Out of the Fishbowl: My life as Narcissist 2.0

09/27/2015 § 1 Comment

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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 »

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Expecting to Fly Part 1: After Completion

04/26/2015 § 2 Comments

From Journal, 4/5/15
I havent blogged in four or five months, and a lot has happened in that time. I broke the code on a number of secrets!

    I

  • I’m as trapped inside myself as I’ve ever been.  And.  Thats. What Im writing about.
  • I toggle between two narratives; 1. that Im going down in flames flailing; 2. that I have just recovered from a controlled fall, and am on the verge of complete flight.  But Ive been on the verge of complete flight for 6 months and nothings happening.
  • I have recently been given a bad performance review from my last contract. It is the newest evidence that I am still spiraling down.

« Read the rest of this entry »

The Lost Child; Pt. 1

11/14/2013 § 2 Comments

I was 7 and my brother was 5. We were playing in the backyard and Mom stormed in completely pissed about something; I don’t recall what. She pulled us into the laundry room while holding a wooden mixing spoon. She bent me on her knee; my brother standing frozen beside me. Then she pulled down me britches and started whacking away. 

I remember being  surprised how little it hurt. My hide must’ve gotten tough; i wasn’t a little boy any more. She actually broke the paddle on my mighty behind. For one brief moment I thought it was done. 

She pointed at both of us and shouted, ”Don’t you go anywhere!”, her face red. We didn’t. I was sure she was going to get the really big wooden spoon, but instead she came back with a wired coat hanger. I actually thought, this isn’t going to hurt, until I felt it cut into me. I don’t actually remember her doing the ol’ Joan Crawford, but I do remember my little brother’s face; his mouth contorted, his skin slick with tears, his eyes red and swollen, wailing in fury and pain, when he got his. I’ll take that memory to the grave. « Read the rest of this entry »

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