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 www.luke173ministries.org

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.

Friday, October 12, 2012

The Intersection

The intersection of transition and old behaviors is a lonely place in my opinion.  It’s where I currently sit, idling.  And that’s the rub, I’m idling, in neutral.  Ahead of me is what appears to be an insurmountable incline pockmarked with craters, evidence of landslides and fires.  At the peak of this behemoth is a sungold halo, sparking crystalline rays outward.  I can barely make it out – it’s miniscule and the glare damn near blinding, but I can see it.  It’s Something Better.  I know it.  I look again in front of me.  I feel the air release from me like a balloon.  I deflate some.

What a climb, I think.

Behind me, I can see clear across the horizon.  No craters.  No hills.  No landslides.  No fires.  No Something Better with the halo and crystals.  I’ve been there before.  I know where it leads.  And that’s what draws me in: I’ve been there before, it’s familiar territory.  I’m at a point where I’ve got to decide: what was versus what could be.

Face the insurmountable.
Or ride the familiar roads.

Therein lay one of my life’s greatest challenges.

I was driving to a recent therapy session and caught scent of my hand.  I’d just been cleaning with bleach thus, my hand emanated a fleshy chlorine smell.  I was brought back to high school when I damn near smelled like that all the time since I spent all winter and all summer in the pool, swimming for sport and swimming for pleasure.  I thought of those times, and in particular the team for which I swam and felt lonely. 

Did it stem from me “missing” how many people I used to surround myself with in order to fill some undefined void?  Or was it a small realization that even then, there was no one that really cared about me.  I was alone, though I wasn’t actually alone.  Rather, I was lonely, though I wasn’t actually alone.  I’m concerned about the first thought I had – that the loneliness I felt was a result of missing whatever environment I was in years ago.

At present, I’m fighting myself to be closer to my wife, to my kids.  I behave in ways that prevent true and sustained intimacy, that prevent true and sustained relationship growth.  This is my war.  The war with myself.

Monday, September 24, 2012

A Finite Resource

Kept a child
Forever stunted
She’ll be her mother’s mirror
She’ll speak her words
Mime her every everything
Though this girl is different
A soul however fractured
For her mother to destroy,
To crush, consume
She’s miserable now
Beguiled by material collectables
She’s but a finite resource
For the insatiable beast
Her dim light slowly fades
Into her misery
Ever-present sorrow
But she knows no different
And will be a puppet
For as long as she can hold on.

The Most I Can Do

Were I to reach out at all to my sibling, it would look like this.  There is nothing else I can do for her, another casualty in her war on healthy family dynamics.

Dear [Sister],

I know what you’re looking for.  You won’t find it with purses, or in boxes, or from stores.  It doesn’t come with a price tag.  I know because, I was looking for it too, and to a degree, still am.

Find a therapist.  Find someone who will listen to you, who will actively listen to what you have to say.  And say it all.  Everything.  Don’t leave anything out. 

And get away from our mother.  Even if it’s across town, just get away.  It gets harder, but it gets better.  Breaking away, I mean.  If you do nothing else, trust me on this.

I have things, including parts of my life, which I very much want to share with you, but until you realize how much better off you will be without our mother and begin to act accordingly, I can only reach out like this.

Find help.  Find it sooner, not later. 

With Love,

Friday, September 21, 2012


A short time ago, my wife and I went through the 18 months of my sister's life on Twitter.   

It was disturbing.  Not because my wife and I were combing through her life, but because of the content of what she had to say.  And from the way she looked.  Her smile was a farce.  Her eyes, though brown, were black with a crushing emptiness. 

This is not a happy girl.  She’s a deeply depressed, emotionally ravaged child, beaten into submission.

While disturbing, it was also incredibly sad.  My wife and I have talked about my mother’s treatment of my sister, but I suppose talking about it was different for me than actually seeing it.  Analyzing my sister's tweets of the last 18 months with my wife turned those conversations into crystal clear pictures.  My mother aimed for complete annihilation and she was successful, through and through.  My sister is now a walking, talking mass of chemical reactions.  Much like I was turning into.

It was pretty obvious that my sister was either on or had access to prescription drugs.  I was only mildly surprised at this, but that’s due in part to the image of my sister I have in my head: she’s still my “little sister”, and that idea was jammed into my head for a hell of a long time.  Right away, I theorized that she may attempt an OD on something like prescriptions sleeping pills.  Probably not to sucessfully commit suicide, that's too final.  But it would be a cry for help. A desparate, piercing, gutteral cry for help.

It’s the way I would have done it.
Just close your eyes and never open them again.  Life, just an afterthought.

Then again, she may be too enmeshed with our mother to attempt something like that but either way, I won’t be surprised if I got some form of communication with the message that my sister is either dead, or close to being dead, or tried to be dead.  She wants to emulate Marilyn Monroe anyway.

I knew I was distant from her, knew it when we lived in the same house, and it would have been around this time that we would have been able to connect on something more than just goofing around as siblings – nine years difference is significant. 

She never reached out to me, always expected me to take that first step.  Even if I had contacted her once a week, or tried to, she wouldn’t have reciprocated.  As the “father figure” I have certain responsibilities, she thinks!  What she needs is to get away from our mother which as it looks now, won’t happen.  Whatever minimal laurels she rested on in high school just wasn’t enough in college.  College is not (entirely) one big extended high school party.  She’s back again, attached to an abandoning mother’s hip.

Unfortunately, I still worry some for my sister.  I know she needs help but I can’t be the one to provide it for her.  She needs professional help, and that’s the advice I would offer, callous as that may sound.  Find a therapist, a good one, I’d say.  Lay yourself out there.  I can’t be your therapist, but I can be your brother.  She’s been spoon-fed exactly how she should feel about “what happened” when “I walked out” and “ruined the family”.  Perhaps there’s a chance for her to come into herself and notice that the way she’s been living has been killing her, but that’s unlikely.

I think she’ll turn deeper into alcohol and drugs.  I think she’ll have a baby, either intentionally or not.  I think she’ll live with her mother or as close as possible for the rest of her life, unless my mother decides she really doesn’t want to be around her loathsome kids anymore, and leaves for a different state.  Which may happen.

Final thought:
I hope my mother dies getting eye-fucked by the demon she sold her soul to.

Friday, September 7, 2012

On Friends

On friends: I would call anyone I knew for an extended period of time a "friend" because a lot of me thought they were.  I knew these people, interacted with them, had some laughs intermittently, so they must be friends right?  Also, these people tended to be females, and very few males.  This though, stems back to my mother issues, and how she impressed upon me that females existed to do my bidding, to be used like a resource - after all, that's how she saw people, and so she mined them, like a human quarry.

I've always called myself the social chameleon, because I could fit or blend into nearly any group at any time.  I didn’t have a set group of friends, not really, or I didn’t feel like it anyway.  Other people would say that I tended to hang out with or be around a certain group of people, but I found myself floating, drifting from one social caste to another.  Indeed, I had one or two “best friends” at a time, but they came and went too.  One friend I had for over 20 years if you can believe it, but in time he proved to be as useless as the rest of the people I knew.

I gave myself the moniker of social chameleon because I didn’t have an identity, not really.  My identity, in retrospect, was a Fraud, but that was because I wasn’t allowed to have an identity – if I did, my mother would not have a “Mirror Mirror On The Wall, Who’s The Fairest Of Them All” resource, and we all know THAT just can’t happen.  Seems to me, your identity became a tragedy of the NMother as well, enveloped by whatever She was/is.  Part of the reason I have to have a new reality is because my old one just didn’t work.  I couldn’t be a chameleon anymore.  I could not be a Fraud and expect to have a fruitful life with my wife, with my family.  And that’s what’s important, that it’s my family, not my mother’s.  I have made a choice to be someone and something different.  I have to remove her parasitic grasp of me and See that I am able to become something more than what she wants for me.

Another thing my mother gave to me which I took with and ran, was the ability to constantly pick out people to be close to that were not healthy, that would use me somehow.  I did this because I was trying to fill a void with the love and attention I was seeking throughout childhood.  The love and attention that should have come from MommyDearest, but was instead a vacuum of souls.  The people I was attracted to and were attracted to me were all the same types of people that I grew up with: vapid, superficial, all-consuming, selfish collection of biophysical, biochemical reactions that created something that walks and talks.  So now, while the prospect of good, deep friendship is there, I’m not concerned with that because I can’t be, and that’s the kicker.  Right now, I’m more likely to fall in with the likes of the Past.  Instead, as I focus more intently on myself, the natural gravity will shift from those of the Past, to a more healthy, and prosperous Present and Future.  But, as my wife points out, start with myself, and the rest will follow.

Until then, it’s comforting to know there is community here struggling with very similar issues where support is always offered…without strings.

Wednesday, August 29, 2012


On a drive to a recent therapy session, I found myself thinking of several incidents where I realized just how needy I was.  And still am.

1.      In high school (or perhaps late middle school?), a popular and pretty girl signed my yearbook with what I realize now was generic hobgobble
a.       You’re such a great guy!
b.      It was awesome this year!
c.       Stay sweet!
d.      Keep in touch!
e.       You’re so cool!
I latched onto those phrases and was all, “be still my beating heart”.  As I fell into this memory, I felt embarrassed at how quickly and solidly I latched onto the attention I perceived at that time.  My desire to be loved by females in particular was deeply rooted, but it was also due in part to my pubescence.  Still, thinking about all these years later, I could see how heavily I jumped onto her generic writing.  Here was this idol, I thought, and she’s writing to me, she knows me.  How embarrassing.

2.      Also in high school, I had a foreign language teacher, very exotic, whom I crushed on.  In her class, I was goofy enough for her to know me, and know me she did.  Herein was more of the attention was desperately craving that I didn’t realize I craved until many years later.  The pinnacle of this occurred when I was helping her move textbooks from her class to a supply closet.  It was pure joy.  At one point, I had a stack of books in my arms, and when she went to take them from me to put on the shelves, she grazed my groin area.  I think the world stopped for an instant.  After, she pushed me back to her classroom in a rolling chair.  I told only my closest friend at the time, and of course we high-fived. 

But now, I’m looking at that incident and thinking, how embarrassing that an accidental graze could turn me upside down.  How badly was I longing for attention that I wasn’t receiving from my mother (not romantic, but loving, caring attention) that I would explode a nothing incident to a ground-shaking firework display?  And then of course, I carried that with me to present day, bringing that toxic thought and behavior to my marriage.

3.      A third incident I thought of occurred in college.  I believe there was a photo posted on Facebook that looked as if I was slapping the air.  I captioned it with the main idea of it looked as if I was slapping “something”.  A girl I knew posted a comment underneath responded with an obviously flirty, “yeah, my ass!”.  Immediately after I tried getting closer to her, talking to her more, upping my flirting. 

As I thought about this in my car, I became damn near mortified.  How could I take something like her comment and run with it so much so that I thought there could be something there?  I was embarrassed at my behavior and my feelings about her comment.


These incidents were testaments to how extensive the lack of love and caring was for me, that I so thoroughly latched on to these incidents, thinking that maybe there could be more attention for me.  I didn’t realize I wasn’t getting it were I should have been getting it from, but now, it’s that much clearer to me.

Her Venom

My mother: oh what a terrible place I am in being such a good mother with a son who is nothing but contemptuous!

Robot Boyfriend: yes...what...a...terrible...situation...for...you.   You...are...right...in...every...way...possible.

My mother: Woe is me, what a world -- oh, I see you have money on your penis, let me get that for you...with my mouth.

What a fucking soulless bottom dweller.

Monday, August 27, 2012

The Long Hallway of Similar Foes

I had the following dream last night:

I was at a house, presumably my own, with my mother in law, and other people whose faces I couldn't see but I knew they were part of the Good People.  This was the start of the dream (or what I can remember as the start of the dream) and already I felt uneasy about something.  I felt like I needed to lock down the house.  Then my father’s wife showed up unexpectedly.  I panicked; started shutting all the windows and doors in a desperate attempt to get her to leave.  When I got to the front door, she saw me, I slammed it, and she started yelling at me, using my childhood nickname, beseeching me with things like how could I do this, and I was being stupid. 

I was on edge, and explained this to my mother in law.  Then I saw a clan of people walking around the house - it was my father, his wife, and her kids.  My children were near the window and door.  I was rushing to button up everything, to lock all the windows/doors, but somehow they made it inside, and when I turned around a corner, all of them were there holding and playing with my kids, like nothing was wrong or out of place. 


I realized they were gone and had taken the kids with them and I was raging and hysterical to find them.  I was running down a hallway, very long and carpeted red.  I was fighting people who all looked the same: youngish in face with long hair and a black suit.  I overcame them easily, but there many of them.  They would try to punch and kick me but their movements were so slow that I easily moved or blocked it and countered.

One of the people I fought was my brother in law.  This particular brother in law is likely to follow the crowd when it comes to a great many things.  I stopped running and fighting when I realized it was him and asked, “What are you doing here?“ as I motioned down the hallway to presumably where my kids were.  He laughed a bit and said, “Oh I don't know, I just thought...” and trailed off, but I knew that he was just going with the fold, like he didn't know any better.  I set him straight and continued on to meet my (only) step brother.  Only he was still his 10 year old self, and he was pleading for me to stop fighting people and in particular, he said I was “breaking his heart”.  I couldn't understand why he couldn't understand why I was fighting so hard to get to my kids. 

Then I came to a room where my father and his wife were sitting, not looking distressed or pleased, or anything really.  They were waxy.  And just…sitting.  I didn't see my kids.  I rushed at my step-mother, punched her and threw her at the wall.  My dad was in a chair and didn't do anything.  I didn't see myself fight him, but I know I did and overcame him.

And then I woke up.

I told my wife that I wasn’t sure to expect something from my father and his wife soon because I had this dream about them.  Could be just because I know they are dangerous and my subconscious was bringing that to my conscious self.  Either way, these types of dreams my wife has had on many occasions, and while I’m disturbed be the events within the dream, I know my mind and my heart is in the right place now.  And that, if nothing else, is a good thing.

Friday, August 24, 2012


In very recent times I’ve felt that I’ve been emerging from under some rock, or something entirely too heavy to be on me.  Much in the way I described the Heavy several posts ago, when I found my mother in an active affair.

I know what that Heaviness is now.  It’s my mother.  She’s been on top of me, on my shoulders, bleeding through my brain for decades.  She’s implanted herself so nicely that, for many years, I was just an extension of her.  I can’t find a better way to describe the relationship than parasitic.  She’s been slowly killing me for years but at the same time, she still needs me to “live” to get what she wants from me.  Biologically speaking, a parasite will typically weaken its host, sometimes to a point of complete destruction.  In this case, The Parasite requires that process to occur very quickly, emotionally speaking.  Indeed, she fed on the development of my emotions from the time of my birth.  She mutated me into a reservoir at her disposal.  Her goal was to carbon copy herself, and for while, she did exactly that.  I was her shell, a Second Coming of her great reverie, and in me she saw enormous potential for a nearly inexhaustible source of sustenance.  It’s no wonder I didn’t think for myself, or have an identity.  I would fluctuate among social castes, blend in where needed, and slip away silently.

My mother fed on drama, among other sources.  Focused on her appearance, on appearances in general, a rain puddle had greater depth than she.  When she wanted the spotlight, she got it, and when she didn’t, she successfully shone it elsewhere.  I think one of the main things she was aware of, even at an early age, was how she could use people to her advantage.  Indeed, she would use sexuality, but she would also use lip-service, telling people what they wanted to hear (the Golden Tongue or Silver, or whatever metaphor is most appropriate), took what she wanted when she wanted it, was impetuous/wanted instant gratification – so if that meant sleeping around, then so be it, but of course, she didn’t let on that she was doing this sort of thing, oh no, she needed to keep up appearances.

She once told me how she fell down the steps when she was in high school and her dress had come up and over her head.  She said for a split second she thought she had gone blind.  At the time, she and I both laughed and laughed.  She also told me how she was “NF” but would also make fun of people that were “NF”.  NF, she explained, was No Friends.  I’m suspicious of her stories now because she made herself out to be this social outcast in high school, and yet, she’s now got an army of followers.  Perhaps she got that good after high school, but I think she began to learn the art of seduction (both sexual and non) during that time.  (This paragraph isn’t entirely cohesive with the previous ones, I’m noticing.)  And speaking of schooling, while my mother did attend a college for a time, she’ll never tell you that she never finished her degree.  To this day, I’m not sure why, because she never really told me about her college years, or anything at all of her schooling growing up.

I guess it all goes back to what I was reading on Light’s Blog, and in other arenas, but Light put it pretty succinctly.  Along with NPD, I believe my mother to have a great many traits of HPD as well.  And by no means am I explaining away her behaviors, but at least I’m more in the know.  She so lovingly passed those traits onto me, which helps to explain many of my behaviors as well. 

So now, about breaking free of this…

Thursday, August 23, 2012


I heard a song on the radio the other day.
Puddle of Mudd’s Control

I love the way you look at me
I feel the pain you place inside
you lock me up inside your dirty cage
when I'm alone inside my mind

I'd like to teach you all the rules
I'd get to see them set in stone
I like it when you chain me to the bed
but then your secrets never show

I need to feel you
You need to feel me
I can't control you
You're not the one for me, no

I can't control you
You can't control me
I need to feel you
so why's there even you and me?

I love the way you rake my skin
I feel the hate you place inside
I need to get your voice out of my head
Cause I'm that guy you'll never find

I think you know all of the rules
there's no expressions on your face
I'm hope that some day you will let me go
Release me from my dirty cage

I need to feel you
You need to feel me
I can't control you
You're not the one for me, no

I can't control you
You can't control me
I need to feel you
So why's there even you and me?

I love the way you look at me
I love the way you smack my ass
I love the dirty things you do
I have control of you

I need to feel you
You need to feel me
I can't control you
You're not the one for me, no

I can't control you
You can't control me
I need to feel you
So why's there even you and me.....

You're not the one for me, no

When I heard it, I instantly remembered the first time I heard the song.  My mother brought it to my attention when it first came out on the radio.  She said that when she heard the song, she laughed and thought of me.  What could have possibly made her think of me?  

This line: I love the way you smack my ass

That line, out of the whole song, made my mother think of me.  She thought it was funny she said.  So my mother thought of me as a romantic partner, a friend, a buddy, a spouse, a doormat, a resource.  Dear Johnny5, I’m going to vomit.  Why would you bring something like to your son? 



What.   The.    Hellfuck.

I was thinking too, looking at the rest of the lyrics.  It’s very interesting she picked that song since it had to do with control, or sometimes lack thereof.  I think she was showing me that she did have control of me at that point, that I was inside her “dirty cage” and she was the expressionless Witch Queen. 

Wednesday, August 22, 2012

A History of Cliche

Caliban’s Sister crafted a post which hit me square in the teeth.  She explained how Narcs speak in vague terms and in clichés.  I can't say that was the first time I've heard that though: my wife and I had this same discussion several times over, only it was about me.  Kicked in the gut.  Twice.

I speak in vague terms.  I always have.  It was an effort on my part not to be forced to remember details to then explain them.  I was putting in effort now to show lack of effort later, I think.   I would start out a sentence with “We” without defining who “we” were.  I explained that the mysterious We “had a good time, hung out, and stuff”.  And that was always good enough for my mother, and I brought that type of talk into my marriage.  Awesome, right?  When Truth is in the details and Love is lived in Truth, then Love is also in the details.  It’s logic.  It’s simple.  But it’s also foreign to me.  Rather, it was.  Being vague allowed me to give the basic idea of whatever it was I was explaining without having to get into the really difficult work of, well, thinking.  Being vague allowed me to be non-committal, giving me the appearance of being decisive, when I actually wasn’t. 

And here’s the segue –

Using clichés when I spoke gave me the appearance of emotional intelligence, when the opposite was actually true.  These clichés, already vague in nature, allowed me to speak as if I had something of substance to offer.  I am thinking specifically when I used to answer questions internet users posted on a particular forum.  I would scour the forum for math/science questions (I actually knew about that) and relationship questions (I pretended to know about that).  I thought that I could help these people somehow in my infinite wisdom.  “Trust is of the utmost importance!” I would say.  That was me also being a hypocrite.  Essentially, I could answer any question I came across with a handful of clichés, like: it’s always best to learn from past hardships; love can transcend all; don’t sell yourself short.  It wasn’t hard for me to come up with phrases that I knew would or should or could generate some hope or change in these people.  And if enough people thought that my answer was best, I felt that much better knowing that I was King of the Answerers.  Feeding on Narc supply much?  Yeah, I think so.

I’m sure that my mother was the Queen of Vague, especially during her decade of family defilement.  But even before that, I can hear her answering my questions (if I ever bothered to ask) of how she loves me with phrases like: oh, I love you in all the ways possible; there are too many ways to count; don’t ask me such questions; a mother doesn’t have to explain her love.  Or something.  My mother never went into specifics about anything really.  Not how her day was, not how she was feeling at a particular time.  Details didn’t matter to her.  She passed that onto me.  Or maybe perhaps, details mattered in that she couldn’t disclose them.  Or a mixture of both.  So I've got that penchant for falsities that my mother has been perfecting over the years.  Damnit.

Monday, August 13, 2012

Two Soldiers

Dream: I had a dream wherein I was a female soldier of some kind, a Marine I’m pretty sure.  I was in the back of a helicopter or plane awaiting my time to execute a low-altitude jump.  I was behind a male soldier.  We got the go-ahead to jump and we did.  Under us, I saw rocky cliffs and ledges, trees, and the male soldier.  I knew my chute was deployed, though I didn’t feel it open.  I didn’t see the male soldier’s chute, and he wasn’t making any flailing movements either, in the “oh shit oh shit oh shit help me” sort of way.  He just dropped down into the over-brush.  I saw him smash onto the side of a large outcropping of rocks.  He resembled a crash test dummy, slamming into the rocks, limbs aloof.  I dropped down, landed next to him.  He was bloody, but not as much as I thought someone should be after free-falling into rocks.  He pointed his gun at me when I got to him.  He was telling yelling at me to “just go, just go”.  I went, but not before I watched him die.

Analysis: There are two pieces of me here – the male soldier and the female soldier.  I believe the female soldier is some emotional part of me.  I’m stereotyping here, but typically, women are more in tune/touch with their emotions than men are, and knowing that, and the fact that I objectify women leads me to believe that this female is my emotional side, or my emotions themselves perhaps.  She follows my male side, the side that is in control of me now.  The underdeveloped side, so to speak.  He landed hard, very hard and subsequently died.  Perhaps this is a reflection of what I want and what needs to happen: my “male” side, the side with all of my destructive behaviors, needs to die, and my emotional side needs to be in the lead.  “She” will be thrust into a leadership role and will have to learn the hard way, but learn “she” will.

Tuesday, August 7, 2012


Seething beneath my skin
Blistering, putrid, pestilence
Radiating from me
After wave
Toxic torture
Bleeding out my eyes
Vomiting from my mouth
A black sludge of despair
A deluge of deceit
Disparate droning
Desperate attempts to enshroud you
Damning me
Again and again
Transparent falsities
Black holes you fall into
To rein you in, lasso you
Bound by these tentacles
We both
Like quicksand, we’re swallowed
But unlike you
I like it.