Somehow with the divorce final, I thought the need to lie and exaggerate things would slow down in my ex. Who the fuck cares anymore? We're done. I'd like for the record to reflect that. We don't need to interact except as regards my kids. But alas, my ex, filling the shoes of his father appears to have embraced the path of becoming more pathological in the lying. For no reason whatsoever?
Good news is I've made progress in the healing. I'm getting better at seeing perspective in his antics.
Case in point, yesterday. Had to have a conversation about the upcoming schedule. In the planning, we reviewed my upcoming plans next month.
That's the first I've heard of that... he said when I reviewed the March plans. He pretended that I was springing this upon him. It was so preposterous, I watched myself hardly allow his antics to register. I may have actually been bored. I felt so much indifference, it was as if he was far off and I could hardly hear him.
No. This is not the first you've heard. I said. I can forward you the texts, the emails, the transcripts of the phone conversations, if you like. Yawn. But, I know that I don't need to. Not for me. Go ahead and lay down in your own lie. Allow yourself to be enshrouded in it.
I felt calm. Nonplussed. Unrattled. I had the sense some two year old child had approached me with a plastic sword. Run along child, go play.
This is the first I've heard of that.
No, the stack of emails, texts, and conversations say otherwise.
There was another document from the lawyer. CC'd his name and mine at the bottom--mailed nearly a week ago--a document that stated that for some reason funds were "insufficient" in a financial account only he has access to.
He feigned ignorance. Even going so far as to take a picture on his phone of the document, cause yeah it's not your lawyer who sent it, not your name CC'd at the bottom on record, not you who moved funds out of the account. Right. Of course.
But, he needs to lie. He feeds on this stuff. And somewhere it has drifted past the point of even having threads of connection to reality, past the point of no return. The lies grow more intense, more bombastic, more ridiculous, so that he can have more food to suck down in order to stabilize his own blood sugar that depends upon the lie. I suspect he's unravelling, falling apart at the seams, self destructing. He's so focused on lie creation, nothing else holds relevance. He's like the insect that keeps flying into the bug zapper, lying to itself about the shiny pretty light. The light can't kill me. The light can't kill me. The light can't kill me.
Of course, it can't kill you, Mr Amazing Logician. You say you are impervious to that! There is no arguing with your logic.
Keep saying that. At some point, it won't matter that you feel compelled to tell the world that your little bug self is impervious to the light. Eventually, you'll get settled into that truth. You'll get to bask in the light of a truth all your own. No one ever need contradict you. The truth is patient. The truth will wait to assert itself. But eventually, your little bug carcass will be found lying in its own truth on the ground.
Thursday, February 23, 2017
Tuesday, February 14, 2017
On Being a Bore
I suppose my latest strategy is to bore him to death. And this--this is much harder than it sounds.
You see. I don't actually think I'm a boring person.
I've numerous interests. Truth be told, I aspire to be a freakin renaissance woman, most of the time.
I'm the one in the apartment complex in need of a piano. I lift weights. I run the partial racks on the billiard table. I have a brain and a terminal degree. I enjoy art--even the art I make. I write. Most of the time, I prefer to do things myself, because I care about actually doing it to my own personal standard that sometimes seems different than others. As I type, I suspect I sound like a narcissist, myself.
I was raised by at least one parent with very high standards. Standards that might be construed as related to said parent's narcissistic traits.
That may have potentially contributed to my ending up with a narcissist.
Thus, I'm trying the boring strategy.
More or less I aim to communicate that I might be the most boring person on the planet.
I'm absolutely a bore. And this is hard.
Because, if anything, the narcissist has caused me to work on myself, quite a bit, over the years. At many points, I had to work on myself in order to survive. I worked in order to learn and grow and change. Ironically, this was what the narcissist ended up conjuring out of me, though he can do precious little in conjuring such out of himself.
And so, in some sort of weird, ironic twist of fate, I kind of have him to thank for being who I am.
But, I'm so working on being a bore or at least communicating that I'm a bore. Just so you know...
You see. I don't actually think I'm a boring person.
I've numerous interests. Truth be told, I aspire to be a freakin renaissance woman, most of the time.
I'm the one in the apartment complex in need of a piano. I lift weights. I run the partial racks on the billiard table. I have a brain and a terminal degree. I enjoy art--even the art I make. I write. Most of the time, I prefer to do things myself, because I care about actually doing it to my own personal standard that sometimes seems different than others. As I type, I suspect I sound like a narcissist, myself.
I was raised by at least one parent with very high standards. Standards that might be construed as related to said parent's narcissistic traits.
That may have potentially contributed to my ending up with a narcissist.
Thus, I'm trying the boring strategy.
More or less I aim to communicate that I might be the most boring person on the planet.
I'm absolutely a bore. And this is hard.
Because, if anything, the narcissist has caused me to work on myself, quite a bit, over the years. At many points, I had to work on myself in order to survive. I worked in order to learn and grow and change. Ironically, this was what the narcissist ended up conjuring out of me, though he can do precious little in conjuring such out of himself.
And so, in some sort of weird, ironic twist of fate, I kind of have him to thank for being who I am.
But, I'm so working on being a bore or at least communicating that I'm a bore. Just so you know...
Thursday, February 9, 2017
on Clutches and Transitions
The clutch "went out" on my Honda. Maybe, you can blame it on the 200 thousand miles it has weathered and disclaim that it is rather old. You might even suggest we ought expect such behavior from a 1999 Honda Accord. We might even plan for it if we were the planning type.
But the what it "going out" means was that I was driving north on the 17 at 5am on a Saturday morning in the dark and cold when the revving in 5th gear wasn't right and I lost power and the missing sound was obnoxious enough that even I, non car-whisperer that I am, could recognize pathology in the sound and behavior. I prayed for non-texting teenagers as I hung out in the desert shoulder.
The tow truck showed. Only 4 dollars per mile plus the $80 per hour. Geez, what a deal!
Anyhow, the clutch.
The clutch's going out, miss firing or whatever clutches do when they fail struck me as strangely appropriate on some sort of grand symbolic level. You see it is the thing that facilitates the changing of gears, the switching of speeds or the redirecting. It is the one transitioning element.
And the clutch going out, might as well speak for my whole damn life at this point.
Because, I struggle with the transitions. Indeed, I feel like my own gears are perpetually missing as I go back and forth between my two opposing worlds--mountains and sun, entrepreneurial work and motherhood, future and past. There never seems quite enough time to feel settled in one locale before I'm on a plane back to the other.
I've never felt more alone.
I've never felt quite so detached--as if caught between worlds--as soon as I begin to more deeply connect, it is as if I'm sucked back up to that other place.
The garage said the flywheel had to be replaced. Apparently, sometimes you can file it down rather than replace it. But this can only happen if it hasn't taken on too much damage. So not this time--too much damage.
Right now, I feel like that flywheel--worn down to the nub. I feel the endlessness of the journey, like my Honda on the side of the 17, I am broken down, exhausted, unable to seamlessly shift between the different worlds I must inhabit in order to survive. I tell myself that slowly and surely all my parts are getting replaced. I am being rebuilt. I am also reminded that this is probably the antithesis of what my ex Narc would choose--pain leading you down a path of growth, change, and transition? No way. And so I remind myself to let the pain guide me toward the transformation that only this pain can build in me. I clutch tightly my beautiful future that will be all the more meaningful having been here.
But the what it "going out" means was that I was driving north on the 17 at 5am on a Saturday morning in the dark and cold when the revving in 5th gear wasn't right and I lost power and the missing sound was obnoxious enough that even I, non car-whisperer that I am, could recognize pathology in the sound and behavior. I prayed for non-texting teenagers as I hung out in the desert shoulder.
The tow truck showed. Only 4 dollars per mile plus the $80 per hour. Geez, what a deal!
Anyhow, the clutch.
The clutch's going out, miss firing or whatever clutches do when they fail struck me as strangely appropriate on some sort of grand symbolic level. You see it is the thing that facilitates the changing of gears, the switching of speeds or the redirecting. It is the one transitioning element.
And the clutch going out, might as well speak for my whole damn life at this point.
Because, I struggle with the transitions. Indeed, I feel like my own gears are perpetually missing as I go back and forth between my two opposing worlds--mountains and sun, entrepreneurial work and motherhood, future and past. There never seems quite enough time to feel settled in one locale before I'm on a plane back to the other.
I've never felt more alone.
I've never felt quite so detached--as if caught between worlds--as soon as I begin to more deeply connect, it is as if I'm sucked back up to that other place.
The garage said the flywheel had to be replaced. Apparently, sometimes you can file it down rather than replace it. But this can only happen if it hasn't taken on too much damage. So not this time--too much damage.
Right now, I feel like that flywheel--worn down to the nub. I feel the endlessness of the journey, like my Honda on the side of the 17, I am broken down, exhausted, unable to seamlessly shift between the different worlds I must inhabit in order to survive. I tell myself that slowly and surely all my parts are getting replaced. I am being rebuilt. I am also reminded that this is probably the antithesis of what my ex Narc would choose--pain leading you down a path of growth, change, and transition? No way. And so I remind myself to let the pain guide me toward the transformation that only this pain can build in me. I clutch tightly my beautiful future that will be all the more meaningful having been here.
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