Between pie making and turkey prep, thought I'd pop in and leave a quick note to say:
As I spend a day tomorrow hearing about others' gratitude and talking about and thinking about how grateful I am for all that I have, I will NOT feel guilty for taking a moment to be grateful for all the people who are NOT in my life anymore, all of the bullshit that I will NOT have to deal with during the holiday, all the drama that will NOT be sitting at my table, all of the pain that will NOT cross my threshold.
I hope that you all have a lovely, trauma-free holiday and that you will cherish all the good that you do have as well as the absence of all that bad that you don't.
Happy Thanksgiving!
Love,
Vanci
Showing posts with label gratitude. Show all posts
Showing posts with label gratitude. Show all posts
Wednesday, November 21, 2012
Monday, February 13, 2012
The Value of Conversation
This post is inspired by and in gratitude for Upsi and her willingness to allow the target that some estranged parents and other lurking trolls in blogland have painted on her virtual back.
From estranged parents pushing her into the lose-lose corner of 'tell me why I can't have what I want from my child' to those commenters who seem to be looking to push a button that will finally send her into a tailspin, I've watched as she conscientiously and carefully puts herself out there with gentleness, concern for all and care. It's not easy to be so transparent in recovery and growth, in fact it's damn hard. Healing is hard enough to accomplish after lifetimes of trauma; doing so in a fishbowl is terrifying. Especially once the trolls locate us and begin to play the games that can no longer elicit a response from their (wisely) hidden and estranged victims of choice.
Would I do it? If I had these people invading my blog, would I allow the reasonable venue for discourse that Upsi has? I don't know. This is my space, and I use it to find myself under the cover of anonymity and to work through the many issues that I have and that have been handed to me. Would I tolerate the barbs, the jabs, the thinly veiled attempts to guilt, gaslight, blame, etc? Probably not, but only because my sanity outside of my particular Crazymaking Clan is directly proportional to my ability to hold up my very black and white boundaries. I truly don't know that I could allow this to be an arena for the type of dialogue and discourse that Upsi navigates and moderates so expertly.
Given that and a whole lot of other variables, thank you Upsi for doing what many of us can't and allowing the Narcs and their Minions to invade your blog space. Even when it truly pisses me off that they Just. Never. Stop. Trying. To Prove. That. They. Are. Right.
I think that the dialogue that she's allowed is supremely important, and here's why.
I was taught by my parents in many painful ways that I had no right to disagreement with the Narcs in my life, even if my disagreement with their wants, whims and desires was the only way to create safety for myself. I was taught from my earliest memory that it was my job to be the sacrifice to their stated needs. I was not important as a child, a daughter, a girl, a sister, a human bean. I was there to be used and to be of use, and if I stepped out of that role, if I asked, begged, pleaded or demanded that they stop hurting me, they ganged up on me and hurt me until I caved back into my allotted place in the 'family.' Scapegoat, whipping girl, sacrifice.
I was abused horribly, and to add further insult to injury, I was made to believe by the only people in my life, literally the ONLY people in my life for more than a year at any given time through childhood, that the abuse they heaped on me was my fault and that if I ever stood up for myself, I would be asking for further abuse, which I would receive and which would still and also be my fault.
I clawed my way out of that hell, inch by inch and scar by scar. I survived, and for some time that was enough. The sheer relief of the abuse stopping was so great as to convince me that that limited freedom of simply not being hurt anymore at that moment was peace, and it was compared to the active hell I'd been living in. I got further and further away from the active abuses, though, and realized that I was indeed surviving, but that I couldn't seem to grow any further than my stilted perception that the absence of pain was equal to joy.
I was not, however, serene. I was simply not being hurt on a daily basis anymore. When I realized that I needed growth in order to go from survival to actually living my life and thriving in it, I became a seeker. I looked in all sorts of different places, but I often came up against some preconceived notions that didn't fit into my world when it came to trying to process my experiences with my narcissistic, evil, intentionally hurtful mother and father. People who haven't lived under the cloud of these kinds of monsters really can't understand or believe what it's like to have parents such as these. (And for the record, I'm glad that they can't; NO ONE DESERVES PARENTS LIKE MINE.) They might have been hurt by their parents, but they can't understand the discontinuation of the entire relationship because of it. So it's difficult to find a support group, it's hard to find others who DO understand what it's like to have these ominous, lurking master manipulators waiting around every corner to hamstring us with their blades of 'parental concern.'
I found others in this blog community who did understand it, though, and who don't try to tell me that my mother 'did the best she could with what she had,' or that my father 'probably didn't mean to hurt' me, who didn't excuse their behavior by explaining that my parents probably hadn't had the best upbringings either. We understand in myriad ways that we are a minority; we are the children of narcissists who have grown up to break these cycles of unspeakable abuse, despite the societal pressure that we will 'forgive and forget' the transgressions of our parents. Most people can't get away. Many of those who can't break free will, sadly, do the same to their own children as was done to them.
And that's why those conversations over on Upsi's blog matter so much. We are all raised in some degree of the crucible of crazy as children of Narcs and adolescents of Narcs and finally adults with Narcs. They are able to get away with their abuses so easily for two reasons: 1. We don't know anything else (any better) as we've been on their crazy train since day one. 2. People have to have experience with this level of crazy in order to even begin to believe it's real.
So, those conversations over on Upsi's blog are a sort of living litmus test, I think, for anyone out there seeking who can't quite grasp that NParents are really that bad. "Maybe they're just misunderstood," our agile brains tell us, or "Maybe my mind is blowing it out of proportion."
Then we find this community and we read the war stories and we see the hope and joy that's available and we hear about those of us out in the ether who have moved on, survived, thrived, lived and loved. We realize that there IS another way than the path of pain we've been taught. And when we doubt that it was really that bad, we can read the attacks and the comments from the Crazies when they venture over looking for their Narc Supply and be reminded that, YES, it WAS that bad. And it still would be if we went back.
And then there are those who weren't raised by wolves, but who have some experience happening in their lives that they're trying to understand; step-parents trying to take care of children of an ex-spouse narc parent, ACoNs who haven't yet woken up but are trying to before they continue the cycle of abuse, spouses of ACoNs who want to understand how they can support their loved ones, siblings who are starting to have an inkling that their long-lost sister or brother might have been onto something.
If we can put it out here clearly enough, if we can be the first steps to even one child being rescued from a parent like mine were, well, then any amount of intrusion or dialogue, even from those seeking to harm, is, in my opinion, worth it.
The more we talk, you see, the more real it becomes, and the more tangible ideas and experiences like ours become to the world at large, the easier it becomes for the non-affected to see it. Maybe someday these blog communities will be pointed to as the first step to eradicating child abuse? It could happen, I have to believe that.
So, dear Upsi, keep telling it, and thanks for taking the bullets on all our behalf. Thank you for keeping doors open and for allowing discourse and the space for the Narcs and trolls to expose themselves to the bright light of the truth long enough for any interested to see just how bad it can be.
I'm sure it comes at a cost, and I thank you for paying and hold my hand out with this humble offering of gratitude.
Love,
Vanci
From estranged parents pushing her into the lose-lose corner of 'tell me why I can't have what I want from my child' to those commenters who seem to be looking to push a button that will finally send her into a tailspin, I've watched as she conscientiously and carefully puts herself out there with gentleness, concern for all and care. It's not easy to be so transparent in recovery and growth, in fact it's damn hard. Healing is hard enough to accomplish after lifetimes of trauma; doing so in a fishbowl is terrifying. Especially once the trolls locate us and begin to play the games that can no longer elicit a response from their (wisely) hidden and estranged victims of choice.
Would I do it? If I had these people invading my blog, would I allow the reasonable venue for discourse that Upsi has? I don't know. This is my space, and I use it to find myself under the cover of anonymity and to work through the many issues that I have and that have been handed to me. Would I tolerate the barbs, the jabs, the thinly veiled attempts to guilt, gaslight, blame, etc? Probably not, but only because my sanity outside of my particular Crazymaking Clan is directly proportional to my ability to hold up my very black and white boundaries. I truly don't know that I could allow this to be an arena for the type of dialogue and discourse that Upsi navigates and moderates so expertly.
Given that and a whole lot of other variables, thank you Upsi for doing what many of us can't and allowing the Narcs and their Minions to invade your blog space. Even when it truly pisses me off that they Just. Never. Stop. Trying. To Prove. That. They. Are. Right.
I think that the dialogue that she's allowed is supremely important, and here's why.
I was taught by my parents in many painful ways that I had no right to disagreement with the Narcs in my life, even if my disagreement with their wants, whims and desires was the only way to create safety for myself. I was taught from my earliest memory that it was my job to be the sacrifice to their stated needs. I was not important as a child, a daughter, a girl, a sister, a human bean. I was there to be used and to be of use, and if I stepped out of that role, if I asked, begged, pleaded or demanded that they stop hurting me, they ganged up on me and hurt me until I caved back into my allotted place in the 'family.' Scapegoat, whipping girl, sacrifice.
I was abused horribly, and to add further insult to injury, I was made to believe by the only people in my life, literally the ONLY people in my life for more than a year at any given time through childhood, that the abuse they heaped on me was my fault and that if I ever stood up for myself, I would be asking for further abuse, which I would receive and which would still and also be my fault.
I clawed my way out of that hell, inch by inch and scar by scar. I survived, and for some time that was enough. The sheer relief of the abuse stopping was so great as to convince me that that limited freedom of simply not being hurt anymore at that moment was peace, and it was compared to the active hell I'd been living in. I got further and further away from the active abuses, though, and realized that I was indeed surviving, but that I couldn't seem to grow any further than my stilted perception that the absence of pain was equal to joy.
I was not, however, serene. I was simply not being hurt on a daily basis anymore. When I realized that I needed growth in order to go from survival to actually living my life and thriving in it, I became a seeker. I looked in all sorts of different places, but I often came up against some preconceived notions that didn't fit into my world when it came to trying to process my experiences with my narcissistic, evil, intentionally hurtful mother and father. People who haven't lived under the cloud of these kinds of monsters really can't understand or believe what it's like to have parents such as these. (And for the record, I'm glad that they can't; NO ONE DESERVES PARENTS LIKE MINE.) They might have been hurt by their parents, but they can't understand the discontinuation of the entire relationship because of it. So it's difficult to find a support group, it's hard to find others who DO understand what it's like to have these ominous, lurking master manipulators waiting around every corner to hamstring us with their blades of 'parental concern.'
I found others in this blog community who did understand it, though, and who don't try to tell me that my mother 'did the best she could with what she had,' or that my father 'probably didn't mean to hurt' me, who didn't excuse their behavior by explaining that my parents probably hadn't had the best upbringings either. We understand in myriad ways that we are a minority; we are the children of narcissists who have grown up to break these cycles of unspeakable abuse, despite the societal pressure that we will 'forgive and forget' the transgressions of our parents. Most people can't get away. Many of those who can't break free will, sadly, do the same to their own children as was done to them.
And that's why those conversations over on Upsi's blog matter so much. We are all raised in some degree of the crucible of crazy as children of Narcs and adolescents of Narcs and finally adults with Narcs. They are able to get away with their abuses so easily for two reasons: 1. We don't know anything else (any better) as we've been on their crazy train since day one. 2. People have to have experience with this level of crazy in order to even begin to believe it's real.
So, those conversations over on Upsi's blog are a sort of living litmus test, I think, for anyone out there seeking who can't quite grasp that NParents are really that bad. "Maybe they're just misunderstood," our agile brains tell us, or "Maybe my mind is blowing it out of proportion."
Then we find this community and we read the war stories and we see the hope and joy that's available and we hear about those of us out in the ether who have moved on, survived, thrived, lived and loved. We realize that there IS another way than the path of pain we've been taught. And when we doubt that it was really that bad, we can read the attacks and the comments from the Crazies when they venture over looking for their Narc Supply and be reminded that, YES, it WAS that bad. And it still would be if we went back.
And then there are those who weren't raised by wolves, but who have some experience happening in their lives that they're trying to understand; step-parents trying to take care of children of an ex-spouse narc parent, ACoNs who haven't yet woken up but are trying to before they continue the cycle of abuse, spouses of ACoNs who want to understand how they can support their loved ones, siblings who are starting to have an inkling that their long-lost sister or brother might have been onto something.
If we can put it out here clearly enough, if we can be the first steps to even one child being rescued from a parent like mine were, well, then any amount of intrusion or dialogue, even from those seeking to harm, is, in my opinion, worth it.
The more we talk, you see, the more real it becomes, and the more tangible ideas and experiences like ours become to the world at large, the easier it becomes for the non-affected to see it. Maybe someday these blog communities will be pointed to as the first step to eradicating child abuse? It could happen, I have to believe that.
So, dear Upsi, keep telling it, and thanks for taking the bullets on all our behalf. Thank you for keeping doors open and for allowing discourse and the space for the Narcs and trolls to expose themselves to the bright light of the truth long enough for any interested to see just how bad it can be.
I'm sure it comes at a cost, and I thank you for paying and hold my hand out with this humble offering of gratitude.
Love,
Vanci
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
To The Pain
I wrote awhile ago about my re-connection with my hairdresser, and I was lucky enough to have her fit me in a few days ago for my much anticipated - four plus years in the making - hair appointment. I'm still working out the kinks in the haircut (four years of a ponytail every day seems to have sapped my limited hair styling skills completely,) but we had a great conversation about the NFOO while she snipped about 14 inches off my locks.
Some of the tactics and painful strategies the NFOO subjected her to were exactly the same kinds of abuse they heaped on me, some were only eerily similar. I was struck, though, by how little they seem to learn; I mean really, how'd that work out for you the last time you tried it? I have a solid, non-judgmental and confident way about me these days, though, and my ability to listen to and validate Mimi's feelings about the way that she was treated seemed to be a relief to her.
I found myself saying, over and over again, "Mimi, trust me when I tell you that it's NOT you." The Narcs are so ever-loving GOOD at making all wrongs in a relationship about the other person while taking credit for all the rights. The deceptions, triangulation, gaslighting, steam-rolling and ganging up are, well, crazy-making. Poor Mimi, who grew up in a fairly stable home and has a fairly sunny outlook on life was just ill-prepared for the full scale Nuclear Narc Attack she was subjected to.
It's dizzying, you know? The find ways to make their victim somehow dependent on them, then they take advantage of that in order to suck up their narc supply. When the victim somehow, some way, finds the guts to fight back, they're just so fucking adept at making the victim believe that they're the ones in the wrong. Crazy. Making.
Narcs (and their minions) fight DIRTY. In Mimi's case, as in mine, they found the weak point - our daughters - and took advantage of the vulnerability of those young girls' hearts. Playing a child against a parent for any reason is high on my list of unforgivable crimes, for any reason. And that is, of course, just what the Narcs did to me and just what they did to Mimi. Sigh.
Fortunately, call it grace or luck or the hand of the universe, those three girls don't have to live as pawns to the Narcs anymore, and neither do Mimi or I. There's something to be said for time and distance as they relate to healing, and I was able to share my experience with Mimi; the longer I stay away from them, the healthier I am. In No Contact, I've had lots of ups and downs, but the one constant is this: my life just keeps getting better without them in it.
As I listened to her and recounted some of the dirty, stinking, rotten, awful things they've done to me and my family, I kept thinking of a line from the movie, The Princess Bride.
Toward the end of the movie, the incapacitated hero, Westley, must face the evil Prince Humperdinck with only his wits as weapons as his limbs and muscles have not yet recovered from being (true story) 'mostly dead.' When the Prince suggests that the two men should face off in a duel 'to the death,' Westley, knowing that he cannot physically best his enemy, launches into a rant about how they will instead battle 'to the pain.'
He explains further that 'to the pain' means that the Prince will be disfigured, maimed, tortured and left in physical and emotional agony; that Westley will not slice off the Prince's ears so that the horrifically beaten and physically disgusting Prince will be able to hear the screams of the children who will be terrified by the post-duel sight of him. Westley's the hero and well intentioned, not to mention a fictional character, so he's allowed this type of mind play. But it's occurred to me that this is how the Narc's fight: to the pain.
Long after I had made my boundaries clear with them and held them fast repeatedly, they tried to find a loophole. If I said "don't call," they'd write a letter. If I said,"don't write me letters," they sent emails. If I said "don't email," they sent texts. And so on.
The most disturbing thing, though, then as well as in retrospect, was the way that they reacted once they'd exhausted all possible routes around my boundaries and it became clear that they wouldn't be getting what they wanted from me. They simply began instead to attempt to battle 'to the pain.'
They told lies about me to people whom they knew I would eventually hear from. They told lies about themselves to anyone who would listen, making me look like the bad guy. They re-wrote history blatantly, at one point claiming that NM's prescription pill addiction (the catalyst of my final stand,) was MY fault. The used other people's children (including Mimi's) as spies and message bearers who were instructed to accost my DD's at school. They Facebook stalked. They enlisted distant family members as minions and at one point NSis approached my (very kind, very country and very much not interested in talking about any feelings, ever) father in law in the drugstore to bad-mouth me and send a message of guilt.
The ONLY thing they didn't do was to make an honest effort to take me up on my offer to have a straight-forward conversation in the presence of neutral third parties. Ironically, the only thing that could have been an actual means to healing or some sort of reconciliation was the only thing that simply wouldn't 'stoop' to. The two times NM did show up, she came with a loaded agenda of the same crap, different day.
In every way they could think, they attacked and attacked by proxy and attacked from a distance and attacked my friendships and relationships in the community. I watched their increasingly transparent attempt so discredit and harm me in wonder at the depths to which they seemed eager to sink and simply used it as a learning tool; after all, anybody willing to jump on that crazy train isn't really someone I want or need in my life. But, wow, they sure put a lot of energy into trying to destroy me. And when they realized they couldn't do that, they redoubled their efforts in their vain attempts to just wound me.
Here I am now, largely healthy and whole and listening to Mimi the other day reminded me of just how much the whole shitty debacle of 2006 and on into 2007 hurt. It was fresh and new and every day I woke up with the wind whistling through me. I simply couldn't believe that anyone, especially people that I'd been convinced my whole life LOVED me, could fight so dirty.
I see it clearly now, and it doesn't really hurt me so much as I find it baffling. Their epic battle 'to the pain' accomplished one thing for which I am grateful; I am absolutely convinced to the core of my being that those ugly creatures I've seen peeking out of their festering souls are the true forms of the people I grew up with.
They've lost the ability to cause me pain anymore, but they have convinced me beyond certainty that there will never be room for them in any part of my fairy tale.
I'm grateful for that knowledge just as I am grateful for the clarity that I can help to provide to people like Mimi.
And to you, fellow ACoN at this holiday season I offer the same gift: it's not you.
Love,
Vanci
Some of the tactics and painful strategies the NFOO subjected her to were exactly the same kinds of abuse they heaped on me, some were only eerily similar. I was struck, though, by how little they seem to learn; I mean really, how'd that work out for you the last time you tried it? I have a solid, non-judgmental and confident way about me these days, though, and my ability to listen to and validate Mimi's feelings about the way that she was treated seemed to be a relief to her.
I found myself saying, over and over again, "Mimi, trust me when I tell you that it's NOT you." The Narcs are so ever-loving GOOD at making all wrongs in a relationship about the other person while taking credit for all the rights. The deceptions, triangulation, gaslighting, steam-rolling and ganging up are, well, crazy-making. Poor Mimi, who grew up in a fairly stable home and has a fairly sunny outlook on life was just ill-prepared for the full scale Nuclear Narc Attack she was subjected to.
It's dizzying, you know? The find ways to make their victim somehow dependent on them, then they take advantage of that in order to suck up their narc supply. When the victim somehow, some way, finds the guts to fight back, they're just so fucking adept at making the victim believe that they're the ones in the wrong. Crazy. Making.
Narcs (and their minions) fight DIRTY. In Mimi's case, as in mine, they found the weak point - our daughters - and took advantage of the vulnerability of those young girls' hearts. Playing a child against a parent for any reason is high on my list of unforgivable crimes, for any reason. And that is, of course, just what the Narcs did to me and just what they did to Mimi. Sigh.
Fortunately, call it grace or luck or the hand of the universe, those three girls don't have to live as pawns to the Narcs anymore, and neither do Mimi or I. There's something to be said for time and distance as they relate to healing, and I was able to share my experience with Mimi; the longer I stay away from them, the healthier I am. In No Contact, I've had lots of ups and downs, but the one constant is this: my life just keeps getting better without them in it.
As I listened to her and recounted some of the dirty, stinking, rotten, awful things they've done to me and my family, I kept thinking of a line from the movie, The Princess Bride.
Toward the end of the movie, the incapacitated hero, Westley, must face the evil Prince Humperdinck with only his wits as weapons as his limbs and muscles have not yet recovered from being (true story) 'mostly dead.' When the Prince suggests that the two men should face off in a duel 'to the death,' Westley, knowing that he cannot physically best his enemy, launches into a rant about how they will instead battle 'to the pain.'
He explains further that 'to the pain' means that the Prince will be disfigured, maimed, tortured and left in physical and emotional agony; that Westley will not slice off the Prince's ears so that the horrifically beaten and physically disgusting Prince will be able to hear the screams of the children who will be terrified by the post-duel sight of him. Westley's the hero and well intentioned, not to mention a fictional character, so he's allowed this type of mind play. But it's occurred to me that this is how the Narc's fight: to the pain.
Long after I had made my boundaries clear with them and held them fast repeatedly, they tried to find a loophole. If I said "don't call," they'd write a letter. If I said,"don't write me letters," they sent emails. If I said "don't email," they sent texts. And so on.
The most disturbing thing, though, then as well as in retrospect, was the way that they reacted once they'd exhausted all possible routes around my boundaries and it became clear that they wouldn't be getting what they wanted from me. They simply began instead to attempt to battle 'to the pain.'
They told lies about me to people whom they knew I would eventually hear from. They told lies about themselves to anyone who would listen, making me look like the bad guy. They re-wrote history blatantly, at one point claiming that NM's prescription pill addiction (the catalyst of my final stand,) was MY fault. The used other people's children (including Mimi's) as spies and message bearers who were instructed to accost my DD's at school. They Facebook stalked. They enlisted distant family members as minions and at one point NSis approached my (very kind, very country and very much not interested in talking about any feelings, ever) father in law in the drugstore to bad-mouth me and send a message of guilt.
The ONLY thing they didn't do was to make an honest effort to take me up on my offer to have a straight-forward conversation in the presence of neutral third parties. Ironically, the only thing that could have been an actual means to healing or some sort of reconciliation was the only thing that simply wouldn't 'stoop' to. The two times NM did show up, she came with a loaded agenda of the same crap, different day.
In every way they could think, they attacked and attacked by proxy and attacked from a distance and attacked my friendships and relationships in the community. I watched their increasingly transparent attempt so discredit and harm me in wonder at the depths to which they seemed eager to sink and simply used it as a learning tool; after all, anybody willing to jump on that crazy train isn't really someone I want or need in my life. But, wow, they sure put a lot of energy into trying to destroy me. And when they realized they couldn't do that, they redoubled their efforts in their vain attempts to just wound me.
Here I am now, largely healthy and whole and listening to Mimi the other day reminded me of just how much the whole shitty debacle of 2006 and on into 2007 hurt. It was fresh and new and every day I woke up with the wind whistling through me. I simply couldn't believe that anyone, especially people that I'd been convinced my whole life LOVED me, could fight so dirty.
I see it clearly now, and it doesn't really hurt me so much as I find it baffling. Their epic battle 'to the pain' accomplished one thing for which I am grateful; I am absolutely convinced to the core of my being that those ugly creatures I've seen peeking out of their festering souls are the true forms of the people I grew up with.
They've lost the ability to cause me pain anymore, but they have convinced me beyond certainty that there will never be room for them in any part of my fairy tale.
I'm grateful for that knowledge just as I am grateful for the clarity that I can help to provide to people like Mimi.
And to you, fellow ACoN at this holiday season I offer the same gift: it's not you.
Love,
Vanci
Thursday, October 27, 2011
On Sisters
When I was a little girl, I was sometimes made to be part of a 'show.' Mostly the NParents coordinated this as part of a church function, where we would all play a part in the Easter Sunrise Service or the Christmas Eve Celebration, and typically the performance centered around music.
NM played the piano, ENF had a booming bass voice, I led melodies in my soprano, NOSis was the harmonic alto and GCYB sang high tenor (and later in life low tenor.) We all had musical ears and I'm sure we presented as a regular Von Trapp family at times. ENF tended to pastor small, rural churches, so we were often THE entertainment. I have some memories of this being fun, even.
NOSis and I both loved to sing and our voices blended well together. Due in part to the structured isolation that the NParents kept us in, we often choreographed our own 'numbers' in the living room together, and I remember more than one occasion where we were asked to share our routines. The one that's coming to mind right now was a little dance we did as we sang the number 'Sisters' from an old black and white movie with Bing Crosby and Danny Kaye, White Christmas.
"Sisters, sisters, there were never such devoted sisters.
Never had to have a chaperone, no sir
I'm here to keep my eye on her.
Caring, Sharing,
Every little thing that we are wearing...
... All kinds of weather, we stick together
Same in the rain or sun
Two different faces but in tight places,
We think and we act as one!"
It goes on in that vein for some time and I've probably flubbed some of the lines, but that's how I remember it. I also remember that there was safety in my relationship with my sister. She's four years older than me, and was far more of a strong female role model at times than my mother was, for sure. She was one of my best friends, especially as we moved so often that she was typically my only female play mate and the only other girl I knew. We picked at each other and fought a lot - something that I'm convinced happens in the majority of sisterly relationships, no matter how healthy - but we loved each other. We did our best to protect each other. That's how I saw it then, and I believe there's still some truth to that even now as I view it with clear eyes in retrospect.
I don't spend a lot of time trying to figure out what the recipe for a Narcissist is. Like all personality disorders, mental illnesses and diseases and addictions, there seems to be an ongoing nature vs. nurture argument to varying degrees about root causes. I tend to believe that there have to be genetic predispositions to certain leanings combined with two other key factors: trauma of some sort and a choice not to fight the leaning toward narcissism (or sadism, or myriad other -isms.) Either way, like I said, I don't spend a lot of time on it because I'm such a Practical Polly. It is what it is and I can't change it. So I spend my energy on me and I move forward.
But, when I think about my sister and the memories I have, it's hard not to wonder how she and I turned out so differently. That caring, protective sister that I remember from the days of choreographed step-ball-changes is dead or buried so deep that she's never coming out.
Because my sister today, man, she's a raving bitch on toast.
It seems to me that our relationship changed significantly when I was thirteen and revealed in counseling that ENF had sexually abused me. I didn't know that he'd abused her too, I really didn't. But my revelations prompted him to admit to abusing both of us. The metaphorical shit hit the fan in more ways than one over this, but one of the most painful things to me - then and now - was the way in which it changed my relationship with my sister. I distinctly remember feeling two things when I realized that my sister had been abused too: horror at the thought that she'd felt as awful and violated as I did and relief at the thought that I wasn't alone in this.
But I was, because, although ONSis admitted to the abuse, she became scarily, irrationally angry with ME for revealing it. I was, she said, trying to ruin her life and everyone else's life because... I was mad that I had to do the dishes. She physically assaulted me a couple of times, but mostly she just ignored my very existence after that. I'd once embroidered her a little throw pillow with the message on the front: Time passes and we may part, but sisters will always stay close at heart. After I brought the sexual abuse to light in our family, she seemed to hate me. I was devastated by this sudden coldness and hatred from her, but I was only thirteen and was dealing with similar punishments and ostracizations from my parents and little brother, too. I don't know that I fully understood how to process anything on my planet at that time; I was shell shocked.
There were a lot of intervening years with some pretty far swings in our relationship with each other, sometimes closer than others, but when I made my stand in September of 2007, ONSis really flexed her muscle as the Enforcer in the NFOO. She was the first to attack and she attacked viciously. I'd known for some time that she wasn't right - lots of rages and seriously low lows - but I had no idea up to that point that she was so far gone.
And now, she's the leader of the NFOO in a lot of ways, from what I can tell. She didn't fall into the Lead Narc role, she sought it out, picked it up, put it on and fucking OWNS it. I guess we all have our different ways of dealing with trauma.
So, I look around me now and I assess - my sister is effectively dead to me, or I to her, doesn't really matter which way that swings as the end result's the same.
But...
I have other sisters. I have my dear, dear girlfriends who've loved me from near and far throughout the last four years. I have my AA ladies, who look me in the eye and tell me the truth, even when it stings. And I have you: the Grizzly Fighters, the Angry Daughters, the Upsi Dancers, Jonsi on the Outside Looking In, the mulderfans and the Ruths and Judys and Lisas the Pollywantanarcissist and the Rings Swinging Forward and the veganstein, Pronoia Agape, and all the Anons and anyone else I can't think of right now and bringing up the manly rear as an honorary sister is LSV.
What's a sister? Just a girl who understands that sometimes you need to know that it's okay that you're in there underneath your skin even if it feels too tight sometimes. A friend who knows that you need a hug or you need to hear that you're beautiful. Just a lady who says, "Hey, Vanci, I believe in YOU."
I lost a sister along the way, and that hurts.
But just look at that incomplete list up there: my loss of one is a gain of MANY.
I'm so grateful for all of you.
Love,
Vanci
NM played the piano, ENF had a booming bass voice, I led melodies in my soprano, NOSis was the harmonic alto and GCYB sang high tenor (and later in life low tenor.) We all had musical ears and I'm sure we presented as a regular Von Trapp family at times. ENF tended to pastor small, rural churches, so we were often THE entertainment. I have some memories of this being fun, even.
NOSis and I both loved to sing and our voices blended well together. Due in part to the structured isolation that the NParents kept us in, we often choreographed our own 'numbers' in the living room together, and I remember more than one occasion where we were asked to share our routines. The one that's coming to mind right now was a little dance we did as we sang the number 'Sisters' from an old black and white movie with Bing Crosby and Danny Kaye, White Christmas.
"Sisters, sisters, there were never such devoted sisters.
Never had to have a chaperone, no sir
I'm here to keep my eye on her.
Caring, Sharing,
Every little thing that we are wearing...
... All kinds of weather, we stick together
Same in the rain or sun
Two different faces but in tight places,
We think and we act as one!"
It goes on in that vein for some time and I've probably flubbed some of the lines, but that's how I remember it. I also remember that there was safety in my relationship with my sister. She's four years older than me, and was far more of a strong female role model at times than my mother was, for sure. She was one of my best friends, especially as we moved so often that she was typically my only female play mate and the only other girl I knew. We picked at each other and fought a lot - something that I'm convinced happens in the majority of sisterly relationships, no matter how healthy - but we loved each other. We did our best to protect each other. That's how I saw it then, and I believe there's still some truth to that even now as I view it with clear eyes in retrospect.
I don't spend a lot of time trying to figure out what the recipe for a Narcissist is. Like all personality disorders, mental illnesses and diseases and addictions, there seems to be an ongoing nature vs. nurture argument to varying degrees about root causes. I tend to believe that there have to be genetic predispositions to certain leanings combined with two other key factors: trauma of some sort and a choice not to fight the leaning toward narcissism (or sadism, or myriad other -isms.) Either way, like I said, I don't spend a lot of time on it because I'm such a Practical Polly. It is what it is and I can't change it. So I spend my energy on me and I move forward.
But, when I think about my sister and the memories I have, it's hard not to wonder how she and I turned out so differently. That caring, protective sister that I remember from the days of choreographed step-ball-changes is dead or buried so deep that she's never coming out.
Because my sister today, man, she's a raving bitch on toast.
It seems to me that our relationship changed significantly when I was thirteen and revealed in counseling that ENF had sexually abused me. I didn't know that he'd abused her too, I really didn't. But my revelations prompted him to admit to abusing both of us. The metaphorical shit hit the fan in more ways than one over this, but one of the most painful things to me - then and now - was the way in which it changed my relationship with my sister. I distinctly remember feeling two things when I realized that my sister had been abused too: horror at the thought that she'd felt as awful and violated as I did and relief at the thought that I wasn't alone in this.
But I was, because, although ONSis admitted to the abuse, she became scarily, irrationally angry with ME for revealing it. I was, she said, trying to ruin her life and everyone else's life because... I was mad that I had to do the dishes. She physically assaulted me a couple of times, but mostly she just ignored my very existence after that. I'd once embroidered her a little throw pillow with the message on the front: Time passes and we may part, but sisters will always stay close at heart. After I brought the sexual abuse to light in our family, she seemed to hate me. I was devastated by this sudden coldness and hatred from her, but I was only thirteen and was dealing with similar punishments and ostracizations from my parents and little brother, too. I don't know that I fully understood how to process anything on my planet at that time; I was shell shocked.
There were a lot of intervening years with some pretty far swings in our relationship with each other, sometimes closer than others, but when I made my stand in September of 2007, ONSis really flexed her muscle as the Enforcer in the NFOO. She was the first to attack and she attacked viciously. I'd known for some time that she wasn't right - lots of rages and seriously low lows - but I had no idea up to that point that she was so far gone.
And now, she's the leader of the NFOO in a lot of ways, from what I can tell. She didn't fall into the Lead Narc role, she sought it out, picked it up, put it on and fucking OWNS it. I guess we all have our different ways of dealing with trauma.
So, I look around me now and I assess - my sister is effectively dead to me, or I to her, doesn't really matter which way that swings as the end result's the same.
But...
I have other sisters. I have my dear, dear girlfriends who've loved me from near and far throughout the last four years. I have my AA ladies, who look me in the eye and tell me the truth, even when it stings. And I have you: the Grizzly Fighters, the Angry Daughters, the Upsi Dancers, Jonsi on the Outside Looking In, the mulderfans and the Ruths and Judys and Lisas the Pollywantanarcissist and the Rings Swinging Forward and the veganstein, Pronoia Agape, and all the Anons and anyone else I can't think of right now and bringing up the manly rear as an honorary sister is LSV.
What's a sister? Just a girl who understands that sometimes you need to know that it's okay that you're in there underneath your skin even if it feels too tight sometimes. A friend who knows that you need a hug or you need to hear that you're beautiful. Just a lady who says, "Hey, Vanci, I believe in YOU."
I lost a sister along the way, and that hurts.
But just look at that incomplete list up there: my loss of one is a gain of MANY.
I'm so grateful for all of you.
Love,
Vanci
Friday, August 26, 2011
Little Moments of Reward
I just got back from a four day camping trip with DH and the two DD's. Dirty, disheveled and exhausted, we rolled back into home today and cleaned up the mess, watched a little television and then all declared it an early bed night.
I expected to be long asleep by now, but I keep thinking about these shining little moments that we had together and comparing them to the moments that I had with my FOO when I was about DD's ages...
What a difference.
I try not to compare my childhood to my daughters', for a lot of reasons, but primarily because that type of comparsion is something that I've watched NM use over and over again against me. Even in our most recent 'counseling' session, when I insisted that we speak about the truth of our relationship, which involves myriad forms of abuse toward me from them (NM and EF) beginning in my childhood, here was NM's response:
"I know what it is to have your childhood taken away from you Vanci! I had mine stolen from me!"
Dumbfounded, I was. Never an inkling in her Narc-y mnd that the difference between my 'stolen' childhood and hers is that she 'stole' mine.
So, yeah, I try not to compare my past too much with my daughters' present other than to do quick checks and balances (i.e. - am I being fair and consistent with my rules? I know very well what unfair and inconsistent looks like, I'm not doing that am I?)
But it was hard not to compare on this camping trip, because I had been camping at this particular campground with the FOO when I was... oh, 12 or so.
I remember very little - funny how those defensive mechanisms work so efficiently sometimes - but the good times that I do remember involved pockets of freedom from the FOO. I went for walks all by myself and thought whatever I wanted to, sometimes even out loud. Somehow it happened that NM wasn't with us, so the trip consisted of EF, OS and her boyfriend, YB and his best friend... and me. I don't know if I wasn't allowed to bring a friend or if I just didn't have any at the time. One of the more damaging actions that the allegedly responsible adults in charge of my childhood made was to force our family to move every 9-14 months. Really.
I'm not talking moving houses within the neighborhood - these were big, life changing, landscape altering moves every time. To pack up one life, move 400 or 2000 miles and start over even once is difficult. To do so with such frequency in childhood that I never attended the same school two years in a row until high school was awful.
At any rate, I had the awesome opportunity to watch on the camping trip this week and see the difference between my level of comfort in my own skin at 12 and my daughters' level of acceptance and joy. One of the things I noticed over and over again was the way in which - with ipods, video games, cell phones, Facebook and all other tech tools unavailable - my girls would walk up to me or to DH and say, "Hey, I'm kind of bored... you want to go for a walk with me?" At one point my 15 year old challenged her dad to a scooter race around the loop we were camping on. Being a racing freak, he accepted and we all cheered and laughed as DH made the best of his quads on a child's Razor scooter through the middle of a crowded campsite. Of course, she's fifteen years old and in far better shape than DH, so she smoked him. And he congratulated her, then spent the rest of the week telling everyone he struck up a conversation with how she'd beat him.
The first thing she did when we got home was to post her 'scooter times' on Facebook. I just don't have memories like that, you know? If there had been an interaction that I was allowed to fully participate in as a child, I certainly wouldn't have been allowed to win, to come out on top, to have a good time doing it.
All my good memories in that campground have to do with getting away. It seems that a lot of my DD's good memories in that campground have to do with sticking together.
I am so, so grateful for that. I'm so grateful to DH for being the husband and the father he is, and I'm so happy that my lovely DD's will have a much deeper pool of family memories to draw from than I do. I know that this wouldn't be possible if the FOO was still lurking around, so I'm grateful that I've been able to hold the correct NC boundaries, too.
Talk about rewards; what an awesome FOC I have!
Love,
Vanci
I expected to be long asleep by now, but I keep thinking about these shining little moments that we had together and comparing them to the moments that I had with my FOO when I was about DD's ages...
What a difference.
I try not to compare my childhood to my daughters', for a lot of reasons, but primarily because that type of comparsion is something that I've watched NM use over and over again against me. Even in our most recent 'counseling' session, when I insisted that we speak about the truth of our relationship, which involves myriad forms of abuse toward me from them (NM and EF) beginning in my childhood, here was NM's response:
"I know what it is to have your childhood taken away from you Vanci! I had mine stolen from me!"
Dumbfounded, I was. Never an inkling in her Narc-y mnd that the difference between my 'stolen' childhood and hers is that she 'stole' mine.
So, yeah, I try not to compare my past too much with my daughters' present other than to do quick checks and balances (i.e. - am I being fair and consistent with my rules? I know very well what unfair and inconsistent looks like, I'm not doing that am I?)
But it was hard not to compare on this camping trip, because I had been camping at this particular campground with the FOO when I was... oh, 12 or so.
I remember very little - funny how those defensive mechanisms work so efficiently sometimes - but the good times that I do remember involved pockets of freedom from the FOO. I went for walks all by myself and thought whatever I wanted to, sometimes even out loud. Somehow it happened that NM wasn't with us, so the trip consisted of EF, OS and her boyfriend, YB and his best friend... and me. I don't know if I wasn't allowed to bring a friend or if I just didn't have any at the time. One of the more damaging actions that the allegedly responsible adults in charge of my childhood made was to force our family to move every 9-14 months. Really.
I'm not talking moving houses within the neighborhood - these were big, life changing, landscape altering moves every time. To pack up one life, move 400 or 2000 miles and start over even once is difficult. To do so with such frequency in childhood that I never attended the same school two years in a row until high school was awful.
At any rate, I had the awesome opportunity to watch on the camping trip this week and see the difference between my level of comfort in my own skin at 12 and my daughters' level of acceptance and joy. One of the things I noticed over and over again was the way in which - with ipods, video games, cell phones, Facebook and all other tech tools unavailable - my girls would walk up to me or to DH and say, "Hey, I'm kind of bored... you want to go for a walk with me?" At one point my 15 year old challenged her dad to a scooter race around the loop we were camping on. Being a racing freak, he accepted and we all cheered and laughed as DH made the best of his quads on a child's Razor scooter through the middle of a crowded campsite. Of course, she's fifteen years old and in far better shape than DH, so she smoked him. And he congratulated her, then spent the rest of the week telling everyone he struck up a conversation with how she'd beat him.
The first thing she did when we got home was to post her 'scooter times' on Facebook. I just don't have memories like that, you know? If there had been an interaction that I was allowed to fully participate in as a child, I certainly wouldn't have been allowed to win, to come out on top, to have a good time doing it.
All my good memories in that campground have to do with getting away. It seems that a lot of my DD's good memories in that campground have to do with sticking together.
I am so, so grateful for that. I'm so grateful to DH for being the husband and the father he is, and I'm so happy that my lovely DD's will have a much deeper pool of family memories to draw from than I do. I know that this wouldn't be possible if the FOO was still lurking around, so I'm grateful that I've been able to hold the correct NC boundaries, too.
Talk about rewards; what an awesome FOC I have!
Love,
Vanci
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Making Life More Fair
The majority of my day to day life is full of contentment; there's peace and safety, joy and humor, satisfaction in jobs well done, lots of learning and growing. It's all good, most of the time, and when it's not, I've gotten very good at reminding myself that the dark clouds on my internal horizon are fleeting and infrequent. And I've been given a built in sort of barometer to measure my attitude against - I happen to work in a place that is filled with some largely, well, unhappy people.
They tend to complain a lot. I'm overgeneralizing, I know, and lumping a whole melting pot of personalities together under the umbrella of 'they,' but I'm talking about the vague sense of unrest, melancholy and joylessness that runs through the place as an undercurrent, so I feel okay about the blanket approach.
Every time I walk into the breakroom that all the departments in the building share, if there is another soul in the room, it seems that there is a gripe that needs to be aired. Today there was carrot cake and angel food cake in celebration of one of our co-worker's birthday. I walked into the room and commented on how nice the cakes looked. There were two ladies sitting at the table eating cake. One complained that there wasn't any chocolate cake. The other complained that the cakes were ruining her diet.
I thought, but did not say, "Oh shut up! There's cake! Free cake! Two choices of cake!" There is a part of me that reacts strongly, almost viscerally, to what I perceive as ungratefullness on the part of others. I think this can be directly linked to the unfairness that I was shown from an early age by NM and EF and later in life by OS and YB too. It's something that's difficult for me to talk about, though, because I was also taught early on that I am not allowed to notice or comment on the unfairness - my FOO firmly believed that lack of acknowledgement of a practice, behavior or thing has the magical ability to - poof! - make the unwanted thing just go away.
I was taught that I could not acknowledge the unfairness my parents excercised in how they treated their children, and that if I did need to point out the unfairness, well, that just meant that I was a whiner. There was something wrong with me, don'tcha know... Didn't I understand how hard they were trying to support me? Didn't I know that I was not an easy child to raise? Didn't I realize that it was easier for me to take care of myself than it was for OS or YB, as I was so capable? Really, they wanted me to believe, they were just leveling the playing field for me.
Here's how it worked ~ school was easy for me, they said, becuase I'd always seemingly effortlessly acheived A's in all my classes. Yes, all my classes, forever, at least until the 10th grade. I skipped the 8th grade entirely, just went from 7th to 9th, and still carried A's. It was more difficult for OS and YB, my parents explained, so really what they were paying compliments to OS and YB for on those report cards with A's and B's and C's was effort. Which, of course implied that my A's came with no effort, and therefore I deserved no or less praise for my accomplishments. I was minimized, as were my, ahem, efforts.
That's just one example of the way the game was played. I swallowed it for years without complaint, largely because I didn't want to appear to be ungrateful. I was trained to be grateful for scraps from the metaphorical table of love and affection, all while watching the golden children be fed a feast.
The saddest part to me is how well ingrained this minimization and de-humanizing became. Right as the planet was cracking four years ago, we had our final Christmas with the FOO. It was a typical one - NM and EF 'hosted' the festivites which worked out well for OS and YB as they (mid-30's and late 20's respectively) lived at the family home, too. So, true to scapegoat form, I was the only family member who lived outside the clan bubble. I packed up my DH and daughters... and the gifts... and the food... and the games and everything else Christmas-related and we hauled the 15 miles out to the clan compound.
I cooked a lot of the meal and helped to clean it up - again, this was an expectation fulfilled rather than a gift of service on my part. The time came to open presents and everyone sat in a circle with their 'pile.' OS and YB and even OS's husband had HUGE piles of gifts in front of them; 25-30 each, all but three or four from NM and EF. My DH had about eight gifts in front of him. I had one very large box.
I'd asked for pots and pans. I normally hesitate to specify what kind of gift I would like - I'm not sure if this is due to my inner knowledge that 'they' wouldn't get me something I really wanted anyway or if it's because I was conditioned so early on and so consistently with the idea that it was my role to be grateful for whatever I received, even if it was only scraps. But I was starting to grow and change before that last Christmas, and I was becoming stronger and clearer. So, when I'd been asked what I would like for Christmas, I responded in a relatively normal way. I asked for pots and pans. Simple enough, right?
I noticed the gift count, but I thought, "Well, I'm sure that my gift was just more expensive than all the smaller gifts OS and YB have. Maybe they just packed a bunch of gifts into one big box."
When I opened the large box, it was full of pots and pans, alright. Dusty, used pots and pans wrapped in newspaper. EF explained that he 'just couldn't find any nice pans' that I would like, so he'd decided to take a bunch of his used pots and pans and give them to me instead. Some of the pans still had little flecks of crusted-on food in them.
I swallowed the hurt and the pain and the shame and the absolute heart-break of the validation that I was, in fact, less important to my parents than my siblings and I said thank you. It took awhile for OS and YB to make their way through their piles of gifts, so I watched and smiled and ooh'd and aah'd over what they received. I played my role to perfect dysfunctional pitch, but there was just a smidge of uncomfortable truth breaking through my defensive walls. I was so, so uncomfortable, even if I didn't allow it to show through the outer veneer.
When we, finally, arrived home later that night, DH flipped his lid. He pointed out the unfairness and wanted to know why I hadn't said anything. "I can't believe they break the bank on OS and YB and they give you one crappy box of hand me downs! I can't believe you accept the way they treat you! They treat their dogs better than you; the dogs had more gifts than you!" And then he delivered the kicker, the line that really cracked me open - I can still hear his voice as clear as day; "No one else in the entire WORLD is allowed to treat you like they do! No one!"
And it clicked for me. It was only one tangible example of the scapegoating, the unfairness and the cruelty, but it's one of the first incidents that I was able to see from a slightly removed to normal perspective. It helped me later on as I moved into No Contact with the FOO as a way to remember that I was slighted, that the family was 'out to get me' (and keep me in my place,) and that no matter how they tried to revise history, gaslight me, diminish me or flat out lie, it wasn't true. It's not really paranoia if people are, in fact, out to get you, is it?
I carry a mental picture of that one box; those dusty/used/scratched up pans. I take it out when I need a reminder that gratitude is my choice in life, but there's no rule that says I have to be grateful for being kicked around. I don't have to be grateful for crumbs anymore; I don't need those poisoned scraps.
I'll make my own feast in life, and maybe I'll have a little of that carrot cake in the break room, too.
Love,
Vanci
They tend to complain a lot. I'm overgeneralizing, I know, and lumping a whole melting pot of personalities together under the umbrella of 'they,' but I'm talking about the vague sense of unrest, melancholy and joylessness that runs through the place as an undercurrent, so I feel okay about the blanket approach.
Every time I walk into the breakroom that all the departments in the building share, if there is another soul in the room, it seems that there is a gripe that needs to be aired. Today there was carrot cake and angel food cake in celebration of one of our co-worker's birthday. I walked into the room and commented on how nice the cakes looked. There were two ladies sitting at the table eating cake. One complained that there wasn't any chocolate cake. The other complained that the cakes were ruining her diet.
I thought, but did not say, "Oh shut up! There's cake! Free cake! Two choices of cake!" There is a part of me that reacts strongly, almost viscerally, to what I perceive as ungratefullness on the part of others. I think this can be directly linked to the unfairness that I was shown from an early age by NM and EF and later in life by OS and YB too. It's something that's difficult for me to talk about, though, because I was also taught early on that I am not allowed to notice or comment on the unfairness - my FOO firmly believed that lack of acknowledgement of a practice, behavior or thing has the magical ability to - poof! - make the unwanted thing just go away.
I was taught that I could not acknowledge the unfairness my parents excercised in how they treated their children, and that if I did need to point out the unfairness, well, that just meant that I was a whiner. There was something wrong with me, don'tcha know... Didn't I understand how hard they were trying to support me? Didn't I know that I was not an easy child to raise? Didn't I realize that it was easier for me to take care of myself than it was for OS or YB, as I was so capable? Really, they wanted me to believe, they were just leveling the playing field for me.
Here's how it worked ~ school was easy for me, they said, becuase I'd always seemingly effortlessly acheived A's in all my classes. Yes, all my classes, forever, at least until the 10th grade. I skipped the 8th grade entirely, just went from 7th to 9th, and still carried A's. It was more difficult for OS and YB, my parents explained, so really what they were paying compliments to OS and YB for on those report cards with A's and B's and C's was effort. Which, of course implied that my A's came with no effort, and therefore I deserved no or less praise for my accomplishments. I was minimized, as were my, ahem, efforts.
That's just one example of the way the game was played. I swallowed it for years without complaint, largely because I didn't want to appear to be ungrateful. I was trained to be grateful for scraps from the metaphorical table of love and affection, all while watching the golden children be fed a feast.
The saddest part to me is how well ingrained this minimization and de-humanizing became. Right as the planet was cracking four years ago, we had our final Christmas with the FOO. It was a typical one - NM and EF 'hosted' the festivites which worked out well for OS and YB as they (mid-30's and late 20's respectively) lived at the family home, too. So, true to scapegoat form, I was the only family member who lived outside the clan bubble. I packed up my DH and daughters... and the gifts... and the food... and the games and everything else Christmas-related and we hauled the 15 miles out to the clan compound.
I cooked a lot of the meal and helped to clean it up - again, this was an expectation fulfilled rather than a gift of service on my part. The time came to open presents and everyone sat in a circle with their 'pile.' OS and YB and even OS's husband had HUGE piles of gifts in front of them; 25-30 each, all but three or four from NM and EF. My DH had about eight gifts in front of him. I had one very large box.
I'd asked for pots and pans. I normally hesitate to specify what kind of gift I would like - I'm not sure if this is due to my inner knowledge that 'they' wouldn't get me something I really wanted anyway or if it's because I was conditioned so early on and so consistently with the idea that it was my role to be grateful for whatever I received, even if it was only scraps. But I was starting to grow and change before that last Christmas, and I was becoming stronger and clearer. So, when I'd been asked what I would like for Christmas, I responded in a relatively normal way. I asked for pots and pans. Simple enough, right?
I noticed the gift count, but I thought, "Well, I'm sure that my gift was just more expensive than all the smaller gifts OS and YB have. Maybe they just packed a bunch of gifts into one big box."
When I opened the large box, it was full of pots and pans, alright. Dusty, used pots and pans wrapped in newspaper. EF explained that he 'just couldn't find any nice pans' that I would like, so he'd decided to take a bunch of his used pots and pans and give them to me instead. Some of the pans still had little flecks of crusted-on food in them.
I swallowed the hurt and the pain and the shame and the absolute heart-break of the validation that I was, in fact, less important to my parents than my siblings and I said thank you. It took awhile for OS and YB to make their way through their piles of gifts, so I watched and smiled and ooh'd and aah'd over what they received. I played my role to perfect dysfunctional pitch, but there was just a smidge of uncomfortable truth breaking through my defensive walls. I was so, so uncomfortable, even if I didn't allow it to show through the outer veneer.
When we, finally, arrived home later that night, DH flipped his lid. He pointed out the unfairness and wanted to know why I hadn't said anything. "I can't believe they break the bank on OS and YB and they give you one crappy box of hand me downs! I can't believe you accept the way they treat you! They treat their dogs better than you; the dogs had more gifts than you!" And then he delivered the kicker, the line that really cracked me open - I can still hear his voice as clear as day; "No one else in the entire WORLD is allowed to treat you like they do! No one!"
And it clicked for me. It was only one tangible example of the scapegoating, the unfairness and the cruelty, but it's one of the first incidents that I was able to see from a slightly removed to normal perspective. It helped me later on as I moved into No Contact with the FOO as a way to remember that I was slighted, that the family was 'out to get me' (and keep me in my place,) and that no matter how they tried to revise history, gaslight me, diminish me or flat out lie, it wasn't true. It's not really paranoia if people are, in fact, out to get you, is it?
I carry a mental picture of that one box; those dusty/used/scratched up pans. I take it out when I need a reminder that gratitude is my choice in life, but there's no rule that says I have to be grateful for being kicked around. I don't have to be grateful for crumbs anymore; I don't need those poisoned scraps.
I'll make my own feast in life, and maybe I'll have a little of that carrot cake in the break room, too.
Love,
Vanci
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