Wednesday, August 29, 2012

Needy

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. 

Flash

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

Emerging

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

Control

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? 

I’M NOT YOUR FUCKING SPOUSE, YOUR BUDDY, YOUR ANYTHING
I WAS YOUR SON, AND EXPECTED TO BE TREATED AS SUCH

EPIC FUCKING FAIL DOESN’T EVEN BEGIN TO DESCRIBE YOUR HIDEOUS TRANSGRESSIONS


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

Bound

Thriving
Seething beneath my skin
Blistering, putrid, pestilence
Radiating from me
Wave
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
Choices
Transparent falsities
Black holes you fall into
To rein you in, lasso you
Bound by these tentacles
We both
Struggle
Like quicksand, we’re swallowed
But unlike you
I like it.