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

External Proof of Inner Turmoil

** Warning: this post is dark and likely contains some triggers for some people.  Read at your own risk.

This post is about teeth.  Yes, teeth, again.
Why with the teeth, Vanci?  Well, I have 'bad teeth.'

Really, I do.  I take care of my teeth and I always have, but they just don't take care of me back.  Whether it's due to the lack of flouride in the water when I was kid as has been speculated or due to the fact that at one point in my early adulthood I worked between 16-18 hours per day as a waitress and lived primarily on Marlboro Reds, free soda and the occasional breadstick, I don't know.  (I was 22 and had two daughters to support while battling in court to get my psycho abusive husband out of my life.  It was a rough time, and to add to the stress, the FOO would only 'help' me so long as I tolerated their bad behavior.)

So, I have bad teeth.  They like to rot willy-nilly and I trudge to the dentist to repair the worst of the damage as I can.  But, money's been tight for a few years and there's only a limited amount of 'tooth' funding to spead around.  So, the kids teeth come first, and then DH and I take turns getting work done based on the very simple equation of; he/she who is in the most pain goes to the dentist next.

The whole dental question fascinates me, though, in the context of the twisted narcissistic order of preference that I grew up with.  I worked really hard to find a dentist that DH, DDs and I would all feel comfortable with, and we all go in every 6 months for our cleanings and whatever check ups the dentist recommends.  The rule is that if the DDs need anything done, we schedule it, do it and figure out how to make the money work.  If DH or I need something done, well, back to the pain question. 

I don't remember ever seeing a dentist when I was a kid unless I had a toothache.  No regular cleanings, no trips to the hygenist, no xrays, certainly no orthodontia.  Part of this, I'm sure, is because we moved so flippin much - who can keep up with cleaning dates when you're barely even unpacked in a house before you're packing back up?  That logic would fly under normal circumstances, but we're dealing with narcs here, so of course, there's more.

OS did go to the dentist on a regular basis.  She had orthodontic retainers, too, for her slight overbite and slightly crooked teeth as a teen.  She also had a tooth die due to trauma in her early 20's.  NM and EF willingly shelled out the money for that dental work too.  
It's just yet another example of exactly how screwed up the Crazymaker Clan was and is.

I woke up this morning with a shooting pain in one of my molars - it's been on the list for repair for awhile - and I knew right away what was going on.  I've been struggling for a couple of weeks.

Six weeks ago NM finally (after four years) called and made an appointment with my therapist.  We met.  Everything was exactly the same as it's always been on their end, but I could see where I've evolved.  They still dish the shit, but none of it gets on me anymore.  Even though we didn't resolve anything, that knowledge was a win. 
I've struggled since with acceptance of what that counseling session taught me: I'm willing to create safe parameters to have a healthy relationship with them, or to have none at all.  They are only willing to seek a way to have the same relationship that we used to.  And, really, why wouldn't they want that?  It was a lose-lose deal for me, but it was a win-win for them.  That realization of knowledge has  been keeping me up at night, because it's a game-changer for me. 

It made it clear that my NC boundaries need to change, that I need to take away their ability to contact me, even through a therapist, and make it so that NC will continue until (if) I choose to contact them.  I was working on how to accomplish this.

But then...
Two weeks ago one of my DDs revealed to me that she had been abused in a way I was previously unaware of by one of the members of the FOO, and another member of the FOO knew about it and covered it up.  I was able to take my experience with severe dysfunction and use it to help DD by validating her, believeing in her, protecting her and seeking the help that she needs with her.  It will be an ongoing process, no doubt, but she'll be fine, we'll be fine.  We'll walk through it together and we'll make it to the other side and we'll find ways to grow and learn through this painful process.

The anger, no, rage, that I feel is overwhelming right now.  I'm resisting the urge to direct that rage at myself - conditioning, conditioning, conditioning - for not protecting her, for not getting her out sooner, because I know two things: I really did the best I could with what I had at the time, which wasn't much, and at least I did finally wake up.  Was it soon enough?  No.  But at least I did make it happen.

Most of the rage is directed at the Crazymakers, because of the pain they cause(d) but also because, after all this time, all the work I've done to create space, to protect, to establish and maintain sanity and serenity, when it comes to them and their actions nothing fucking changed.  They're the same sick fucks that they were when I was a child, that they were when my DD's were younger and that they were six weeks ago in a counselor's office.

I can't change it, I can't change them, but I can change me.

So, I'm going to be slamming the doors.  I'll be taking my 'relationship' with the FOO from NC to a state of completely severed ties.  I've been struggling with the correct way to effect this while still keeping my side of the street clean, for my own health and benefit. 

In the meantime, while I try to 'do normal' during the day and allow myself time to process all this, apparently my body has decided to add a little fuel to the fire.  I had a toothache today because I clenched my jaw so hard in my sleep last night that I actually cracked one of my molars.  To cop an Alice Millerism, the body doesn't lie.  This is urgent.

The sooner I close those doors and put up the iron curtain, the better.  A girl's only got so many teeth.

Sorry for the darkess of this post, but darkness is what they have brought into my life and what they will always bring.  Once I get those doors shut I'll be working hard to open up my own windows and let the sunshine back into my soul.  Thanks for being on this journey with me.

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