this day I have told my husband there is a voice that comes from an adult toward a child that gives me that same feeling. I can't explain it, I have only heard that manner of speaking, a few times since, but in an instant I don't trust that person. It is something sinister, manipulative and disingenuous.
My stomach maintained that feeling for years to come.

My door opened in early Spring, I don't remember the first drunken binge or the first time he hit her. I don't remember the first time he lost the car or broke a window but by the fall of that year he had well established his pattern of behavoir. Work- bar-home around one AM, repeat. Sunday's were the worst, at that time all bars were closed. I find it odd he didn't  keep alcohol at home, he liked the bars. So he was dry and angry on Sundays and it seemed to get worse as the day went along.

Bob had recognizable drunks, I caught on to it quickly. I knew when to try to smooth things over between them and when to stay hidden in my room.
His beer drunk was the rarest, he was friendly, funny and cheerful. Full of optimism and promises. We once left to a family gathering 40 miles away with a beer Bob and returned with the mixed drink Bob. Out of control, chaotic and driving 80 mph down the wrong side of the highway. He was punching her the entire way in the front seat. When we came to the intersection he didn't know which way to go. Turning to the back seat, he asked me, "Which way?' I was struck with fear, I knew if I picked the wrong way this drive from hell would continue for who knew how long. I thank God I pointed in the right direction. We were home in  about 10 minutes and he was off to the bar.
Whiskey Bob was the most frequent, he brought broken bones, broken furniture and broken emotions.
Still the most fearful was the what on earth is he on Bob, often returning in a state of paranoia, his deep set eyes were completely dead yet seemed to be on fire. Sometimes he would hide in a corner for fear "they were out to get him." Soon he would shift, blaming my mom for telling them where he was. On a good night he just went to bed and passed out, this was when my training on how to roll a drunk occured.  Since he cashed his check and went straight to the bar, our only hope of any money came on these nights, I stood lookout while she dug through his pockets.Other times he would shift  into a paratrooper, doing rolls off the couch onto the floor, explaining how one would do it from an airplane. He was a minister, occasionally a cop, you never knew who you were about to encounter.
As a child I prayed, as a teen I rebelled. As an adult I became very angry until God began my healing process.

Form the ages of 9-12 I prayed a lot.
Everytime he was on a black out drunk I prayed he wouldn't return. At most, they lasted a week.

When he committed himself for treatment, I prayed he would stay away forever, he checked himself out early.

When he overdosed on a bottle of pills and whiskey, I prayed as he laid out in the yard that the ambulance wouldn't make it in time, but I could hear a faint siren.

He lived with us four years.
I had nightmares for ten.

Pig Tales- Stories of a Fat Girl and the Struggles Within- Beginnings pt 2

  this and other posts are not meant to be disrespectful to my mother, it is simply my life.
  I have a few good memories of my mother. At one time she had a sense of humor, a smile, she told jokes... usually highly inappropriate.  She danced, and  danced well. I remember her teaching neighbors how to jitterbug. She especially like to move to "White Lightning" by Jerry Lee Lewis.
I don't know when her love for things, for happiness or at least the quest for it ended. One bad choice to many just sucks the life out of you I guess.

She thought a man would help, divorced from my dad with  a 4 year old, she somehow thought that would fix things. Poor choices led her to that spot and poor choices again effected both our lives.
Some guy was always around, none stayed for long, at least before Bob. Many of those men just happened to be someone's husband. We woke up to the neighbor's glass on the screen door breaking, a woman had thrust her fist through it, we didn't go out to see what was going on until the woman left, you see, her fist was meant for our door.
Less violent was the morning #1 Bitch was written across our living room window in blue crayon. I think I was 7.
Between the years of 4 and 9 I remember a few of the men,
the candy man- he always left a box of Starbursts and some chocolate
the guy who sang
the guy who gave us carpet

and Carl
he lived a couple hours away and mom never drove in fact I have never seen my mother drive. We took weekly train trips to spend the weekend at his house. He was nice enough but he too drank. A lot.
His house was cold, the waterbed I slept in was colder.
He was always remodeling.....nothing changed. Just a piece of plastic hung between the living room and the new addition. Uninsulated...without electricity or heat it just allowed more of that damn cold air in.
It was a small farm and he had goats and a couple horses. One of the goats was due to have babies, I awoke and went in their room, he asked me to go check and see if the babies were there. HE was hungover, SHE was hungover.
Bundled up trodding through snow, I set out to the barn. It was sunny but I could see my breath.

Two small white baby goats lay together, frozen solid to the ground.
The momma bellowing near by.
Tears fell to the ground...the frozen ground  where there was barely any hay, no heater and no blankets.
That isn't even my worst memory of that cold farm.
Drunks shouldn't drive, children shouldn't be in the car, stuck in snowbanks. No one should walk blindly in a blizzard not properly dressed and I cannot recommend spending 8 hours in a bar eating potato chips and pop.

Carl, like the rest of those men, came and went. Little discretion was shown one could say the model for teen age promiscuity was set here.
Mom did settle with someone, she has been with him for years, I don't like him and never did. I wish I could tell you she was happy and that she found contentment.
They live about 3 states away, I nor my children have seen my mother in over 11 years. We speak occasionally and that is sufficient. I am not cold I am protected.


I once read a quote, I cannot find it exactly now but it is, I believe, from the book Malignant Self  Love, it was something to this effect.
having a narcissist for a mother is a bit like having a 6 year old who has a doll for your mother.  The point  being made is that a 6 year old doesn't really think outside of themselves. The doll is for them...for show....for their needs. Just a doll, a doll to be dropped on the floor and trampled over when it is no longer needed, or when something better comes along.  When I first read that I was moved to tears, not because it hurt as much as it validated what I had always thought. Hurt was real, rejection was real.
I have much more to tell you but let me tell you this first. I am well.  I have been married for 23 years and have two fantastic children that I love dearly. Our house is normal, whatever that means. God is continually healing me and he is the only one who can.
I am a little girl that needed a better mommy
a mommy that is trying the best she can
a daughter who is healing
 a wife who is faithful
a sinner saved by grace

Pig Tales -Stories of a fat girl pt 1

 When does the battle with food begin and why?
     For me I think somewhere around the age of 9. My fourth grade year I remember a few things that perhaps changed my life and the way I chose to feel safe or to "cope", to feel secure, even loved.
My mom had always been what I refer to as broken,
   unable to love in a way that a child needs.
In that year she made some exceptionally bad choices that rippled for years.
       His name was Bob, and I hated him the moment I met him. The day they married a dark cloud followed me home from school, I tried to stay ahead of the rain but I could not avoid the storm that lie ahead. Storm Bob brought alcohol, addiction and violence.
Broken glass and broken emotions lie in his path.
He never laid a hand on me, by the grace of God but the two of them somehow still managed to fracture trust, innocence and contentment.
He because of his actions, she because of her selfishness and inaction.
By the time I was that 9 year old I had been fighting her battles and explaining her lies for years. Seems unrealistic, like an invalid memory but it is not.

A 9 year old cannot explain narcissism but they know somehow they aren't as important to their parent as they should be. They know that allowing a child in the back seat of a car going 80 mph down the wrong side of a highway isn't how it is suppose to be. In that car the intense smell of alcohol, screaming and hitting just isn't right somehow.
Nor can a child understand why their mother would look for that same person when he disappeared for days at a time.

   I always wished he would never come back.
Occasionally my mother would have a moment of lucidity? compassion? guilt?  and at 2 am would walk me to my grandmother's house where it was safe, quiet.
I would then watch her turn around to walk back home, back to him, back to black eyes, broken ribs and chaos......and I would wonder why.
Perhaps waking up in a safe home with the smell of fresh bread, cookies and breakfast somehow began to fuel a  coping method.
      stuff yourself with food till your too full to absorb anything else
       numb yourself
I don't know.
In no way do I dismiss my personal responsibility as an adult of self control and in no way do I blame anyone, it is my struggle. In a way a cherished sin or a self imposed thorn.
Conflict.
I also do not intend to say everyone who overeats has issues or sinful habits. I do. Food is my comfort, in some ways healthy and celebratory, in some ways secret and angry.
Things that happen play a part in who we are. This is a part.