Invisibility and Dark Shadows

Sometimes I feel like I'm an emotional archaeologist. 
I'm a big believer that the only way for me to move past the pain the Crazymaking FOO, particularly my pathologically narcissistic mother and enabling father, caused me from birth to No Contact is to identify it, recognize it and feel the appropriate feelings in the present that I should have been able to experience in the past.

In order to move past the painful moments of the past and recover from the side effects and symptoms that they caused, I have to acknowledge the existence of the event/trauma in order to learn now how to deal with the emotions that it caused.  But...

It's hard to remember.  I used to wonder why I had so many blank spots in my memory.  I knew that I had begun blacking out as I approached my alcoholic bottom, so that memory loss was pretty easy to explain, but my drinking blackouts really only account for a short year or so just after I turned thirty.  In fact, I really didn't start drinking in earnest until my late twenties anyway.  So, why couldn't I remember large portions of time from my childhood, adolesence and young adulthood?  Now I know that my mind created those blank spots and lack of memory for me as a defense mechanism.  I couldn't have survived some of the abuses had I been forced to carry around my feelings around them every day, so I was able to ... dis-remember them until the time came that I was strong enough to dig them up, haul them out into the light and feel what I needed to.

As part of the process of healing - both recovery from alcoholism and recovery from narcissist parents - I've had to do a lot of digging.  When I am assured that I am in a safe frame of mind and can handle the excursion, I pack my rucksack with figurative tools, from pickaxes to toothbrushes, and I hike into the missing areas of my emotional map to do some excavating.  Sometimes I find happy things; friends that I'd forgotten about, hobbies that I used to like, books that I don't remember reading but would like to read again, songs I used to like to sing.

Sometimes I uncover horribly painful, destructive, monstrously toxic and evil things - cursed mummies of memories that block out the Sun - at least for awhile.

Usually, though, what I unearth are these seemingly middle-of-the-road events that aren't very shiny on the surface and don't initially appear to carry much weight.  When I find enough of these cheap trinkets of recall, though, it's easy enough to put them together as part of a bigger picture.  Put enough subtle pain points together in a row and it's not difficult to understand why I had to blank them all out.

I've recently discovered quite a few memories within the same timeframe, and here's how they string together.

I was about five years old at this time and we lived in a very cold place.  The snow in the winter was always above my five year old head.  I remember kindergarten and the first part of first grade (before we moved, yet again.)

The Baton
My earliest memory here is in the Summer.  OS and I were playing tag outside at the edge of the woods.  She had a baton - one of the old style metal ones with white rubber weighted tips on the ends.  Somehow I made her angry - probably because she couldn't catch me, who knows - and she retaliated by ripping one of the rubber tips off her baton and throwing it into the woods, possibly at me.  She repeated this with the second tip and I remember feeling great fear, not for my physical safety from her, though she was nine or ten years old at the time, but that I was going to get in trouble.  I can't think why I would fear being in trouble based a 'bad deed' that OS did, other than to believe that this pattern was probably part of my experience at the time, already.

Of course, OS ran inside to tell (at that time) narcissistic - I'm just going to start calling him ENF, I think - dad that Vanci had broken OS's baton.  According to her, I ripped the end tips off her baton and threw them both into the woods.  I protested.  Guess who was whipped twenty times with a leather belt? 

Now, I know from my own experience as a parent that most siblings go through phases in which they will use their sisters or brothers as a shield at the drop of a hat.  I get that.  My DD's have blamed each other for broken dishes, missing items, messes and myriad other minor problems over the years.  I'm even sure that in at least a few circumstances one of my daughters has paid the price for a crime that she didn't commit.  (And thank my lucky stars that 'punishment' in my house has always been logical and condusive to growth, rather than just physical abuse all dressed up as 'discipline.'  At worst, my DD's have missed out on ice cream due to a crime they didn't commit, or been forced to go without brain-killers like TV in error.)  Still, it's hard to always have the time to sort out what's happening between siblings, and mistakes happen.  I wouldn't fault any parent for that. 

What strikes me about this particular incident with me, though, is three-fold.  First, I distinctly remember attempting to plead my case and being summarily shouted down by both OS and the parents.  It didn't matter what I had to say; the decision to 'punish' me was made before I could even say, "I didn't do it."  I remember trying desperately to be heard, and I remember being told that if I wasn't quiet, I'd have more 'whippings.' 

Second, I remember that, after my poor little bottom had been beaten black and blue - I was finally able to get them to hear me saying, through sobs, that I hadn't done this awful thing my sister claimed.  And they finally listened, not because of me, but because GCYB who was three or four years old at the time, piped up that he'd seen OS throw her baton tips away into the woods himself. 

Third, and most terribly frightening, I remember that OS was made to apologize to me for allowing me take her 'licks' with the belt, and then they asked me if I wanted OS to be whipped too.  Holy hannah, who does that to a five year old?  Of course I said no - a normal five year old doesn't want to see any other person undergoing torture, I'm pretty sure.  So... I was beaten for OS's bad temper, then I was put in a position to choose to protect my abuser (OS) from one of my other abusers (ENF) because the Golden Child YB finally told the truth in my defense after I'd been beaten.  NM, true, true, true to her form, just watched all this transpire.  She didn't come to my aid, but I'm sure that her 'non-participation' in this cluster fuck of abuse absolves her of responsibility in her mind.

The scariest part to me now is how incredibly non-existent Vanci was in all this.  I seem to have existed even at five years old as a scapegoat, whipping girl and object.  Even then at that young and tender age, they were conscientiously and consistently stripping me of my humanity.

The Spot on the Table
This is from the same period of time and house.   We'd been away for a few days, as a family, though I don't remember where. 
What I do remember is that we came home and there had been some anciliary adult taking care of our house.  Shortly after arriving home, they sat us all three down at the big oak dining room table and ENF proceeded to rant and rage about a spot on the table.  It looked like a cigarette burn.

ENF and NM smoked.  We, at 3, 5 and 9 years old, did not.  Somehow, though, even though we were young and didn't have access to cigarettes and weren't ever home without NM AND we'd all just been away from the home together, ENF decided that one of us three children were somehow resonsible for the cigarette burn on the table. 

After who knows how long being subjected to verbal abuse and rage, we were all 'punished' yet again with bare-assed whippings at the end of ENF's leather belt.  What I remember is that we were all being 'punsihed' because ENF was convinced that one or all of us were lying.  NM, again, stood by and watched this.

Apart from the obvious gaps in the Crazymakers' logic on this one - we'd been gone with them, there had been another adult (likely a smoker too as it was in the early '80's) in the house while we were gone, they were the adult smokers in the house - this incident just falls right in with the underlying patterns of crazy rage directed at the kids in the house as an outlet.  ENF was the active participant in the abuse, but NM was compicit with her inaction.

Now, all these years later, a couple of other things come to mind.  First, I remember that spot on the table.  I've seen it many times since I was five years old as they still have and use the same table.  I decided during some family meal years ago as I stared at that marr on the table that the spot is not a cigarette burn; I'm pretty sure it's a flaw in the wood and varnish that they just hadn't noticed before.  Second, I'm fairly certain now that I remember ENF and NM having a fight in the car on the way home.  Which makes me very certain that a lot of these incidents of rage toward us from ENF were simply his (f'd up) way of releasing the tension between him and NM in their (f'd up) marriage. 

And that, my friends, is about as f'd up as it gets.

Dark Shadows
Last significant memory from that house, and thank goodness because this is getting long!
I wasn't in school yet, but I remember that OS was.   I stayed home with YB and NM, who was a pretty active homemaker at the time. 

When we lived in this house NM chose to take a nap, on her bed, every afternoon, with YB.  During this two hour mommy and golden child nap time, I was not required to take a nap.  It was, however, my job to stay on the outside of NM's closed bedroom door and keep quiet. 
Okay, sanity break:  who does this?  Who leaves a five year old on her own to roam an otherwise empty house for two hours while her grown woman mother sleeps behind closed doors with the three year old son?  Wow.  She should have just given me the keys to the car and a Miller Lite tall boy.

Okay, back to the story.  Eventually, of course, I figured out how to turn the TV on.  Of the three or four channels available to us, one happened to broadcast the show Dark Shadows during nap time.  I don't remember any of the story lines or plots, but I do remember: vampires, monsters hiding in dark places, absolutley inappropriate for a five year old quasi-nudity, and being so absolutely terrified that when NM woke up from her afternoon nap, I'd often be sitting on the floor in the middle of the hallway outside NM's bedroom door. 
This went on for months. 

There are an awful lot of disturbing things to ponder in this scenario, but here's the sticking point for me.  NM later told this story over and over again in company in her 'isn't it cute' voice.  But the way she told it, man, in retrospect, what she really meant was:  Vanci was so difficult that I had to shut her out of my life every single day.  Even then, she did 'bad' things that she wasn't supposed to.  The special child in my life was safe behind closed doors with me, the good mother.  Look at what she did to herself without me there to stop her.  And look at how much she needed me, she had to sit all by herself alone in the hall waiting for me once she realized that I was the only thing that could save her from her 'bad' self. 

The fact that I remember these incidents so clearly now is astounding to me, and speaks to the depth of emotional pain that they caused me. 

Well... I think that's enough loot pulled out of this tomb of mysteries for one day.  What a lot we've learned about this endangered species from the past, don't you think?  They made me invisible, took away my humanity, broke my spirit, took away reality, isolated me, disfavored me and created scar tissue thick enough to hide the truth of my memories behind cutesy stories or outright denial of the abuse.

My primary take away is this:  the pain and suffering that the NFOO in all its incarnations caused me always existed.  If this is the way that life was for me in my earliest memories at five years old... wow, nothing ever changed. 

Thank all the saints, gods, apostles and little baby Jebus's that I got away.  And thank you, my friends, for listening and reminding me that I might have to feel those yucky feelings in order to get through them, but I don't have to expose myself to further abuse from these people ever again.

Love,
Vanci

The Tell It Like It Is Girl

That's me.  This is a nice compliment that a dear friend paid me recently.  "Vanci," she said, "You're the only friend I have that always tells the truth.  You are kind, don't get me wrong, but I know I can always count on you to tell it like it is."

Being honest is a character attribute, right?  Who doesn't want to be known for their honesty, integrity and sincerity?  But, as soon as she said it, I felt a nudge; an old FOO guilt trip the Crazymakers built into me over many, many years got triggered.

Narcs have an unprecedented ability to skew perceptions of reality, in my experience.  I'll never forget part of a conversation that I tried to have with NM early on in our seperation.  I was only willing to meet with her in counseling at the time, which was absolutely unacceptable to her.  She and the giant defensive chip on her shoulder showed up with an agenda; to get me to concede to her version of reality, admit that I was wrong and right everything by returning back to my allotted role in the family.  It was a mostly pointless attempt at conversation, but this was one of my huge take-aways:  She lies so much that in the end she doesn't know what really happened.

That's not an excuse for her behavior, just the only explanation I can come up with for this.  Interestingly, given the smear campaign she was actively spear-heading against me in the community we live in, she brought up in that counseling session that she was 'embarassed' that I 'told people that our family was dysfunctional.'  "We're not dysfunctional!" she said over and over, as if by repetition alone such a lie could be made true.  Strangely enough, I hadn't actually spoken to anyone outside of The Family about what was happening in The Family at the time, apart from one old 'family friend' who'd approached me at a civic service function.

Ms. Gossipy made it a point to get into the buffet lunch line behind me and quickly dispersed with pleasantries by asking me point blank, "How's your mother?"  I was trying to be polite but honest, so I said, "You know, Ms. Gossipy, I really haven't talked to her in a while."
She put on that evil, knowing sneer that seems to be the sole property of Minions and Flying Monkeys and said, "I know what you're doing to your mother, and I'm extremely disappointed in you!" 
My reply was quick, "I'm sorry you feel that way and I'm not willing to discuss this with you further." 

In counseling with NM, I brought this interaction up as I thought it showed clearly just who was doing the 'talking' about our dirty laundry.  I, after all, hadn't said anything to Ms. Gossipy but she'd obviously gotten her information directly from the FOO source.  NM's response, "Well, I didn't talk to her!"

I called her out, saying, "NM, of course you talked to her!  Who else would?"
"Well," she said, "she called me!"
"But you just said you didn't talk to her?!?"

So far in the conversation, NM's gone from you're being mean to me (saying things about me in the community,) to I didn't do anything (an outright lie,) to it wasn't my fault (Ms. Gossipy initiated contact, which gives me a right to engage.)  Next up;  blame shifting to me.

"Well," she said, "when Ms. Gossipy called me and I told her what was going on, she said, 'Vanci was always such a hard child for you to raise, I remember what she was like as a teenager!'"

Wow, just wow.  Not only was she able to make it true in her mind that I am just bad, since I was a bad teenager (um.... see previous posts regarding sexual abuse and repression by NM of my feelings combined with her unwillingness to create safety for me, etc...) fifteen years previously, but she was also able to make it my fault that she had to talk to someone else in the community about our bad relationship - cause I was just a bad daughter and someone we knew had to call her to find out why.

WTF?
"Why would you say that, Mom?" I asked, deeply hurt by all the insinuation that I was at fault not only for present day issues, but also that my reactionary-to-abuse smoking and drinking and promiscuity fifteen years prior was being dragged back out into the public light as proof of NM's innocence. 

"I didn't say it," she said, "I only agreed with her." 
"So you agreed with her?" I asked.
"Well you were such a diffi--"
I interrupted.  "So you agreed with her and blamed our problems today on my behavior as a teenager?"

Frustrated by my insistence on staying on the topic, she finally sputtered out, "Oh, Vanci!  What does it matter?"

I felt a bubble burst inside me.  Not relief, exactly, but I had some sense of deep, intuitive understanding that I was NOT like her and I responded with, "What's the truth, mom?  The truth is what matters!"

She was silent. 

I'm so glad that I have the ability to see and feel and hold onto and recognize and acknowledge and tell the truth.

Every bad relationship in my life has punished me for being honest. 
Every good relationship in my life has rewarded me for my honesty.
What an awesome tool to have; what an incredible, simple way to live.

No matter the situation, I always have a starting point; what's the truth?  The truth doesn't have versions, it's black and white, it happened or it didn't.  What a great litmus test of my own sanity.

I think I'll just keep tellin' it like it is.

Love,
Vanci

So That's Why They're Called Wisdom Teeth

When I was nineteen years old, I was scheduled to have my wisdom teeth removed.  It had been necessary for some time as there had never been room in my mouth for the extra molars and they'd caused me discomfort.  It was bad timing, as I was about to marry - as it would happen, I was conceding to my family's wishes and marrying the man of whom they approved, rather than man whose child I'd just delivered into the world, but that's a longer story for another day.  The marriage precipitated the push for me to finally have the teeth taken out, though, as I wouldn't be eligible for my NM's dental insurance after they'd 'given me away.' 

So, I was sent to the family dentist and told that he'd only be taking two of the four teeth in the first appointment.  He was an old-school dental doc, which means that there was no gas or anesthesia beyond localized novacain.  My mouth was crowded enough that the teeth had barely erupted and had sideways-looking roots.  It was, to be concise, awful.  Half a day in the dental chair later, I had two gaping holes in the back right side of my gums, and was sent home with a scrip for painkillers that I couldn't use as I was nursing my oldest daughter at the time.

It was a horrible enough experience that I cancelled the appointment to have the left side teeth removed.  I got married and lost dental coverage, but I didn't care. No amount of love or money could have gotten my butt back into that dentist's chair of horror. 

A few weeks later, my newly minted spouse and I moved across the country and transplanted ourselves to the deep South.  I was sitting at the kitchen table looking forward to a nice big bite of the fresh tomato sandwich I'd anticipated enjoying while my baby girl napped.  I opened up my mouth wide and snap!  My jaw cracked hard on the right side and locked up with my mouth open.  I can't remember how badly I freaked out, but I know it hurt and it scared me.  My jaw has cracked like that ever since - every time I open my mouth wide enough to take a bite of a sandwich or apple, snap! 

I've adapted and learned over the years how to position my jaw just so to avoid the loud crack and how to keep my jaw from locking up.  I'm sure there's a way to get rid of the problem entirely, but I don't really notice it much most of the time so this particular issue in my life tends to be constantly shifted to the bottom of the priority list.

The only time it truly hurts, though, is after I've spent a fair amount of time in the dental chair.  Repeatedly opening wide causes some discomfort, mostly after I've departed the dental office and been home for a while.  I think it stresses out my delicate jaw and I clamp down as a defense afterward. 

My dentist, whose office I've been loyal to for many years, recently sold his practice to a young dentist who moved into our area to assume the business.  This meant that a couple of the dental assistants left and were replaced.  Dr. New Guy and the DA's weren't familiar with my jaw, so witnessing their reactions over the last few visits has been amusing.  Every time I open my mouth and that snap! happens, they flinch and squirm in their chairs.  "Doesn't that hurt?" they ask every time.  As I'm usually sitting there with my jaw cracked open awaiting the pokes and prods, I generally just shake my head in a silent 'no.'

The last time I was in, though, and we went through the 'does it hurt?' routine, Dr. New Guy, who is pretty young and outspoken for a dentist, lowered his mask and replied in all sincerety, "Well, it should hurt!"

Huh.

He's right, you know, it should.  And if I'm honest in the truest sense of the word, well, it does hurt.  As much as pounding a nail through my hand?  No.  As much as being raped?  No.  As much as... well, the list could increase exponentially and I'd still be able to say that, no, cracking my jaw doesn't hurt as much as a lot of things that have happened to me.  But... it should, and it would without the intense conditioning against expressing any type of pain that I received as a small child. 

My ability to bear pain was one of the prime character traits that I possess that made me such a well-suited scapegoat in my FOO.  I was, from the start, the strongest of all the members in the sense of the load I was able to carry. 

I remember NM and EF bragging to other adults that 'poor Vanci had ear infections constantly for the first two years of her life, but she was always such a love and she hardly ever cried.'  It's taken me a couple of decades to process that and other statements, and some of my breakthrough on it is directly related to the dentist's chair and my damned popping jaw. 

In a nutshell; it should fucking hurt, and I should be able to fucking cry when it does. 

Maybe next time I go to the dentist and they ask the question, I'll bob my head the other direction and ask what can be done to fix the problem once and for all. 

Love,
Vanci

Not My Rock: The Big Switcheroo

The Big Switcheroo

I keep coming up against some confusion about my childhood.  Well, there’s a lot of confusion, but this particular point just keeps showing up over and over.  For a while it had the ability to stop me in my tracks, but the more frequently I’ve had to find ways over, around and through it, the more I begin to understand. 

About those character and role labels we tend to be quick to throw around and stick on people, especially people we have a hard time understanding; no sir, I don’t like ‘em.  Although it’s convenient to be able to share a common language with our current loved ones who (hopefully) understand and care about us, I think labels can create single dimension views of people and situations.  They encourage us to look at sketch drawings of memories and life events that really deserve technicolor and 3D on the big screen with surround sound blasting from all sides. 

They provide an all-too convenient box to place people in and often rule out mixed emotions, traits or subtleties.  If I announce to you that I am a Mother, that will be the box you put me in – you’ll never stop to wonder if I also happen to be a professional sky-diver or a lead singer in a rock band. 

If I tell you that I’m the daughter of a NM, you might never get to know that I am also a recovering alcoholic or that I am an artist of sorts.  The whole truly is greater than the sum of the parts, typically, especially when it comes to people and human nature.

So, labels can create confusion, at least for me.  I’ve had to spend a bit of time unraveling this particular knot... I blog here that I am the daughter of a NM and EF, and that is currently and for the last couple of decades been true.  But the older I get and the harder I work to unearth, examine and properly dispose of (again,) the skeletons in my FOO’s origin, the more I wonder.  Can a zebra change its stripes?

Because, frankly, up until a particular event happened when I was thirteen, I remember my parents differently than they were after.  The event is simply explained, though, it certainly didn’t feel simple and actually altered my life as well as the lives of my FOO very significantly.  When I was thirteen I told my mother that I was going to kill myself if we didn’t, as a family, seek counseling.

We did.  Now, we had to see a counselor in the nearest big city ninety miles away from where we lived, because we didn’t want anyone to know that my father’s perfect minister’s (yes, really, he was ordained and everything,) family was in trouble.  After six months of weekly visits, I revealed to my mother that my father had sexually molested me.  He admitted it and also admitted that he’d molested OS, too. 

The counselor did what counselors are required by law to do; he reported it to the police.  An interview was scheduled for me with my school counselor, whom I’d never actually met, a sheriff’s deputy and a health and welfare child services worker.   Unfortunately, I’d made my revelations right before Christmas break, so the interview couldn’t be scheduled until after.  I therefore had two weeks at home with my lovely family, and can see very clearly with retrospect that this is the first clear, direct incident of mass scapegoating that I was subjected to from ALL members of my family.  It was, frankly, what I would imagine hell will be like if there is one down there just for me.  They hated me for telling the truth and they had two whole weeks with me isolated and lacking allies to let me know that ALL THIS WAS MY FAULT!  I survived – don’t we always?

My mother and father sat me down the night before the big interview with the police and school counselor and ‘talked’ to me.  It’s the first time that I ever remember my mother having and using a voice as the primary force in a conversation in which my father was also present.  Prior to that day, my father had been the tyrant of the household – his voice, his choices, his mood, his preferences were all that mattered.  We did what he wanted to do.  What felt what he wanted to feel.  If he was angry, we were the cause.  If he was sad, we needed to behave appropriately sadly as well.  If he was ‘on’ and happy, then goddamnit we’d better put on those happy faces. 

In contrast, my mother had always been a sort of non-person; she was really only ever an extension of him.  If he was hungry, she provided food.  If he was talking (and he always was,) she was listening and nodding.  If he was angry, she was in the other room.  I remember my mother frequently in my early childhood memories as a sort of ‘Dad’s Shadow.’  She walked behind him and stood slightly behind him always.

The conversation when I was thirteen is the earliest evidence I can see of the seismic shift that happened in my family.  My mother did all the talking in that conversation while my dad sat quietly beside her, hands folded in his lap; contrite.  She told me that I should, of course, tell the truth.  Always tell the truth... but (you saw that coming, didn’t you?) that if I persisted in telling ‘stories’ to the police the next day, my father would go to prison for a very long time.  She told me that we would be homeless if my father went to prison; that we would lose our home and that she wouldn’t be able to feed or support us.  She asked me if that’s what I wanted.

I lied, of course.  I was thirteen years old and being given the very clear message that I was responsible for the hypothetical ruination of the only family I’d ever known if I didn’t lie. 

It changed everything for me – I went from being a straight A student who skipped the 8^th grade to getting D’s and C’s in some classes.  I started drinking and I had sex for the first time and then went on a run of promiscuity that I am still shocked didn’t have greater consequences.  I truly don’t know how I survived the next four years until I turned 17 and moved out of the house.

I’ve recognized how it changed my life for many years, but it’s only been recently that I’ve come to see how it changed the roles my parents played, too.  I don’t know the actual mechanics of it, but it seems clear that my parents traded their roles after or during that horrific period when I was thirteen.

Prior to that, my egomaniacal, aggrandizing, self-promoting, center of the universe abusive father had been the Narc and my weak, cowering, voiceless, bland mother had been the Enabler.  Then, like an emotional Chinese Fire Drill – they switched. 

Since then my mother has embraced the NM role – her primary manipulations center around her poor, poor self being so mistreated and abused (largely by her scapegoated daughter Vanci,) and her weak, fragile immune system and sickness (no real diagnosis in 15 years, but the addiction to pain killers is very, very real.)  We should all do what she wants, dontcha know, because she might not be around much longer... Sigh.

Dad’s turned into the EF.  He has no opinion unless she’s sanctioned it, his job is to support her and to keep her on that Ultimate Victim Throne.  His existence, best I can tell, is allowed solely to caretake and protect NM from reality. 

Weird, right?  I can’t help but wondering if anyone else out there has a similar experience?

Now that I’m all grown up and have a family of my own, I have a bit of understanding of the temporary nature of some roles in families and support systems.  I know how those of us in loving and mutually beneficial relationship alter our stripes somewhat based on the current need; if my DH is sick, I am his caretaker and if I am hurt or ill, he’s mine.  But these role fulfillments are temporary and situational, it seems.  No matter the short term hats we wear in crises, DH and I always revert back to our more permanent roles in the long run. 

The constantly shifting dynamics in a normal relationship appear to be a matter of only little fissures, subtle and fleeting changes.  Our zebra stripes may blur, in other words, but they don’t truly change.

In my FOO, the parental roles changed drastically and stayed that way, which makes me think that one of the underlying character flaws of either the narcissist or the enabler has got to be a complete lack of self-understanding.  Not an excuse for behavior, certainly, but the more I understand the sickness, the closer I seem to get to relief. 

Love,

Vanci