I'm a detail person, and I tend to see things from a slightly varied angle than the majority does. This is often a benefit to me in my life; I'm naturally curious about how things work, what makes the world go 'round, the how of the matter at hand. I can often think my way into the very core of a matter easily simply because I happen to see the back doors, the missed or misplaced variables, the hidden patterns. I've always been like this, and I think this tendency was developed at least in part by the intuitiveness that I developed in response to abuse as the scapegoat of the NFOO. It was a survival tactic, this seeing-around-corners vision that I can have.
That's the upside. The downside is that I can become almost obsessively mired in details. I can spend so much time living in what's right in front of me at any given moment that I fail to notice the world at large around me. I often have people that I know tell me that they've seen me at the grocery store or driving around and that they were puzzled that I didn't respond to their - often animated - attempts to get my attention. I honestly don't see them, truly, especially if I'm on a mission; kids to school, grocery list to complete, rental movies to return, make it to the post office before closing.
I've been digging into my past in an effort to understand myself better lately - ha ha, like the last five years! - and I've been examining my habits and character. I've come to a quasi-conclusion that I often fail to see The Big Picture, and I think that this is part nature and part (lack of) nurture.
I can say for sure that I have a selective vision, and that this was first developed in early childhood as a defensive measure. I think that I had to forget and not see what was truly happening around me. When a child is raised in the 'fucked up tsunami tidal wave of craziness' (thank you Lisa for that apt and colorful phrase!) that I was, it's impossible to discern real from false, up from down, love from pain. So, I think, there's a mental and emotional switch somewhere in me that I developed early on. With the flick of that switch, I can become extremely focused on and engrossed by the one thing in front of me. It's one of the reasons that I'm good at jigsaw puzzles and stacking games and spelling and finding themes and analyzing data and finding effiencies.
In flipping that switch, though, I lose sight of everything outside of my focused area. I become narrow and hindered by a lack of peripheral vision, so to speak. This can, I want to stress, be a good attribute to have. But it can also be a sort of partial blindness, particularly when I stay focused for too long on such a small spectrum.
I've been thinking about this in the context of how I filled my allotted role within the NFOO for all those years. I was the fixer, and I fixed every single thing that was handed to me, whether I agreed with the problem or the outcome and despite the back-flips and somersaults I had to do around my own opinions or moral leanings. "Linin' em up and knockin' em down," is the phrase DH uses to describe me when I get into my task-oriented mode, and my perceived value in the NFOO was directly related to my willingness to continue fixing problems, no matter how many NM, ENF, NSis and GCYB created.
But spending all that time fixing everything for them created a long-term narrow focus for me. No matter how much I tried to be a superhero with a cape, there really is only a limited amount of time in a day, and all my energy was allotted to the NFOO's crap. I missed a lot of the world outside of the Crazymaker Clan Compound. I didn't see The Big Picture - I was too busy managing the details.
In the phase that I think of as Early NC, I continued to be hung up on details; the minor slips or problems that painfully extracting myself from a dysfunctional family system caused caught all my attention. I spent days running around trying to fix minor issues - when was a good time to return the call from NM that I'd let go to voicemail? should I return it? should I have someone with me if I returned the call? should it be on speaker phone? should I let someone else listen to the voicemail to see if I was reading too much into it? if so, who? and on, and on, and on. And in doing so I failed to see The Big Picture - that she was violating a clear and firm boundary that had been clearly drawn by calling me in the first place, and that therefore meant that she was being just as disrespectful of me as she'd always been, no matter what the actual message was.
I was fortunate in that I had fantastic support that I was willing to use, so I'd take all those inane questions of minutiae to my counselor or to DH or to a friend and begin to spin on them and one of those good people would say, "Hey, Vanci. Why would you call her back? You asked her not to call and to set up a counseling appointment if you wanted to see her, and that is not this." The helped me to understand that it was a strategy and a tactic on her part to prove that my boundaries didn't matter and that she was firmly in control of when and how she'd contact me regardless of my desires. So I was able to avoid a lot of the Early NC traps because I had other people in my life that would point to the Wile E. Coyote sign on the side of the road that said in six foot tall letters: TRAP - THIS WAY.
Sometimes, even now, I can get too focused on the details. Some part of my brain that has yet to be retrained pops through every once in a while and makes a pathetic effort to hook me back into the details; "maybe it wasn't that bad?" or "wouldn't it be nice to have parents?" or "maybe they've changed?" And that's when I have to remember to look at The Big Picture.
The Big Picture is this: they've had 34 years to love me and treat me well, or at least like another member of the human race. Since I went LC followed by NC, they've had five years to suck it up, take accountability, apologize, change their continued abuse of me and stop causing pain - to me and to themselves. They've had their entire lifetimes to choose to be willing to get well and to do what it takes to work on that path.
They haven't done any of these things. Using past performance as an indicator of future behavior, I can surmise quite easily that they never will do the 'right' thing, that they will continue to choose the 'easy' thing, which is to blame me.
So they, like the proverbial fool who defines his insanity by continuing to do what he's always done while expecting a different outcome than he's always gotten, will stay the same. And I, as a truth teller and a seeker of growth will continue to work to better myself and to grow into as good a person as I can possibly be. I understand more and more as I age and grow that I have control over one thing in this world and one thing only: Me.
So The Big Picture is this, too: I'm getting better. My landscape is vibrant and crowded with good people and good things and good feelings and good thoughts. I don't know what their Big Picture looks like, but they sure as hell have no place in mine.
Love,
Vanci
Showing posts with label scapegoating. Show all posts
Showing posts with label scapegoating. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Five Years
It's been five years this month since the beginning of what I think of as Vanci's Last Stand against the NFOO. I'd been orchestrating small rebellions against my designations and roles as caretaker, problem solver, black sheep, whipping girl and scapegoat for some time - mostly subconsciously at that point - but I hadn't really drawn any clear boundaries. I capitulated a lot; I'd sort of draw a fluffy, wide, gray line and then give up when the clan members stepped on it, often immediately.
Five years ago this month, though, a concretely wrong situation took place and it became clear that my DD's were in danger. NM's addiction to narcotics wasn't anything new, but her refusal to seek help (and ability to Houdini her way into more and more precarious situations with the mind-altering substances,) really reached a boiling point then. Amazingly, even while actively drinking alcoholically, I was the single member of the NFOO who threw up a red flag and said, "Hey, we aren't prepared to deal with this, we have to seek professional help." I'm giggling a little as a type this from my cozy and clear present day perspective, not because I find her addictions or the NFOO's insane reaction to it amusing, but because it's just so damn ludicrous.
I did what I was trained to do; I took care of things. This was NM's second - that we know of - overdose binge in six months. When I got the call that NM had taken 128 hydrocodone in 48 hours (which was roughly eight times the amount her quack pusher doctor had over-prescribed) while under 'constant' surveillance from the other four adults in the NFOO who all lived with her in the same house and were supposed to be monitoring her locked up drugs, it's just so damned funny that I didn't even stop to question that this was my problem to deal with. Talk about brainwashed!
What's even more insane is that I made the only suggestion that had with it any possible hope of resolution; we need help here people. And that the NFOO's reaction to that was a resounding NO. At that point I wasn't even pushing for rehab or addiction counseling; I would have settled for even a second opinion from a different doctor as a means to satiate my desire for things to change, probably regardless of that second opinion doctor's suggestion. I was looking for anything to change, just anything. And the NFOO unanimously agreed that my suggestion to seek help was wrong, and that 'they' (read: Vanci) would just keep on doing what we'd been doing while expecting a different result.
Even in my alcohol-soaked and brainwashed state, this incident made it clear to me that the only route for change that was open to me was to change myself. I initially made a pretty weak move - so easy to see that in retrospect, but at the time it was the hardest thing I'd ever done - and simply stated (with DH) that if the NFOO's choice to deal with addiction was NOT to deal with it, my DD's would only be around them under my or DH's supervision. And if that wasn't the shot heard round the world, I don't know what was. I changed one thing; free access to my tender daughters due to rampant drug abuse. In a normal and sane framework, it's clearly the right thing to do. It's the only thing to do. As my dear friend and brother-in-law said at the time, so simply and elegantly, "Vanci, addiction trumps EVERYTHING." But not in crazy Narcland, oh no!
I had no right to change the rules of the game, in their opinions. They hauled out every single piece of artillery and ammunition at their disposal and did their best to lay waste to me and my newly discovered strength. The downward spiral of the end of my 'relationship' with NM, ENF, NOSis and GCYB was steep and swift, and that was the incident at the top of the slide.
I wish I could say that I took that initial stand of separation for my own benefit, but it wasn't the case. At the time I truly didn't value myself enough to stand up for me, but at the very least I could stand up for the DDs, with DH's help. And that, as they say, was the first step to freedom.
It got rough, and then it got rougher and then the entire flaming bag of dog poo that was my relationship with the NFOO just exploded all over the place. And there I stood, covered in shit.
It took awhile to realize that I wasn't standing alone. It took longer to reach out to those people who stood with me and longer still to trust them with my heart and hopes and my worth. It took almost a year and a half after that incident five years ago for me to even realize that I had a bit of a teensy problem with addiction too, "Got the gene!" as DH used to say. And once I wrung myself out, it took a lot of work and a lot of time to realize that this single incident five years ago was a catalyst for my expulsion from the NFOO, but it wasn't the reason in and of itself. The abuse had been there... forever. My desire and ability to see it and understand it was a long time coming.
I'm thinking tonight, though, about that small crowd of supportive people who reached out to me, loved me and helped me walk through the darkest times. There weren't many in number, but they were real and honest and caring and they kept me going. Five years later, most of those people are still in my life; they're my tribe, my friends, my family of choice. They love me for me and I love them for them.
I've changed in myriad ways for the better; stronger, sober, happier, more truthful, more real, funnier, clearer, and those wonderful people in my life have held my hand the whole way. At times those people have dragged me kicking and screaming back onto the path and at times they've run to catch up with me, but they are a constant in my recovery and instrumental to my healing.
The NFOO remains almost exactly as they were five years ago with the sole exception that they can only blame me for their misery from afar. My absence has created a far bigger hole in their lives than theirs has in mine, I'm certain of it.
Five years. Five long years of digging and scraping and remembering and moving forward and helping and learning and healing and rejoicing and building and loving.
All these things, these feelings, this growth - all are only possible for me because I've been able to keep myself safe from the Crazymaker Clan for five years.
Hip hip hooray for five years of freedom!
Love,
Vanci
Five years ago this month, though, a concretely wrong situation took place and it became clear that my DD's were in danger. NM's addiction to narcotics wasn't anything new, but her refusal to seek help (and ability to Houdini her way into more and more precarious situations with the mind-altering substances,) really reached a boiling point then. Amazingly, even while actively drinking alcoholically, I was the single member of the NFOO who threw up a red flag and said, "Hey, we aren't prepared to deal with this, we have to seek professional help." I'm giggling a little as a type this from my cozy and clear present day perspective, not because I find her addictions or the NFOO's insane reaction to it amusing, but because it's just so damn ludicrous.
I did what I was trained to do; I took care of things. This was NM's second - that we know of - overdose binge in six months. When I got the call that NM had taken 128 hydrocodone in 48 hours (which was roughly eight times the amount her quack pusher doctor had over-prescribed) while under 'constant' surveillance from the other four adults in the NFOO who all lived with her in the same house and were supposed to be monitoring her locked up drugs, it's just so damned funny that I didn't even stop to question that this was my problem to deal with. Talk about brainwashed!
What's even more insane is that I made the only suggestion that had with it any possible hope of resolution; we need help here people. And that the NFOO's reaction to that was a resounding NO. At that point I wasn't even pushing for rehab or addiction counseling; I would have settled for even a second opinion from a different doctor as a means to satiate my desire for things to change, probably regardless of that second opinion doctor's suggestion. I was looking for anything to change, just anything. And the NFOO unanimously agreed that my suggestion to seek help was wrong, and that 'they' (read: Vanci) would just keep on doing what we'd been doing while expecting a different result.
Even in my alcohol-soaked and brainwashed state, this incident made it clear to me that the only route for change that was open to me was to change myself. I initially made a pretty weak move - so easy to see that in retrospect, but at the time it was the hardest thing I'd ever done - and simply stated (with DH) that if the NFOO's choice to deal with addiction was NOT to deal with it, my DD's would only be around them under my or DH's supervision. And if that wasn't the shot heard round the world, I don't know what was. I changed one thing; free access to my tender daughters due to rampant drug abuse. In a normal and sane framework, it's clearly the right thing to do. It's the only thing to do. As my dear friend and brother-in-law said at the time, so simply and elegantly, "Vanci, addiction trumps EVERYTHING." But not in crazy Narcland, oh no!
I had no right to change the rules of the game, in their opinions. They hauled out every single piece of artillery and ammunition at their disposal and did their best to lay waste to me and my newly discovered strength. The downward spiral of the end of my 'relationship' with NM, ENF, NOSis and GCYB was steep and swift, and that was the incident at the top of the slide.
I wish I could say that I took that initial stand of separation for my own benefit, but it wasn't the case. At the time I truly didn't value myself enough to stand up for me, but at the very least I could stand up for the DDs, with DH's help. And that, as they say, was the first step to freedom.
It got rough, and then it got rougher and then the entire flaming bag of dog poo that was my relationship with the NFOO just exploded all over the place. And there I stood, covered in shit.
It took awhile to realize that I wasn't standing alone. It took longer to reach out to those people who stood with me and longer still to trust them with my heart and hopes and my worth. It took almost a year and a half after that incident five years ago for me to even realize that I had a bit of a teensy problem with addiction too, "Got the gene!" as DH used to say. And once I wrung myself out, it took a lot of work and a lot of time to realize that this single incident five years ago was a catalyst for my expulsion from the NFOO, but it wasn't the reason in and of itself. The abuse had been there... forever. My desire and ability to see it and understand it was a long time coming.
I'm thinking tonight, though, about that small crowd of supportive people who reached out to me, loved me and helped me walk through the darkest times. There weren't many in number, but they were real and honest and caring and they kept me going. Five years later, most of those people are still in my life; they're my tribe, my friends, my family of choice. They love me for me and I love them for them.
I've changed in myriad ways for the better; stronger, sober, happier, more truthful, more real, funnier, clearer, and those wonderful people in my life have held my hand the whole way. At times those people have dragged me kicking and screaming back onto the path and at times they've run to catch up with me, but they are a constant in my recovery and instrumental to my healing.
The NFOO remains almost exactly as they were five years ago with the sole exception that they can only blame me for their misery from afar. My absence has created a far bigger hole in their lives than theirs has in mine, I'm certain of it.
Five years. Five long years of digging and scraping and remembering and moving forward and helping and learning and healing and rejoicing and building and loving.
All these things, these feelings, this growth - all are only possible for me because I've been able to keep myself safe from the Crazymaker Clan for five years.
Hip hip hooray for five years of freedom!
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
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
In Utero Scapegoat
The story of my birth is one that I have heard over and over again. It was the subject of company-for-dinner conversation from as early as I can remember and was dutifully trotted out in ENF's sermons once he became ordained. He hailed it as proof of a divine miracle. I recall the legend being told over and over again, growing in length and hair-raising detail over the years. I can't count how many times I sat through the torturous explanations of what had happened to bring me into the world, they were so many.
I do remember thinking that it was weird, how eager ENF and NM were to share this story with anyone and everyone who would listen, but I was a little girl and couldn't quite put my finger on what exactly was strange about it. We do grow accustomed, after all, to believing that our childhood homes are the norm and that our parents are just like every other parent, at least in early childhood. We've no experience with the rest of the world until we begin to spend time in it. A child's home really is his or her entire universe in those first few years. I only began the painful process of seeing that my 'family' was very different from other real families after many, many interactions with those other more 'normal' families many years later. Sufficient was the pain of these revelations - and the then-certain knowledge that my being aware of the differences would only cause me greater pain as I couldn't change the situation - that I shoved the revelations so deeply into my psyche that it would years of digging to get them back out in the light.
In a nutshell, the story goes, I almost died being born and my mother almost died in the process. At full term, the lining of the placenta detached from the wall of NM's uterus. This is dangerous and happens fairly frequently, but it's often manageable. Adding to the danger in my/our case, though, the placenta tore away from the uterus at the point where the umbilcal cord was seated in the uterine wall. Effectively, this cut off my lifeline and caused massive hemoraging for my mother. ENF rushed us to the hospital, which was a large one with one of the first neo-natal care units in the country. Through emergency C-section, NM and baby were saved. End scene.
It's a good story and one that bears re-telling, I think. It's dramatic and some would say miraculous and there's a good ending to it. I have to say that I'm awfully glad it didn't turn out differently. So, hearing about it in one context is pretty regular, I think. If I'd gone through something like this in delivering my daughters, I'm sure it's a story I would share.
I've been reflecting on the ways that I heard this story told throughout my childhood and young adult life, and wondering why it keeps popping up for me as a recurring memory. Why do I keep randomly thinking of the story of my birth? Today I had a mini-epiphany: in the hundreds of times that I heard this story of my birth, it was never referred to as the story of my birth. And this is where it gets weird.
This was usually presented by ENF as the story of how his wife almost died giving birth to Vanci. When he was busily slinging the story about from the pulpit, he told this as the story of the event that made him re-dedicate his life to god. When he told this story casually, he told it as the heroic tale of how fast he drove to get his wife to the hospital, or of his Datsun car that never ran again or the story of the police escort he was given due to the amount of blood in the car.
When he told it, the story of my birth was about him and what he almost lost, how heroic he was, what my near-death and that of his wife did for him spiritually and - of all things - what happened to his car because of this incident.
When NM told this story, she talked about her certain knowledge when she stood up thinking that her water had broken and saw blood instead that her baby was dead. She talked about how it was so lucky that OS was already with grandmother and that ENF had filled up the gas tank of the car. She talked about her monstrous scar and how she almost died from blood loss on the operating table and how she almost died again from the general anesthesia. She talked about how they gave her so much anesthesia that she was out for a long time (this part is hazy for me as I've heard different versions - two days, three days, all the way up to a week,) and then has gone on to express how awful it was for her to not be able to see her baby right away after birth.
When she told it, the story of my birth was about her and what she almost lost, where my sister was at the time, how heroic ENF was, how much she suffered and how hard it was for her to cope with the after-effects of anesthesia.
I've never, in all those re-tellings, heard either of my parents express how heavy their hearts were with grief as I lay almost-dead in an incubator for a week. The closest they've ever come within my earshot was to express how upsetting the information they received from the doctors was because they couldn't seem to make up their minds as to whether I'd die, be braindamaged or some other awful fate. They've said that lack of oxygen was a concern and that I'd lost sixty percent of my blood at delivery. That I was small and didn't seem to thrive. That it was a miracle that I survived and that ENF prayed while NM was in surgery and promised his god that he (ENF) would rededicate his life to god if god would just save NM and the baby.
I'm pretty sure that they think that god saved me because of ENF's prayers. Maybe he did, who the hell am I to know? But I'm getting the distinct impression as I re-visit the re-tellings that there were a few common themes to all of the stories:
1. NM almost died several times laboring to bring me into the world; the implication being that I almost killed her.
2. ENF saved her, whether through proper maintenance of a vehicle or through god, depending on the audience.
3. Even before I had a name, I caused them pain.
I'm pretty sure that I was a scapegoat before I was even born. How sad. How very, very sad. What a heavy burden to lay on a child.
In reading back through what I've written here, I can see that words are failing me. From an exterior view, this could just be the story of a child who was almost lost in childbirth. But, taken as a whole and with what would then become future proof of my faults as told by my Nparents, it becomes clear that this story was only the beginning of my scapegoat status.
As a child and a young adult, I also heard the stories of how sickly I was as a toddler. Apparently I suffered from ear infections and was, to quote NM "so very difficult, you just didn't ever seem to feel good." I didn't speak until I was three, I've heard, and then just began speaking in full sentences: my first words in order of appearance were 'mama,' 'daddy,' and 'I want a sailboat.' NM liked to haul this out as proof of my obvious intelligence. I can't help wondering what I knew and had already learned not to say.
As these memories have appeared more and more frequently to me lately, I've been trying to puzzle together why this story, of all the stories I have from childhood, seems to signify. Why does it keep popping up to resonate with me?
I've turned to my own experience as a mother, as I often do for clarity and understanding, and I know what I have thought and felt and said when my DD's have asked me about their births. There's some push inside me to minimize the telling of the amount of pain I went through while in labor with them. I tend to tell them more about what I did while I was in labor - colored in Scooby Doo coloring books, hey, it helped - than to expound upon the many ways that I hurt or suffered or labored to bring them to the planet.
There's something there, I think, that my psyche's trying to push to the surface. I think it must have to do with intention. I wonder if the Nparents intention in telling, telling and re-telling the story of my delivery was to lay the foundation that I would so firmly beat myself with later in life: that I OWED THEM.
What do you think? I can't quite put my finger on it...
Love,
Vanci
I do remember thinking that it was weird, how eager ENF and NM were to share this story with anyone and everyone who would listen, but I was a little girl and couldn't quite put my finger on what exactly was strange about it. We do grow accustomed, after all, to believing that our childhood homes are the norm and that our parents are just like every other parent, at least in early childhood. We've no experience with the rest of the world until we begin to spend time in it. A child's home really is his or her entire universe in those first few years. I only began the painful process of seeing that my 'family' was very different from other real families after many, many interactions with those other more 'normal' families many years later. Sufficient was the pain of these revelations - and the then-certain knowledge that my being aware of the differences would only cause me greater pain as I couldn't change the situation - that I shoved the revelations so deeply into my psyche that it would years of digging to get them back out in the light.
In a nutshell, the story goes, I almost died being born and my mother almost died in the process. At full term, the lining of the placenta detached from the wall of NM's uterus. This is dangerous and happens fairly frequently, but it's often manageable. Adding to the danger in my/our case, though, the placenta tore away from the uterus at the point where the umbilcal cord was seated in the uterine wall. Effectively, this cut off my lifeline and caused massive hemoraging for my mother. ENF rushed us to the hospital, which was a large one with one of the first neo-natal care units in the country. Through emergency C-section, NM and baby were saved. End scene.
It's a good story and one that bears re-telling, I think. It's dramatic and some would say miraculous and there's a good ending to it. I have to say that I'm awfully glad it didn't turn out differently. So, hearing about it in one context is pretty regular, I think. If I'd gone through something like this in delivering my daughters, I'm sure it's a story I would share.
I've been reflecting on the ways that I heard this story told throughout my childhood and young adult life, and wondering why it keeps popping up for me as a recurring memory. Why do I keep randomly thinking of the story of my birth? Today I had a mini-epiphany: in the hundreds of times that I heard this story of my birth, it was never referred to as the story of my birth. And this is where it gets weird.
This was usually presented by ENF as the story of how his wife almost died giving birth to Vanci. When he was busily slinging the story about from the pulpit, he told this as the story of the event that made him re-dedicate his life to god. When he told this story casually, he told it as the heroic tale of how fast he drove to get his wife to the hospital, or of his Datsun car that never ran again or the story of the police escort he was given due to the amount of blood in the car.
When he told it, the story of my birth was about him and what he almost lost, how heroic he was, what my near-death and that of his wife did for him spiritually and - of all things - what happened to his car because of this incident.
When NM told this story, she talked about her certain knowledge when she stood up thinking that her water had broken and saw blood instead that her baby was dead. She talked about how it was so lucky that OS was already with grandmother and that ENF had filled up the gas tank of the car. She talked about her monstrous scar and how she almost died from blood loss on the operating table and how she almost died again from the general anesthesia. She talked about how they gave her so much anesthesia that she was out for a long time (this part is hazy for me as I've heard different versions - two days, three days, all the way up to a week,) and then has gone on to express how awful it was for her to not be able to see her baby right away after birth.
When she told it, the story of my birth was about her and what she almost lost, where my sister was at the time, how heroic ENF was, how much she suffered and how hard it was for her to cope with the after-effects of anesthesia.
I've never, in all those re-tellings, heard either of my parents express how heavy their hearts were with grief as I lay almost-dead in an incubator for a week. The closest they've ever come within my earshot was to express how upsetting the information they received from the doctors was because they couldn't seem to make up their minds as to whether I'd die, be braindamaged or some other awful fate. They've said that lack of oxygen was a concern and that I'd lost sixty percent of my blood at delivery. That I was small and didn't seem to thrive. That it was a miracle that I survived and that ENF prayed while NM was in surgery and promised his god that he (ENF) would rededicate his life to god if god would just save NM and the baby.
I'm pretty sure that they think that god saved me because of ENF's prayers. Maybe he did, who the hell am I to know? But I'm getting the distinct impression as I re-visit the re-tellings that there were a few common themes to all of the stories:
1. NM almost died several times laboring to bring me into the world; the implication being that I almost killed her.
2. ENF saved her, whether through proper maintenance of a vehicle or through god, depending on the audience.
3. Even before I had a name, I caused them pain.
I'm pretty sure that I was a scapegoat before I was even born. How sad. How very, very sad. What a heavy burden to lay on a child.
In reading back through what I've written here, I can see that words are failing me. From an exterior view, this could just be the story of a child who was almost lost in childbirth. But, taken as a whole and with what would then become future proof of my faults as told by my Nparents, it becomes clear that this story was only the beginning of my scapegoat status.
As a child and a young adult, I also heard the stories of how sickly I was as a toddler. Apparently I suffered from ear infections and was, to quote NM "so very difficult, you just didn't ever seem to feel good." I didn't speak until I was three, I've heard, and then just began speaking in full sentences: my first words in order of appearance were 'mama,' 'daddy,' and 'I want a sailboat.' NM liked to haul this out as proof of my obvious intelligence. I can't help wondering what I knew and had already learned not to say.
As these memories have appeared more and more frequently to me lately, I've been trying to puzzle together why this story, of all the stories I have from childhood, seems to signify. Why does it keep popping up to resonate with me?
I've turned to my own experience as a mother, as I often do for clarity and understanding, and I know what I have thought and felt and said when my DD's have asked me about their births. There's some push inside me to minimize the telling of the amount of pain I went through while in labor with them. I tend to tell them more about what I did while I was in labor - colored in Scooby Doo coloring books, hey, it helped - than to expound upon the many ways that I hurt or suffered or labored to bring them to the planet.
There's something there, I think, that my psyche's trying to push to the surface. I think it must have to do with intention. I wonder if the Nparents intention in telling, telling and re-telling the story of my delivery was to lay the foundation that I would so firmly beat myself with later in life: that I OWED THEM.
What do you think? I can't quite put my finger on it...
Love,
Vanci
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
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
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
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
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
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 8th 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
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