Freedom From Fear

I've been enjoying the narc-free holiday season to its fullest while surrounded by people who are lovely, loving and safe.  Though I haven't posted much over the last couple weeks, I've been thinking of you and sending out my wishes for the new year; that you will be happy, healthy and free from fear.

Fear was the primary weapon of NM, ENF, NSis and GCYB, both in my childhood and in my enslavement to the NFOO as an adult.  They counted on my fear and used it as a way to manipulate me into the position and place that they deemed me worthy of.  They used my fear to define my role as the Scapegoat and Bad Seed in order to use me to their ends and to protect themselves from blame.  That's really what all the gaslighting and mind-twisting was about, you see.  It's so much easier to remain the good guy despite your evil actions if you have a consistently believable fall guy (or gal.)

It worked for a very long time.  I was afraid of losing their 'love,' of being wrong, being bad, stepping outside of the lines.  I feared retribution and retaliation, both of the overt and subtle varieties.  I feared losing the only 'family' I'd known so much that even after I began my own family I still heeded every beck and call from the NFOO.  I was still under their spell, which was largely generated by fear of being cast out.

Even after I was reasonably sure that the structure and foundation of the family I was raised in was a sick, putrid shambles of shame, I stuck around.  I was so afraid that if I made a stand, if I stood up for what I KNEW was right against the wishes of the Crazymaker Clan, I'd be thrown out.  Banished.  I made the best of it for as long as I could even to the detriment of my family and my self; my soul, my heart, my health, my mind all suffered.   There's an old story that one cowpoke asks another who's been cleaned out by the town saloon's crooked game of Farro, "If you knew the game was crooked, why'd you play?"   And the destitute cowpoke responds, "Well, it was the only game in town!" It was truly all I knew.  But then... one day... I woke up.

I took that ultimate step of gathering my strength and my wits about me and I said, ENOUGH.  I drew a boundary even though I knew it would go down like the Hindenberg and I was very, very afraid that my boundary would bring about what I had always known would be the outcome of my bucking the system.  I'd always known, specifically since I was 13 and tried to change the NFOO dynamics, that should I step too far out of bounds, I'd be cast out.  I knew that they were all going to gang up on me.  After all, they'd certainly done it before.  Many times.

But I did it anyway, because it was right and because it had to be done.  We scapegoats are the strongest members of our clans, I believe, and if we weren't when we were originally 'chosen' for the role, years of survived abuse sure do serve to toughen us up!

So there I was, out in the desert all by myself and still carrying the piled-on sins of the members of the NFOO.  Was I lonely?  Sure.  Was I scared?  Absolutely.  Did I feel lost?  As a ball in high weeds.

I stuck to it, though, and I did this by seeking to understand.  Originally I wanted to find a way to understand them, I'll admit it.  I wanted to figure out how they ticked so that I could find a way to fix it and get things back to normal.  I was fiercely indoctrinated and well trained that this was my role, unfortunately, and a LOT of my time and energy in the first year of semi-NC was spent trying to find a way back to what was comfortable with just a few changes. I had a serious case of the IF's: if I could just be better, if I could just speak clearly, if I could just figure out a way to make it work...

I couldn't, of course, because -as I began to realize over time and with some distance from the daily ration of shit they wanted to feed me - the problem didn't lie with me.  And, sadly, they've no interest in doing better, being better, in changing.  They have a heavily invested interest in me changing BACK to what they want me to be, but that's the only problem that they see: me.

So, this stale-mate, standoff, state of perpetual No Contact remains.  I am effectively out.  My fear, it seems, was based in reality: what I knew would happen, did.

But, and here's the linchpin for me, now that I'm no longer a part of the Clan, it's been so easy to see that the result of my banishment has been 95% positive.  If I no longer have a mother, father, sister or brother, so be it, because the only mother, father, sister and brother I'd ever had were bad, mean, awful versions of a mother, father, sister and brother.

I'm free.
In the interest of trying to express on the page what I am screaming with joy, allow me to repeat;
I.  Am.  Free!

Free from their demands and vanities, free from their soul sucking and financially draining presence, free from the self doubt and manipulation that was their mainstay in the attempt to ruin Vanci.  I'm free from their labels and their late-night rants and their fucked up, sad, pathetic lives.

The 5% that I regret is that I will not be able to have a relationship with my nephew, who is my crazy NSis's son.  And that sucks.  But it's a pretty small portion, and the benefit outweighs the cost.

Mostly, though, what I relish is that I am free from fear.
I thought initially after the separation that I'd lost it all, and for awhile that's exactly what I felt like.  I sat in it long enough, though, to come to understand that what I'd really lost were the shackles of fear I'd been living in forever.  They threw me out and I survived it.  What a small step from there it was to start learning how to thrive and live in this world without fear.

I wish you all the best, and I especially wish you freedom from fear.

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