09/27/2015 § 1 Comment
This is the first post Ive entered in almost a year. I dont know what I’m going to say. I used to believe that I was a very open, honest and sincere person, but the person I thought I was, it turns out, was a contrivance. My real self has been trapped inside a fishbowl inside my mind. I was finally freed from it a year ago. .I no longer have any idea who I am.
I live in the same house, I wear the same clothes, I have the same scant career, the same poverty. Its whats interior that has changed.
I made “sacred vows” to myself three times in the course of my life. I vowed to find and overcome the source of some great dissatisfaction when I was 12, then again when I was 18, and again at 32, For the past 4 years I’ve had the answers. Last month I turned 60. I begin my 6th decade starting all over again from scratch.
4 years ago, I discovered that my mother was/is a Narcissist of epic proportions; that she set up our family to attack each other in order to protect herself; and that she made me her private decoy at a very young age so that any criticism of her would always stick on me instead. Finally, I discovered that I too am a Narcissist. « Read the rest of this entry »
10/24/2014 § 1 Comment
Letting my NM write to me in an email account reserved just for family has been like keeping a hive of bees in my bathroom.
I created it especially for her 5 years ago, but she hasn’t used it until recently. Instead she’s used every opportunity to complain, to family members and friends of mine, that I have banned her from writing me, which is simply not true. One might think that she would rather complain than write to me. One might be right.
Her last icebreaker included the information that she still has a box of my artwork in her storage. She’d told me that she sent everything, but that wasn’t true either.
So my old High School friend Lawrence, who still lives in the area says he can pick it up for me. He calls her up to arrange a pickup time, and she chews his ear off telling him about how I won’t let her write to me. He asks me if this is true and I say, nah, ‘snot true. I tell him not to let her say anything because I don’t want to hear about it. I can’t pay him enough to listen to her! He goes over to pick it up, and she chews his ear off again. He asks her, doesn’t Vic have an open address you can use? She says yeah, but she can’t trouble herself with all my rules. So he starts to take apart her statements logically, showing her that they make no sense.
The next time she wrote, “Thank you for finally letting me write to you.” Never Give A Inch, the Narcissist creed. See? Im beginning to understand her.
I swear to God, shes not evil (she gets much worse than this;) shes just very, very stupid in a mean-spirited sort of way. Unless Im very wrong, shes on autopilot with nobody upstairs, frozen into a pattern of automatic contrariness. Her saving grace is that shes utterly predictable, once you see the pattern.
Im not saying shes easy to handle, shes not, but if you know shes going to be a Bitch no matter what you do, then it becomes possible to not take her seriously (even tho she does!) It becomes possible to not get upset, because shes always going to act like a Narci and you know it though she doesnt.
For example, in a recent letter she suddenly wrote, “Im going to stop writing you,” just like that. And ended the letter without a closing. That would actually be fine if she started real No Contact on her own, but I knew she didn’t. She just can’t stand not being in control of our relationship. She doesn’t want No Contact, she just wants to control the Contact. So I knew she was going to pull something. I just didn’t know what.
Out of the blue, my best cousin Carleen writes me a letter on Google Plus. I haven’t heard from her in a very long time, since the 80s, I think, but since I corresponded with her mother (my aunt) recently, I was expecting to hear from her a while ago.
She mostly talked about my art, and wanted to see more. I linked her to my website.
She’s been talking to mom. I can tell. The timing’s too perfect. Mom signs off on my email, just drops me, and now Carleen’s talking to me who hasn’t talked to me in 20 years.
It triggers off my self doubt that she seems to have everybody in the family as far as the eye can see on her side. Am I being paranoid? How can she fool all my brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, in-laws, cousins, second cousins, third cousins, into thinking she’s sane and rational? Am I from a family of losers?
Now, that would explain a lot, wouldn’t it? I’m carving with words right now; I don’t know where this is going. I had to admit that Id become a loser before I could win again. Just refusing to be a loser wasnt enough. When my wife left me it sort of became official. So, it’s not me, it’s the family whos the loser? Is that what Im hearing? I’m manifesting they’re failure, that’s why they keep trying to reel me in; I can be their failure so they don’t have to be. Okay, got it.
In the last month, with Mother finally using my proper email site, I thought I could get her to stop sabotaging me. She actually replied, “You think you’re going to train me to watch other people’s boundaries? Nobody I know even has boundaries except for you!” (And that’s how she controls the rest of my family.)
Im going to have to cut them out completely and let them cry and cry. They pull me down robotically. I.m finishing my midlife crisis and my Saturn Return; I’m turning 60 next year and I don’t need to be their failure anymore. I know what I have to do.
Victorious Banner of Perseverance
03/11/2014 § 3 Comments
I got a note from my school board that they’re not renewing my contract this year.
Contract ends in three weeks.
The new school year begins in three weeks. If I don’t get a job now, a new full time job may not be in the market until September.
This is Japan.
My visa runs out in June.
I need a company to sponsor the renewal of my visa, so I need a job that offers sponsorship.
11/17/2013 § Leave a comment
Everything changed my life ten years ago, June 2003, on the occasion of my parents 50th wedding anniversary; my relationship with my Lost Child brother Reggie among them. Now is not the time to chronicle that catastrophe, but I must say something about it; everything that has come after it has been affected by this thing that happened.
To make a long story short — it’s not easy! — my family wanted me to come to the affair as a scapegoat with all my scapegoat baggage so they could blame me for what ever they wanted to blame me for — in public as likely as not. « Read the rest of this entry »
11/04/2013 § 18 Comments
While I was in a workshop on using smartphones, a notification suddenly came up from my Narcissistic Mother who I’ve been avoiding for two years. At first, I thought it an error my phone frequently makes, but no, it was a video chat request from her. I rejected the request and blocked her address from my account.
Then I went to Yahoo Mail to confirm that she hadn’t sent me a letter there. She hadn’t. I asked her only to write to me through Yahoo through a special account I set up just for family so that they wouldn’t have access to my main address. Yet she’s written to me by every address but the one I’ve given her. That’s Narci for, “no recognition of other people’s boundaries.”
So I wrote my first letter to her in two years. My first letter since I discovered she was a Narci. I’ve thought a lot about how to address her in the past two years. I’m not going to disown her, I decided, but I’m not going to let her get away with any shit at all. It’ll be like riding a bucking bronco for the rest of my life. That’s what adults do, I guess.
08/05/2013 § 2 Comments
Imagine having a mother who sets you up to take the blame for all of her mistakes while you are still in the cradle. Imagine being infatuated with her with no idea that she’s setting up everyone else in the family to blame you for her mistakes and problems. Imagine it takes you 55 years to get it straight, only after losing your entire family, including your spouse, because of her.
Recently, my mother requested to join my Google + site. Today, I deactivated the whole site. In truth I was going to do it anyway, but her request made me get off my butt.
I wrote her a letter asserting that she needs to find another way to reach out to me other than ignoring my ban on internet communication. I deleted the letter. I can predict how she would respond and it ain’t pretty. Sigh. She’s only depriving herself. We’ll have to settle for my silence, as we have so many times before.
This episode reminded me of one of the worst things that happened between us since I’ve been an adult. I’ve told almost no one this story, even my (ex)wife who plays a big part in it. It’s bizarre and unusual if not unique, and a lot of people might think I were very sick indeed for telling it. But it belongs in this blog, and I can pat myself on the back for creating a venue for telling it.
* * *
Its 1995. I’ve been on a high all week because my long-time on-again off again girlfriend, Roseanne, had become engaged to me. But she lived in New York, and I, California. She decided to give up her location and share mine, but stipulated that I drive all the way out to NY and pick her up and bring her back. But I couldn’t do it; I didn’t have the money. I had no regular employment, and instead made and sold batik t-shirts at two or three different crafts fairs. I made an effort to sell out at the year-end holiday market, but I couldn’t do it. When I told her that over the phone she broke off the engagement.
I was devastated. I never wanted anything this bad, and I didn’t know what to do; I felt so miserable I couldn’t think straight. So I got the idea that I would call my mother for advice and support, which I knew was bad but I couldn’t get it out of my head.
This, after I made a vow never to ever call her again for support, after the last time I called her 7 years earlier. That was a whole other story.
So I called her, and it went surprisingly fine. She rose to the occasion, supported me, encouraged me, and predicted (correctly) that Rosanne would change her mind and call the engagement back on. Mom and I chatted, and I settled into a state of warmth and safety I hadn’t let myself feel for a long time.
In short, I let me guard down.
Suddenly, in the midst of this rare state of tranquility that I was in, she sai om out of nowhere, “So, how could you drop out of college?” Before I could answer her, she was giving me the riot act, again, for something I had done 20 years earlier. I started to defend myself, but I felt the ground caving in beneath me.
–The next thing I remember, I was off the phone and crying like a baby. Literally. Maybe 15 minutes had past. My sinuses were completely flooded with mucous and tears, feeling like an ocean saturated with stars inside my head. I used to cry like this when I was a baby, always after a traumatic conflict with Mom. But I never remembered crying like this until now, because every time it happened before, I cried myself asleep and didn’t remember it again upon waking.
I swear to God that I don’t remember anything we talked about after she mentioned dropping out of school. I had the vague sense that she walked me back in time through a hit parade of her worst grievances against me all the way back to my infancy. Probably the same incidents for which I cried myself to sleep about. But I still don’t, to this day, remember any of it, or why I cried. I was 40.
I was fragmented and dysfunctional for a week or two after that. It took me a while to recover. I stumbled a lot, left personal items behind wherever I went, missed appointments, handled social relations ineptly, etc. Gradually, I got in my groove again, but couldn’t control a rising fury inside of me. “You don’t do that!” I thought. “Not to your own son, not to anybody! You don’t just go inside somebody’s head like a thief in the night. I feel like you raped me, like you raped my soul! What you did was monsterous!” My rage grew for a few weeks until I finally resolved to write her the mother-of-all-angry-letters to put the Holy Fear of God in her. I wanted to ingrain it inside her to not even think about doing whatever the fuck it was that she did. I threatened to make her life a living hell if she ever did anything like that.
If I knew then what I know now, that she was in fact a Narcissist, I would never have written to her like that, because she’s physiologically incapable of admitting a mistake or lapse of judgement.
Basically, she blanked out on what she did to me completely, neither remembering the conversation nor understanding my account of it. Which meant that my anger and threats to her had no basis in anything that she had caused; to her I had just had a psychotic break which she had always expected from me, apparently. She was sublimely terrified of me, I know now. Usually, if she was upset by something I had written, she would send me a letter back immediately, but after this letter, nothing. I thought this was a good thing at the time. “Good. She heard me,” I thought.
Instead, she contacted everyone in the family, siblings, cousins and second cousins and told them to keep me away from her. I lost contact with my nephews, nieces, cousins’ children, etc. For 17 years and counting. Family members who did talk to me spoke in a very peculiar way that I finally identified as how you talk to a loved one who flew over the Cuckoos Nest. “We don’t think there’s anything wrong, Vic, we love you!” No one, not a single kin-person, checked in with me in all this time to hear my side of the story, about this or any of the subsequent incidents. I was tried, convicted and sentenced in absentia.
6 months letter, I had very good t-shirt sales at the country fair, and drove out to New York to fetch Rosanne and bring her back West with me. It went without saying that although I would be near my family, I wouldn’t be in contact with them or let them know I was coming. But I was losing my grip on why I wasn’t to contact them.
2 days before we started our drive back west, we stopped off at the New York Port Authority Bus Terminal to do some banking business and then take a bus out to Jersey to pick up our drive-away vehicle. Rosanne walked off to the bank, leaving me alone drinking coffee at a doughnut shop in the middle of the terminal. An old woman with snow-white hair and a flower print dress was staring at me. When I looked straight at her, she turned her head and walked away. A minute later, she was staring at me again from another corner.
“No, it can’t be!” I thought. It was. We made eye contact. She had dark brown hair, the same as mine, the last time I saw her. She had a strange, forced expression on her face as she walked toward me saying, “Vic!” This really happened. I don’t know if it was her magic or mine, but we found each other in one of the busiest buildings in New York City, 3,000 miles from my home, by sheer nerve.
I ordered her a coffee, and she did a very strange thing. She started talking to the stranger at the next table, a thin 60-year-old man, asking about his life and telling him about the strange circumstances we were in just then. She had pulled him into our conversation, killing the privacy between us. I didn’t have a clue why although it should have been obvious. It would be 15 -16 years later before the reason dawned on me: she was mortally afraid that I would physically beat her up, so she set this guy up as a shield.
The most interesting thing about this meeting, though, was that I couldn’t figure out that she was making him a human shield. When I think back to that chance meeting, I realize that I had not thought once the entire time about the subterranean nighttime phone call of 6 months earlier. I didn’t recall those central occurrences again until 15 years had passed. I was suffering from traumatic shock; the subterranean phone call was in fact traumatizing, and I had completely blanked out what had happened. I was hopeful about our chance meeting, oblivious to all the freaky tension that had amassed between us.
Rosanne came back from her chores, the three of us hung out together for a while, and then we parted. Throughout the long drive back to California over the next two weeks, I felt odd somehow, twitchy. I spaced out at odd times. At a pit stop, Rosanne’s cat was in my hands, leashed, yet darted out never to be found again. Incidental things like that happened more often than usual for the next 2 years.
By then, it was time to invite the family to our wedding. Mom acted so threatening and hostile to me that I became certain I would have a big anger fit in the middle of my own marriage ceremony. I told her she I wouldn’t let her come if she behaved like this, just to take charge so that we could iron things out, but she only became more aggressive and threatening. Then other family members called to yell at us and tried to brow-beat us into removing the ban. No one listened to our concerns. The opportunity to work things out never came up and we had the wedding without her or Dad. I felt like shit, but was certain I’d completely regret letting her come.
6 months later, Rosanne and I moved to Japan to teach English. We were going to stay for 5 years and then come back home. But now its 15 years later, and I’m still here.
Three years after the wedding I went to a shamanic healer, convinced that the weird twitchiness I’d been feeling ever since the chance meeting at the bus terminal could be healed through shamanism. I had read that during shocking events, fragments of a person’s soul can break away into the air or earth until retrieved by a shaman. The shaman told me that this was indeed a case of soul fragmentation, but I didn’t need a shamanic intervention; eventually the soul fragment would come back to me on its own. It did, slowly between 2011 and 2012, 12 years later. I don’t know why it took so long.
My parent’s 50th anniversary party in 2003 became the crowning occasion in this comedy of errors. At first, I claimed the task of organizing the event, but the family took it away from me without even telling me, as if I never had it to begin with. I was once more being subjected to veiled threats and hostility from Mom and all my siblings if I didn’t do exactly what they wanted from me. They thought they could keep me contained in case I had that psychotic break, but I was more likely to lose control of my temper on account of all this heavy handling. I tried, but I couldn’t see a way out unless I didn’t come at all, lest I found myself in the middle of the most humiliating setup that I could possibly imagine, right in front of my entire extended family and kin.
I hoped that if I said I wasn’t coming, they would soften up and work with me to hammer out conditions which would be acceptable for all parties. As with my wedding, it didn’t happen. It was as if they were reading from a completely different script than me, with a different theme and different plot and different characters, while dismissing my script out of hand. I couldn’t figure out what there script was. I still had no memory of the night of the subterranean phone call and my angry response.
So I didn’t go, although it broke my heart. I told myself this was the bravest thing I’ve ever done, which it probably was. There were a number of dear family members who I would never get to see again, including my father.
Rosanne and I did meet mother and father at a restaurant in Manhattan 2 days before their anniversary party. It would be the last time I would see either of them, although Mom still lives. Mom had all these obnoxious tricks she used to try and trick me to come to the party, but did nothing to make it safer or relinquish her control. When we were in the restaurant, she chortled to herself throughout the dinner about how ridiculous it was that I had called her a monster. “Monster! He says I’m a monster! I’m not the monster, he’s the monster!” In the letter of 1996, I had written that the way she took advantage of the situation of my openness to condemn me for what I’d done as a child was “monstrous,” but I had absolutely no recollection of the letter at that point. I simply didn’t know she was talking about–
— Until my soul fragments resurfaced between 2011 and 2012. By then, Rosanne and my marriage was tumbling apart. as a result of . I had gotten depressed for being so misused by the family since the 2003 Anniversary party, and it affected her. Nothing we could do made it better, and in 2011 she decided to divorce me.
We had been teaching English in Japan for 13 years by that time, and that summer, a trifecta of earthquake, tsunami and nuclear plant disaster struck 130 miles from us. We scrambled to make do with the situation, as it cast its light on parts of our relationship that had been covered in shadow.
At the time I had a friend with Asberger’s syndrome, and I read up on that so I could understand him better. People with Asberger’s, and other conditions on the Autistic Spectrum, show no signs of empathy. There are other conditions that don’t present empathy as well; Psychopathy, Borderline-ism, and… Narcissism. When it became clear that my mother had NPD, Rosanne finally left me once and for all; she wanted to have nothing to do with my witchy mother and her wounded family.
It was only after Rosanne left me , however, that the memories of the Night of the Subterranean Phone Call came back to me in force. For 6 months, new memories and connections came to me every week. I had insights into my mother’s childhood, and her twin sister’s, and their father’s life; things I knew things but couldn’t piece together until now.
Knowing what I knew, it became impossible to sustain contact with the family, They would never accept that Mom is a Narcissist; they would just go on and on demonizing me as the psychotic Mother-killer from hell. Who knows, maybe they’re safer from her as long as they believe I’m the sick one. Its so stupid. I’m in a very precarious position with the family right now; for all intents and purposes we’re quits; but I’m still holding hope in my heart for a reconciliation. A hope that I don’t dare show them lest they co-opt it.
What the hell did mother do to me in that subterranean phone call? The word for it is “hypnotism” or “hypnotic suggestion,” I think, but its nothing anyone would hold against her in a court of law. When they frequently fought, Dad used to scream at her, “You get away with mur-dah!” And so she does. She uses weapons that are under the radar. And why? Why did she do this? I can only guess, but I notice that she was just informed that she was losing her son to another woman when this all happened. Did she know what she was doing? I don’t know. Recently I decided that because of her Narcissism and inempathy, she just stumbled onto Black Shamanistic techniques without knowing a damn thing about them.
* * *
I don’t believe that she’s evil. She may be dangerous, destructive, even monstrous but she’s not evil. She’s just sick and broken; she can’t help but act this way. But I don’t trust my own sense of compassion towards her. I was encouraged to apologize for her and forgive her and be terrified of her all my life; surely my compassion for her is just part of the programming. She has a serious, debilitating mental health condition, and needs to submit herself to treatment. Narcissists very rarely take responsibility for their illness. The family suffers tremendously yet seem to avoid realizing it by rationalizing me as a failed human being, “Oh, but we don’t think that, Vic!” So I stay away.
I am aware that many exalted people in the government, in business, in entertainment, and so on are Narcissists, Borderlines or Psychopaths. I submit that only the most driven reach the upper echelons of power, and Narcissists, Borderlines and Psychopaths are among the most driven. Good governance and self-governance are sabotaged as a matter of policy all across the world by people who are spiritually broken and don’t realize it. Political and moral activists commit themselves to fighting the results of mental imbalance in high places but not the cause.
Those of us who have faced and persevered against Narcissism and its cousins– in our families, our workplaces, our communities– are developing unique tools for social change. We are not suffering the monstrous and destructive in our own families for naught; we are struggling to respond lovingly to figures of towering dysfunction who are thrown against us by fate. What we learn is our legacy to the future.
07/07/2013 § 3 Comments
Having written two fairly well received blog-pieces on this topic of Sons of Narcissistic Mothers, I would like to go back and see if I can introduce myself a little more coherently.
I don’t want my real name attached to this blog; I don’t want my family to recognize me. I’m actually nervous that one day I shall absent-mindedly attach my real name to a writing.
I was given the Tibetan name ‘Tsondru Gyaltsen’ when I received an empowerment from the Lama that lives in my adopted hometown; it translates into “Victorious Banner of Perseverance” from which I derive my internet name, Vic Banner. I often wonder how my Lama came to pick such an appropriate name for me. It would take a Victorious Banner of Perseverance to overcome the situation I was born into.
I was born in the suburbs of the U.S. American Northeast in 1955; the first of 4 children. My father was a bowling ball salesman, my mother an assistant editor at a cookbook company, and freelance artist. They were both Jewish, from families that had immigrated to America several generations before. Except for my mother’s father, who was born in the Old Country– in the city of Odessa in the Ukraine; while my father’s father, the youngest of 6 siblings, was carried to term while his mother was on the boat to Ellis Island from either Germany or Roumania. I tend to think that it was the Great Jewish European Diaspora that introduced the severe self-destructive, violent and self-loathing tendencies into our family. My people’s spirits were broken in Eastern Europe. Even before the Holocaust.
If I tell this next part simply, it will be for the first time. My mother had secrets, but I never concerned myself with them. Quoting the movie pirate Long John Silver, she loved to answer any question with, ”Ask me no questions, and I’ll tell you no lies.” There was a Treasure Chest of secrets and lies inside of her, but I was content to be immune from it.
By the time she realized the man she married was a Yeller and Screamer, she had made it so she couldn’t dare go to her parents or sister for help; she couldn’t let them see she’d made a mistake. To do this she needed a foil, a decoy. No one must ever see her dark side. She needed a human shield who would never ever relinquish the role.
Only a Narcissist would ever do such a thing. Or pull it off.
And so, I became her human shield. When I was still in the cradle, the shaman told me. Any error she made was passed off on me that could be. I didn’t understand it, and I thought I was protected. My younger siblings all grew up to shun me, but we were all directed to put on a pretty act in the era of Leave It to Beaver and Ozzie and Harriet, so I thought we were close and tight knit. It was only when I saw other families rally around their first-born son did I feel a tremendous loss.
I was taken care of physically, as a first-born son in the era of the height of the American Middle Class. Spiritually and emotionally I suffered greatly, but always had a lot of inner resources when no one came to help me.
It wasn’t only spiritually and emotionally. My father had a huge unbridled anger inside him, and night after night he screamed and raged at me for no reason. For as much as several nights a week foras much as fifteen years, he usually started in screaming at Mom, and then turned over to me, escalating himself again and again until he tired himself out. He did not drink, ever. Only now do I know that she triggered his anger every time, as she did mine later when I got older, oblivious that she was stepping all over his heart. And mine.
This is very hard to write about, let alone explain. There is no proof and probably never will be. For as long as I could remember, she was the family Saint, whom all family members spoke to and about with great reverence— myself included. While I, her first born son, couldn’t do a single thing right. Ever. Dad yelled at me constantly; the whole house shook with his anger. He yelled at me if I turned left, and he yelled at me if I turned right. And he yelled at me if I didn’t turn at all.
She told me many times in private that I had done nothing to deserve his yelling and harassment. But she never told my brothers and sisters that. She never stood up for me in front of them; they never saw her fight for me. I learned only in this past decade that to them, I must have deserved Dad’s abuse all along. Moreover, by doing things that drew out his anger, I was endangering them, in their eyes. I was burning in the hot seat all the time, with never any sympathy from them at all, because it was the unspoken common knowledge that I was willfully endangering all of them.
There were so many consequences to this hellish situation that I can’t even count them, only the categories of consequences; it affected my body and physical health; it effected my social relations with groups and individuals; it impacted my relations with women most negatively; it gave me a horrible uncontrollable anger and all the consequences of that; it gave me symptoms of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder and Attention Deficit Hyperactive Disorder; and I seem to be lacking some basic information about survival skills, life skills, social and organizational skills that I think were intentionally withheld from me.
And yet, I have inner resources of my own that have always allowed me to compensate– these are the Banners of Perseverance that I wield Victoriously: I’m bright; artistically talented with a high IQ; I’ve always been charming and attractionable, even as I lack other social skills; I’ve always had a very strong will to correct the mistakes and flaws in my upbringing; and I have a very strong moral compass and spiritual intuition.
It was only in the past two years that I have been able to put all this together, although I have been trying since I was 18. Two years ago I was divorced by the woman I have loved for 27 years; this has been like dying and being born again.
I’ve won the right to be successful as myself, that I never should have had to fight for. But I’ve had to be willing to give up my family to do it. Because they are very very determined to lose me rather than take responsibility for themselves. Its excruciating. At the end of the day, none of them have to look at the reality of a Narcissistic mother manipulating everyone like crazy as long as they can pass it onto older brother Vic the eternal screw-up. And they always can.
They won’t wake up until they’re ready. Until then, they will always mistake my reaching out for them as capitulation. There is nothing to capitulate. There is an illness in the family. My mother’s heart has been entrapped and I have been sacrificed to preserve her in purgatory. Over 57 years I have slowly extricated myself from this sacrifice.
We shall see what happens next.
The next installments will be about two different but related topics: Narcissism and Spirituality; Narcissism and Religion
04/02/2013 § 12 Comments
In my case, I didn’t know my mother was a Narcissist until I was 56! I knew there was something very wrong when I was 8 years old, when for a school assignment I wrote a 3-page bio of myself and realized it was very sad but I couldn’t figure out why. When I was 12, and then 18, and then 32, I made concerted efforts to find out what was the matter, but I didn’t put it all together until about two years ago. I was always barking up the wrong tree, looking for something dysfunctional in myself, which my mother encouraged.
It was the Sacred Vow I made to myself when I was 32 that began the effort which in retrospect prepared me emotionally and physically for the final realization. I was always too dependent, in ways I was completely unaware of, on my mother. Even though I moved away from home when I was 18 to get away from her. Her hold on me increased, in some ways, the further I got from her physically. I needed to be materially dependent on myself, and even at 32 it was very hard for me to hold a job. So I was always financially broken, which made other kinds of independence harder to acquire. It was always a case of improving a little bit here, a little bit there, and pulling myself up very slowly. When I did have an opportunity to look back at how far I’d come in a given space of time, I was always appalled to realize how bad things had been before, and how much work there was left to do.
When I was a junior in High School, in an English class we had a lesson in which we worked with theatrical make-up artists. One woman designed a crystalline structure on my face. My teacher looked at me for a long time, and said, “That’s very appropriate for him. He’s so complex and contradictory, like there’s a House of Mirrors inside him.” I’ll never forget that.
One, I am very smart, gifted and creative. Now I am beginning to have success at last as a painter. Two, my father was very emotionally violent and yelled at me what felt like every day that we were home together,for the first 18 years of my life. Because he didn’t beat me, I always felt it was my weakness that was so devastated by his mere voice. . He yelled at me because we were both first-born sons, and he was apparently yelled at just as hard by his mother. I found this out from his cousin when I was in my 20s. It wasn’t because of anything I did– I was always very clear about this– It was because his past was eating him alive and his family didn’t allow him to heal it.
But only 2 years ago I discovered that it was my mother always instigated his epic tantrums– I finally realized that it was she who instigated my outbursts. Because of her huge inempathy– her lack of emotional rapport with other people– she was always completely unaware how often and how easily she tripped him -and me- off. This turned out to be very important, because all my life I thought it was just between him and me, and if I found out what set him off, I could stop it. But the mechanism was never in him; it was in her. My family was a puzzle that couldn’t be solved– she had hidden all the pieces. The more Dad hurt me the more, the more I idealized Mom; even as she became increasingly cold and distant.
So, yes, I’ve had a very confused and difficult relationship with women. Over a year ago, my first wife left me. We had an on-off relationship for 26 years, and were married for the last 14 of them. I’m still processing what happened. It appears that I idealized her unrealistically, and that she was always more sensitive towards herself than she was towards me. She bristled at the suggestion that she was like my mother, but in the final analysis there were unsettling similarities. Its largely for her that my presence on these sites is anonymous.
Narcissism expert Linda Martinez-Lewi’s writings can be found in other places online, but she mostly writes about Daughters of Narcissists– as do most bloggers on this subject. When they do write about Sons of Narcissists, they almost always write about the male Golden Child. I was never the Golden Child. That would be my sister who was 6 years younger than me. Because my mother always wore the pants in the family and was deeply misandronistic– she hates men. So I was the Scapegoat, as I hope to write about elsewhere on this site. The blame for wrongs in the family always seemed to fall on me, and the finger that pointed at me was always hidden. The only victory that was ever available to me was to endure until I was whole enough to save myself. I waited 55 years.
Thank you for listening,
and thank you for writing this,
April Fools Day, 2013
(No, this isn’t a joke. )