Thursday, February 21, 2013

Side-Stepped THAT Landmine

I didn’t really want her, but to use her, yes that would suit me.  She was pretty enough in the face for me to keep my eyes there, though some of the time my wandering eyes fell on her other parts as well.  Much of our time was spent flirting, using innuendos wherever and whenever we could.

We’d been put together at a very young age, “married” twice before we were 10.  I’m certain that my mother had maneuvered us that way so that I would actually marry her later when the time came.  It was during our childhood that I came to think of her as something to be used, to get my jollies, and move on.  Ok, so as a ten year old, I did not say that exactly…but I did feel similarly.  She was always there; during parties, gatherings, or just to come over.  Our mothers were friends and I’m sure that the whole scenario between us made my mother drool for joy.  As younglings, my sister and she were something of companions, possibly friends, and thus I saw her frequently, as both my mother and sister could lay claim to some form of relationship and it served my mother’s purposes to always have her around.

My mother was molding me.  Because of that and because my mother could see what type of girl my young marriage partner was going to be, we were set up together.  My mother knew that I would come to objectify women and girls – because that’s precisely what she was training me to do, and the little girl she wanted to set me up with would eventually just become a physically-older version of her toddler-self. She would objectify herself because that’s how she thought she should be viewed.  It was only natural that a learned “objectifyer” would see her as an object. She was being fed thoughts, I was being fed thoughts, and that was how we navigated in the world and to each other.

It wasn’t until college and a while after that I began flirting with her.  At the time, I was not interested in sleeping with her, or kissing her, or even touching her.  It was enough for me to look at her, and use innuendo.  She was something to look at, something to use.  She became one of my Objects.  I remember not liking the clothes she wore, but I wasn’t completely aghast at them either.  She often wore revealing clothing, things that didn’t fit.  She was overweight and frequently let herself hang out of her clothes.  I did not like her flesh spilling out her shirt or over her waistband, or that the skirts she always wore would have been more suitable as tube-tops for toddlers.  But at the same time, I was looking.  I would have preferred something like that on someone skinnier.  And that made me superficial – that I was only thinking about her in terms of her weight and what she wore.

Then again. There wasn’t much more to her than her weight and what she wore.

She was brought up to think of me as her own.  I was her Object.  When I met and married my wife, Exhibit A’s “best friend” was “taken away” from her.  I was only allowed to be her best friend, not a husband or father.  None of that.  She had taken ownership of me because that’s what she and I were fed; that possession was nine tenths of the law of relationships.  She latched on, and continues to do so, intoxicated by the liquor of our youth.  My mother saw her as a template of all the other people that I should have in my life.  My mother drove that point home with me, drove it hard so that I ended up only falling in line with people like that; those who exploit and those who are exploited.  It wasn’t until my wife that everything changed – to put simply.  She was essentially the opposite of everyone I knew – she had strong sense of self; developed thoughts and opinions; expectations to be treated with respect and kindness; expectations of her spouse as well.  It was at this time that their War on Truth accelerated to Ludicrous Speed.

In hindsight, which has the eternal habit of being crystal clear, I am glad I never developed a romantic relationship with Exhibit A – although it wouldn’t have been surprising if I had.  We both had similar outlooks at the time: to be as superficial as possible; and use sexuality as we see fit.  Add social media, and in particular, the 150 character internet soap-box, and she damn-near has several Twitter-gasms a day.

She’s a hypocrite who preaches “love, not hate” but will proclaim her hatred for the next three people that annoy her.  She’s a coward that will bully, boast and blaspheme, gossip and gloat, but never, ever participate in a face-to-face confrontation or say directly and clearly how she feels.  There’s very little that would drag the truth from her in a face-to-face standoff, if anything. I believe her esteem is directly proportional to how much of herself she can let hang out of her clothes.  And then of course, how much she can talk about how it’s all just an accident and she doesn’t really want gropey men ogling her.  When, really… that is what she wants.  Hey Exhibit A…when a cashier asks cash or credit, that is not a proposition.  She flaunts herself then chastises those whose attention she’s caught.  She’s two faced, befriending with not a sour word to say in person, but belittling and critical when your back is turned.  She’s vile, with a habit of denying all realities but her own twisted one.  Her very real problems are too difficult for her to face, so she hides behind her #princessprobs.  She uses people in whatever way she needs at the moment.  She’s got her clique of frenemies which she’ll either be embedded with or will turn on in a second if it suits her and she’ll get something out of it.  I know she’s done that to me: spit out pleasantries to me but the moment I turn my back, she’s vomiting hellacious lies about me, and my family (of choice).  She’s driven by how much drama she can cause or how much drama she can dig up.  Then spreading it, or not spreading it, depending how the situation will best meet her needs.  If she’s not being heard or she doesn’t have her world’s attention, then she will find a way to get it because she thinks she’s that important.  She’s not. 

I’d tell her to self-reflect, but why bother?  In her, I see a decrepit attic, cob webs inhabiting most of the ceiling and the few nick-knacks that dot the floor.  Oh, the floor is rotting out too, and I can see the air, heavy and burdened with dust particles and mold spores.  Nope, no one’s been here for a while, and I doubt if ever there will be.

My extensive flirtations with her, my ogling, my perception of her “objectness” was a disgusting and degrading display of my perception of her, and women in general.  I had no respect for her because I was taught she didn’t deserve any.  She didn’t have respect for herself because she was taught that she doesn’t deserve any.  Perfect match.  Her lack of self-esteem translated to a disregard of proper fitting clothes, and a pervasive need to be the center of attention at all times. 

I didn’t really have it out with her or a number of other people as I should have, but at the time I was unwilling – I didn’t see or want to see what I was or what they were.  I let it go, all of it, not defending myself, or my wife.  Now I feel like I’m missing something that I should have done.  I feel that I haven’t taken some action that needed to be taken.  It was having that confrontation and exposing them, exposing the truth of what they are, what they did to me.  That was why I wanted to send the “invitation” of sorts to her; in order to have a possible bout of verbal judo.  I’m still waiting, and I suspect I will be for some time. 

They’re all wrong about me.  About my wife.  About my kids.  The ugliness they spit is a reflection on the ugliness they  have within themselves.  I know what they have all said.  I know what they have all done.  I am not their possession, and they are not mine.  I owe them nothing.  And Exhibit A? Put some clothes on.

I see how twisted and foul my thoughts and behaviors were.  I see how I treated others in my past and how that was a reflection on my outlook in general.  I see it and I’m out.  I’m out for good.  That life is for someone else, someone who doesn’t care about himself, someone who doesn’t care about anyone else either.  Someone who doesn’t care about integrity, honesty, love, esteem, honor, respect.  Someone who doesn’t want those things.  I am a better, more productive, more loving me because I see what it means to be honest, respectful, proud, to have integrity and such is the way of my life.  I remember always how I thought, how I behaved, my objectification, and how I was treated.  I will not go back to that.  Ever. And that’s the difference between me and them.

Tuesday, December 11, 2012

When Anons Attack

I'm not surprised my wife and I received some anonymous comments outing us. 

Anonymous, 12/4/2012 said: [My real name], [my wife's real name] makes it very easy to find your sister, which in turn leads to your mother, which in turn leads to you and [wife's real name]. Cyber-crumbs are so easy to follow. If your going to dissect your sister like a lab rat, at least have the courtesy to do a better job of protecting her anon state, just like you and [wife's real name] try to do for yourselves. You are being hypocrites otherwise.  PS [wife's real name] does not come off sounding as though she practices unconditional love. She sounds more like a mean girl mocking a troubled girl. She sounds like a cyber bully looking for approval of her own low self esteem. Kind of sad. on It's Not My Fault

Anon, you are wrong.

Do you think that my wife and I don't share what goes on our blogs?  Our posts and the comments we get?  Tattling on my wife does you no good since I'm already aware of everything that goes up on her blog, and she on mine.

The person you describe in your comment more accurately portrays my mother, not my wife.  Without a doubt, you haven't a clue what my wife is actually like or who she is, but you don't care to either do you?  You're blind to all the shit my FOO has subjected her to, all the attacks, just so you can have your little show on here.   You're a coward and a maggot, a slimy, crusty little creature with nothing but excrement in your veins.  You slither and slink your way through life as you chastise my wife for speaking the truth.  Cut the shit.  Where my wife chooses to love, she does unconditionally, and fuck you for saying otherwise.  She doesn't expect her children to owe her anything.  She loves them, cares for them, nurtures them simply because they are her children.  You are contemptuous for no other reason than to attack my wife for speaking truth.  Why are you so intent on pretending to defend my sister and my mother?  Hit a nerve have we?  My wife does not waiver in her beliefs, her commitments to me or her children, her commitments to herself.  This is not a sign of a weak or of a woman who lacks self-esteem.  She radiates confidence, her demeanor speaks to this, as does it to compassion, a trait which she also possesses but that you refuse to see - my wife's letter to my sister is just one example.  A "mean girl" would not reach out to my sister as my wife did.  A "mean girl" would not be empathetic to her.  A "mean girl" would not offer support as my wife did.  The only bully I see here is you.  My wife's actions don't fit with your preconceived notions of her but you have never bothered to take the time to consider that.

Don't bother digging your head out of your ass though, I don't want your shit-stained vision anywhere near me or my wife.  And what's "sad" here is not my the woman I love, but your projection of low-self esteem - your constant need of approval from my mother.  That's why you made these comments.  Because you're using my sister, just like the rest of my NM's fucked up followers. Your "defense" of her is just an attempt to garner approval, to win some brownie points from the All-mighty Parasite Queen herself. I can see you've come in with sides already taken, with preconceived notions. You didn't bother considering anything else.  People like you see what you want to see, no matter what you've been reading.  That, or you know where to go to get the information that will only make you look good and my wife look bad.  To you, and to the rest of my FOO, my wife is the ultimate villain: loving, articulate, intelligent, honest, righteous, courageous.  All the things you, and they are not.  All the things you all pretend to be.

My wife is Loving - I have seen her pain when her kids are deeply upset or hurt, or hell, even when other children are upset or hurt; I have seen her whole self light up and be genuinely happy right along with her kids when they are happy or excited about something- a drawing, finding a toy, singing, whatever. Her eyes light up when they come in the room. Her eyes light up for them, just because they are who they are.

My wife is as strong as they come - Sure, continue to hang on to that notion that SHE'S the one lacking self-esteem, as she bolsters her children's spirit with praise and pride.  A mother with no self-esteem raises children like my sister and I. My wife never backs down, she never gives up. She fights for what is right, she fights for those she loves. She fights in the face of bullies and cowards who just want to tear her down. And she keeps going.

My wife is Articulate and Intelligent - her opinions are always backed with research and well thought-out reasons, never presented with condescension or condemnation, but with clarity and supporting information; we are no strangers to lengthy discussions.

My wife is Honest - She calls it as she sees it, she holds on to the Truth, even when assholes like you come along and try to shut her down. She works harder than most to be honest with herself, never fearing self-reflection. She does not ask of others what she does not expect of herself.

My wife is Righteous - She knows right from wrong, holds steadfast to her morals, knows it's wrong to be treated like shit and do nothing about it, or to demand respect without earning it.  Her moral compass is correctly calibrated.  She'll stand up for herself, her family where she sees fit.  Provoke the Mama Bear, and you will get mauled.  Count on it.

My wife is Courageous - None but a courageous woman would still be standing, and fight back after the onslaught my FOO so graciously provided.  Indeed, to fight for a marriage with an ACON is to be nothing but truly strong and courageous.  To be blind to this fact is downright disgusting and disgraceful, not only to my wife, but to those who've endured similar challenges.

I imagine: Anon the peon addressing Queen Parasite: "Look look look!  I said words!  Did I do a good job, did I, did I?  Huh, huh, tell me, didn't I do it so good for you?  Oh oh, tell me I did!" Anon, you don't actually have to say that to say that.

So here it is, you asshole: Fuck off. You're nothing but a puss-filled blister.  Crash-test dummies are more human than you are.

In all seriousness, you can keep my mother and her delusions. You can have them.  Good luck with that.

Thursday, December 6, 2012


Hey FOO?

I'm not going to be your shitting pot.
I'm not going to let you walk all over me.
I know you smear me and mine behind my back.
When you shit on me and my family that does not make me want anything to do with you.  Hm, yes, lets lie to his face, rip him and his family to shreds behind his back, and maybe THEN he'll come back, because we're all better than him anyway.
I know that's that you think.
I didn't make my sister try to kill herself.
I didn't abandon anyone.
I grew the fuck up.
Take a moment to dig your heads out of your own asses and take that in, won't you? 

I didn't fuck up your lives, they were already fucked to begin with.

I know you have the emotional depth of pond scum.
I know that you you don't care about anyone but yourselves.
I know that residing in you is a. nothing at all, or b. a rotting pile of human remains.
Perhaps that's not really fair to the human remains though.

I know that you'll never know what it means to care about someone, and more specifically, about me.  Does it strike anyone as completely absurd that in an attempt to make my mother happy, her daughter attempted suicide?  No, huh?  Oh that's right, because it's my fault and NOT the one fucking person who raised her to be a puppet, to have no self-esteem, to never ever live in reality, to believe that her brother is her protector.  No, don't look at that person because she paints too pretty a picture for that.  You know, I even think she goes to church.  Oh thine pious mother!  Your son and daughter are not worthy!  May they bow to your mightiness in all it's raucous glory!  May thine daughter mirror your very self, and may your son bestow upon his two women his entire self for slaughter. 

Can it be?  That this woman lies?  Nay!  Say it isn't so!  Her house is done up so nicely.  And that's what it's all about right, the way everything looks?  Don't look at interpersonal relationships and how fucked they are.  No way, Nope.  She's divorced?  Well that's common these days anyway.  Twice?  Well I'm sure there was a good reason.

Yeah, she had a "good reason".  Many "good reasons".  She got a "good reasoning" every day for years, I'm sure. 

But that's old news to you isn't it.  I'm sure you've forgotten all about that and focused on the easier target: me.  Yeah sure, what did I do to cause that shit.

What a mean piece of shit son that LSV is, right?  Look what he's done to his mother and sister and EVERYONE!

I mean, what do you think you're going to get from me now anyway?  Some sympathy?  That I'm going to say fuck everything I've made here! and come running?

Got some news for you FOO:



Monday, December 3, 2012

It's Not My Fault

The holiday season is upon us, and yet, celebratory moods seem elusive to me now.  A month ago I sent my sister a letter after my former stepfather accosted my front door demanding to be heard.  He delivered the news of his daughter’s (my sister’s) recent induction into the hospital for attempted suicide, and stayed for a little chat with our local police department.  As I’ve said, it wasn’t a surprise that my sister would attempt to end her life, that sign was all too clear from her tweets.

I was surprised when a letter was delivered to me at work from my sister.  It was hand written one page.  I was damn near terrified to read it, anxious too.  I called my wife and I opened it over the phone with her.  I read it aloud and in doing so felt the familiar sadness and pull of guilt grinding down.  She blamed me for her attempted suicide, for her mental disorders, for our mother’s sadness.  She wanted me to save her.  God, did she guilt the hell out of me.  I couldn’t discuss it very long over the phone as I ended the letter; I was crying.  I was sad for the little girl my mother was so hastily and completely obliterating.  I was sad that my sister was so enmeshed with my mother that she would take her own life to make her mother happy.  I was sad for the little girl who had a mother who would never love her and care about her as she needed.  I was sad for the little boy in me who experienced the same thing.  So I cried.

I told my wife that this letter required a response, and she concurred.  Over the course of several days, my wife and I crafted our responses, both hand-written.  I was punched with emotion when my wife told me she wanted to write something to my sister too.  Though, I shouldn’t have been all that surprised, she’s always had my back.  Five hand-written pages later, I had the most emotion and caring that my sister would have ever experienced.  I knew that down to my very atomic core.  I put a lot of myself into that letter to her, explaining that I do care about her but she needs to jettison herself far far away from that family she’s with.  Find a new support system, a therapist, and look at her mother for what she is.  I knew that my sister would not accept everything in what I wrote, but in cramming so much stuff in there, I was hoping that maybe a single seed of thought would sprout.


I received your letter dated November 12, 2012 today.   I’ve included with this letter the information I sent to you in a letter on November 5 and again in an e-mail November 18 because I have no idea if you got it.  I care about you and your well-being. I want you to have a better life.

I did not abandon you.  You were not mine to abandon. I have a family and they are my priority. I will not drop my wife and children to be your white knight.

If you are looking for someone to blame, start with your manipulative, controlling, fake, conniving mother.  She cheated on your father.  She lies to everyone she knows.  She called us names as kids.  Your mother taught you that your value lies in your looks alone.  She is the root cause of your emotional and eating disorders.  If you’re willing to consider that your mother is the enemy, then you will begin to see how fucked up she really is.  Then take a long look at yourself.  Do some genuine self-reflection.  I am not to blame for where your life is or where it is headed and I refuse to take responsibility for your feelings, our mother’s feelings, her choices, your choices.  I refuse to take responsibility for your feelings of abandonment.  I have made a choice to leave the unhealthy environment we both came from and have found a new, healthier way of living.  I am happy.  Do not blame me for your depression.  Do not blame me for your loneliness.  Do not blame me for the fact that you don’t feel understood.  Do not blame me for your emotional issues.  Do not blame me for your attempted suicide.  If you are telling yourself that I am dead and telling other people that you are an only child, then you are not living in reality.  It’s unfortunate for you that you feel you NEED your big brother to survive.  I will not have your blood on my hands.

You do not have to feel alone.  I once surrounded myself with hundreds of people too, hoping that in doing so, I would feel loved.  In reality, they were all parasites who did not love or care about me at all.  All they cared about was what I could do for them.  You are still surrounded by the people I got away from.  And that’s your choice. 

You want to talk about Mommie’s feelings?  Let’s talk about how I’ve never seen the sadness you wrote about.  Let’s talk about how she acts as though nothing has happened, like how she’s never done a goddamn thing wrong, like she never cheated on [your father], like she didn’t try to destroy my marriage, like she’s going to see me tomorrow.  She isn’t.  Those tears you say she cries all the time are crocodile tears.  They are fake.  They are a lie.  They are used to manipulate you into feeling badly for her.  Her sadness is no more real than your happiness.  It is not your fault if your mother is sad.  You are not responsible for her feelings.  Neither am I.  I will not tolerate her behaviors.  I will never have a relationship with her again.

“I even wrote in my suicide note that maybe my death would bring you back.” Are you saying that you were willing to kill yourself to make your mother happy?  Do you realize how fucked up that is?  Are you saying that you think it would make her happier to have me back even if you were dead?  That doesn’t make you question her motives?   Our mother would sacrifice one of her children for the other, has pitted us against each other, and has used us both for her own sick gain.  

-OR- was the suicide attempt itself a tactic of manipulation in which you were planning not to die, so that I would come back to rescue you and save you from a crisis.  Because, I don’t see how it would benefit you if I came back and you were dead.  The way I see it, either you want me to abandon my family and come save you, or, you are willing to sacrifice yourself to fix your mother’s problems.  Either way, you need the kind of help I can’t give you.

I cannot be there in the way you want me to.  I cannot save you.  You have to save yourself.  Even if I was willing to do what you are asking me to do, even if I was willing to be your possession, your big toy, your childhood nickname], that would not fix your problems.  I cannot fix your problems.  I choose not to be enmeshed with our mother any longer.  I have done a lot of research.  I am in therapy and will be for a long time because I am dealing with the severe emotional abuse I suffered at her hand as well as the unhealthy behaviors she passed down to us.

You want to know why you haven’t cried about me?  Because you are living in a kind of denial that will eventually destroy you. 

[Childhood nickname] is gone.  [Childhood nickname] was the part of me that lied and manipulated.  [Childhood nickname] was the part of me that was superficial, selfish, that chose to brush problems under the rug.  [Childhood nickname] was the part of me that was secretive, and pretended to forget in order to avoid consequences and accountability for my actions.  These behaviors are parts of you too and they came from our mother; she taught us to live that way, by living that way herself.  I will never be [Childhood nickname] again.  I am living in Truth.  For your sake, let [Childhood nickname] go.

You may have seen me as your best friend but it was because we were dealing with a very toxic situation together, rather than because that’s what healthy siblings do.  Our relationship with each other was warped.  By our mother.  But now you’re an adult.  Take responsibility for the fact that you’ve never reached out to me in a meaningful way.

If you want my advice: Create as much physical distance as possible between yourself and everyone else that you’ve ever known, especially your mother.  Take time to assess the emotional abuses you have suffered.  Get a job, save some money, and rent a place of your own.  Become self-reliant.  Get a new support system, find a therapist, and create the [sister’s name]] you want to be.  Or don’t, and live the way you’ve always lived.  The choice is yours.  I’ve made mine already.

The information I’ve attached to this letter could be life-changing for you if you’re willing to accept reality.

I have already asked your mother and her side of the family not to contact me.  It is not appropriate for you to send correspondence or to contact me at work.  It is not acceptable.  If you have any interest in communicating with me further, you must send a letter to my house, otherwise I will not be responding.  [Sister], get help, get real, then we can talk.

-          LSV

Every time I reread this letter, I like it that much more.  I was real.  I was honest.  I was caring.  I was adult LSV.  This is not what my sister wanted however.  She wanted me to save her.  Like the father/adult male figure is supposed to, right? she thinks.  No.  I was put in a role that made me an emotional spouse to my mother, emotional father to my sister.  I used “betray” when I speak of how I felt when I found my mother cheating on her husband, and true she betrayed our family, but why did I take it so personally?  She didn’t actually cheat on me, and yet, that is my most powerful feeling – personal betrayal.  My mother was cultivating some sick, twisted, partially incestuous relationships among us. 

I told my sister that I don’t want to live like that anymore.  That I can’t live that way anymore.  She’s not willing to give that up though.  She has only vaguely acknowledged that she received the correspondence my wife and I sent, but nothing so straightforward as a “yes I have”.  It’s been silence presumably to get back at me for abandoning her – or so she’s been led to believe.  I’ve said my piece, done everything that I could do.  She’s chosen a life that will ultimately lead her to an unhappy, probably short life.

And it’s not my fault.

Thursday, November 8, 2012

It Only Took Me Two Years

But I did it.  Finally.  After two years of trying, I sent my sister a letter and some information that is one of the most crucial pieces of the anit-Narc puzzle, the 25 Characteristics of Narcissistic Mothers.

I hand wrote the letter to show that I actually put thought and effort in.  The other info was typed and printed in a separate envelope.

What I sent to my sister:

I know what you’re looking for; I was looking for it too. 
We both came from the same dysfunctional family and we’re both trying to escape it, but we’re going about it in different ways. 

Please, think for yourself, speak for yourself, educate yourself.  I love you, I miss you, I’m concerned for your wellbeing, even though you may not believe that or are being told that’s not the case.

Please find a therapist and a true support system because right now you aren’t looking in the right place.  If you are willing to rethink your current situation, here is some reading material that might help you.  These have helped me: Toxic Parents by Susan Forward; Who’s Pulling Your Strings by Harriet B. Braiker; Homecoming by John Bradshaw; Children of the Self-Absorbed by Nina Brown; and

There are people out there who can help you. 
I wish I could help you more, but at this point, it’s your decision on how you break free.

If you are willing and able to make major changes in your life, things can be very different.  They can be better.

With Love,
Your Brother, LSV

 And that’s it.  No beating around the bush.  My message was clear: get out of that family; I love and care about her; she needs to help herself.  I sent this to her while she was in the hospital, on the 4th day.  But wouldn’t you know it; she was discharged the day she was supposed to receive the letter.  Thankfully, the hospital will forward on the letter, so now whether she gets it is sort of in the air.  It could be intercepted.

It’s nagging at me now.  I know I sent the letter for my own peace of mind, not for my sister, though the information and me reaching out I hope will do some good, like plant some seeds of self-thought or something.  I’m glad that I reached out as best as I’m able now, but the fact that she didn’t get it yet, seems to be pulling me to floor, shoulders being pulled from their sockets, knuckles dragging, feet barely lifting from the ground.  I don’t know if she’ll receive it, if she’ll ever receive it and that results in a ridiculously nagging voice urging me to somehow check on the status of the letter.  Stop it nagging, it’s out of my hands now. 

Monday, November 5, 2012

It Comes In Threes

My father showed up just minutes after I left for my therapy session.  My wife was home.  He said he was there to drop off a present for my daughter’s birthday.  My wife asked him to leave.  He asked why.  My wife asked him to leave a second time.  He asked for me.  My wife said she’d be calling the police.  Fine, he said, here’s your present.  He scampered off.

It wasn’t until a day or so later that we found that he’d called my work phone that day to announce he was coming over.  He also spouted some lies about not being able to contact me or else he would have in other medias (other phone/emails).  He left a second message several hours after he visited my house saying he was treated very poorly and he doesn’t know why since he’s done nothing wrong.  I guess I’m living in some sort of alternate reality where he wasn’t spying on us for The Parasite, where he wasn’t trying to tell me to divorce my wife and leave my kids because I had to step up and “be a man”, where he didn’t tell me that I wasn’t a priority of his, where he doesn’t use guilt as his primary weapon, where he completely disregarded all of my requests for establishing a healthy relationship with him.  All of those, of course, DID happen, and it’s he that refuses to accept the facts, not I.

Another thing: I had to actively fight the immense surge of guilt I felt when my wife first told me about his visit and what happened.  I immediately pictured him sulking and crying on his way home, as was trained for me to do.  I recognized that I couldn’t feel like this, that this was how I was taught to respond.  I had to tell myself that I was not in the wrong here, and my father was.  That his choices reflected how he felt and my wife and reacted to them accordingly.

My mother’s second husband (now divorced) showed up at my door, banging to be let in.  I felt most of color drain from my face and my stomach sink to my feet the first time I looked through the peep hole in the door.  I told him he needed to leave.  He said that this wasn’t about him or me, it was about my sister who’d apparently just attempted suicide.  She was in the hospital.  I explained that he needed to leave or I’d be calling the police.  He threw a tantrum and said that I should go ahead and call them, he’d make a huge scene in front of everyone, and my neighbors.  He emphasized “huge scene” and “everyone”.  We called the police, and when they showed up,  no “big scene”, from J the Bully.   As he stomped away to his truck, I could see that he was in a rage, just from his gait.  I’ve lived with him long enough to recognized his “pissed walk”. 

He obviously was there for other reasons other than to inform me that my sister was hospitalized.  I mean, he’d told me that news right away but still remained on my porch banging and asserting himself.  I find that I’m more shaken up about the confrontation with my mother’s second ex-husband than the actual news he came to deliver – I had already expected my sister to cry for help like that.  I still felt bad during this exchange, but again, this man had been a non-entity for the better part of two years – he wasn’t really “there” when married to my mother, and we had no connections after the divorce.  I’m not even sure how much he truly cares about his daughter (my sister).  He doesn’t show the capacity for that type of caring.


My sister called me late the same night.  She called to tell me that “something happened” and she was in the hospital.  She explained that our mother didn’t know she was calling and she wouldn’t tell her.  My sister thought “I’d want to know”.  When I first heard the message (on my work phone) my eyes went wide, as I had not expected this girl to call me…at all, for any reason.  After the initial shock, I felt bad, like I had to do something, like I should be doing something for her.  I would like to get the Parasite out of her life too, but that’s not my job and I quite obviously have to continually impound that thought into my head. 

I’ve written at least 4 or 5 drafts of a letter I want to send to her over the last few years and my wife pointed out that it seemed like that letter was one of the most difficult things I’d ever tried to do.  I mean, it’s taken years and I still haven’t got anything to send her, just a jumble of words and ideas.  Her phone call could be bait, and most likely is – she called my work number and not the house phone which is far easier to locate, I think.  This is the only “personal” number that she has (or more likely was given to her) for me at present.  If she had my cell phone number, she’d of called that.  My mother has proven over and over again, that her children are expendable, replaceable, less than human.

I felt a rising tide of anger just under my solar plexus as my wife and I were discussing what had happened.  I pictured a tumultuous ball of fire, not unlike the sun, pulsating there.  My kids were around and I was acutely aware of their presence, which is why I did not flare up entirely.  I'm not sure if that was the right thing to do or not, in retrospect.

Tuesday, October 16, 2012

The Coliseum

Another Dreamscape.
Escher-Stairs.  Only it was expanded to the size of a coliseum.  They were all wood, like wooden jungle gyms you’d find in a playground.  I had navigated my way through this chaos and found myself exactly where I wanted to be.  I stood at the edge of the body of water that sat at center of the coliseum.

My sister was nearby, standing inquisitive, a look on her face that said, “hey, wait, why are you doing that?”.  I didn’t say anything but I knew while navigating through the maze that I was to find a spot where I could jump into the water.  I felt I needed to perform some fantastically flamboyant jump to prove to my sister that this, this was the way to be.  It was just better if she could jump like I was going to.

As I looked into the water, I saw a dock located directly in my jumping lane.  For the life of me, I could not figure out how to jump around it or move it.  I desperately wanted to jump in to show my sister how to do it, because I knew if I did, she would be better off.  But, I could not jump in.

What I got from her next was a mixture of incredulous inquiry, why are you doing this, for what purpose, she seemed to ask.  One word ended up repeating in my mind’s eye: hope.  I conveyed this to her, but, while she didn’t actually say anything, I could feel deceit from her, that she had tricked me.

I was shocked.  Then I was awake.

I talked to my therapist about this dream recently.  He hypothesized that the water was my subconscious as water tends to indicate this idea in general.  He praised me for finding my way through the Escher Stair maze and finding the spot where I was to jump in.  He postulated that I wasn’t ready yet, indicated by the existence of the dock which seemed immovable.  However, when he asked me if it was permanent, I said no.  I remember that the dock was buoyed, but I still could not figure out how to move it.

Initially, I thought my sister was representative of my sister.  My therapist suggested that my sister was also an extension of me as dream-entities sometimes are.  I think both of those ideas are accurate.  My sister was indeed my sister whom I was attempting to show how to live better, to dive deeper into herself.  At the same time, my sister was me, and I was trying to show myself that it was good and right to dive deeper into myself, into my subconscious.  In both cases, I was blocked by a barrier that was self-placed and I was the only one to move it.  It was a really good session.