Coercion

What is the relevant difference between covert, psychological coercion and communication? At what point does one merge into the other in relationships?

What of the land of small demands and preferences? The seemingly benign I-like-your-hair-this-way-and-not-that-way type preferences? Somehow the alarms in the body get sounded, anxiety floods in out of nowhere. An emotional avalanche triggered, you might vaguely remember this feeling that threads into never feeling good enough and why can't I just be me?

Then upon listening to the words of somebody out there in the world as regards 3 clues of toxic relationships you are reminded of the following:

Clue 1 of toxic situation = regular confusion in the form of a consistent pattern that something is not quite right. Asking the question of yourself, why am I so confused as to what is going on? Why am I constantly unsure of what is going on?

Clue 2 regular investigation in asking the question, is this right? Is this toxic? Hypervigilence to the details--the texts, the DMs, the messages, and constant analysis and mulling over the microdetails. Seeking a 2nd and 3rd and 4th opinion from people in your life that you trust because ultimately you're confused.

Clue 3 covert coercion which might boil down to some subtleties early on. But when the message communicated when you attempt to be yourself is that being you is not acceptable and that is why he needs space, why then you must consider the potential reality--that the real authentic, quirky you, is not welcome in this relationship. And a relationship that is not good for both people is good for neither.

Not Good Enough

From whence does this feeling of not being enough come? On whose wings does it ride?

They never intended to communicate that I wasn't good enough.

But it was there embedded in the hell, fire, and brimstone flannel-graph stories. I wasn't good enough for God. The Divine was sending me to the Lakes O'Fire upon my death, unless somehow, I got the prayer right and Jesus hopped into my evil heart. I don't remember how many times I heard this message before the age of five.

They never intended to communicate that I wasn't good enough.

I suspect the brainwashing had already begun long before I could say any words. They were proud that before the ripe old age of two, I could recite my first Bible verse from memory. There was a camp and a canoe on a lake in the Midwest where you could go if you recited the whole book of ABC verses. "A" for "All we like sheep have gone astray, we have turned each and everyone our own way."

But, they never intended to communicate that I wasn't good enough. 

And then there was a sport that caught my heart at the ripe old age of 12--only one of the most difficult of sports. Far too late a start to get to the upper echelons. So I took it up. In spite of my athleticism and decent level of talent I quickly determined that I was not Olympic bound, in spite of this being some sort of instigating factor to drive me into the sport. All the same, my secret hopes and dreams they paraded before the house guests as entertainment, "She wants to go to the Olympics," they'd chuckle whilst compelling me to round off back handspring in the yard. My words of pleading to not divulge my secret dreams could never quite reach them. "We're so proud of you," they'd argue. And so began the schooling in how my "no" wasn't good enough to stop adults in all their infinite parenting wisdom if the purpose of boundary obliteration could be somehow construed as "well meaning."

But, they never intended to communicate that I wasn't good enough.

And then the day came when I thought I might find some sort of community amongst spiritual people in a church, of sorts. Knowing my recovery from fundee world, I chose a place that I didn't find too Jesus-ee. I may have even mentioned to them that I was stepping toward the Divine again, finding a connection to a church. But of course, the place chosen wasn't exactly the right sort of good enough for them. It wasn't Jesus-ee enough for their narrow fundamentalist world view. Something was wrong with the doctrine--too much ritual--too dead as they judged it--too much deviation from the horrific, flannel-graph stories that deadened my soul. And so when they'd visit, they decided that they couldn't contaminate themselves with attendance to my sort of Spiritual Gathering. My father would instead comb google, looking for multiple services at varying locations to try, rather than accompany his less-than-daughter to her spiritual community which clearly wasn't enough to feed his giant soul.

But, they never intended to communicate that I wasn't good enough.

And then there was a day when divorcing a narcissist stepped onto my to-do list. My ex was fucking one of his 21-year-old college students. And so my father in all his wisdom decided to try to "fix matters" by getting on a plane to counsel and advise about matters of the heart--matters of my heart. My ex had the gall to introduce the oh-so-fuckable-red-lipsticked-well-oiled-foreign student to my father. My opinion of the appropriateness of the situation, of my dad coming to advise about my relationship, and my insight into what was falling down around me didn't matter. I was after all female and emotional and not logical in my arguments defending my position as to why I should divorce. All the same, I sat my dad down independently, tried my best to explained as rationally as I could what was happening, and why I thought it wise to get out--how it was abusive and confusing and taking its toll on me. But my own words weren't rational, or logical enough for my own decision, in my own relationship, "to justify" leaving a cheating, emotionally abusing spouse. I was sinning--divorcing--clearly not trying hard enough. 

And so while they never intended to communicate that I wasn't good enough, the message somehow came through brilliantly clear.  Now I struggle to walk the line between connection to them, while working to delete this brainwashing from my head. I have the gall to wonder why when I finally meet the guy that I'd like to get to know--why I somehow feel not good enough.    

Who am I Ramblings?

With family in town this week, I'm stuck in a remembering mode of sorts. Returning to the past as mind adventure--but only in a good sort of way. I must admit that there have been years--not yet distant enough--when the returning has been the most painful, most hellish experience I've ever had. And I must remind you, in case you forgot, that I've given birth naturally before...Birthed a 10.8 lb baby sans any drugs or anesthetic, whatsoever. And the remembering and grief was indeed three thousand times worse.

But.

Somewhere, along the hellish way my real self snuck up on me. 

Six years ago I opened up a browser to find the truth in a delusion I was living. My Other turned out to not be who I thought he was. But that story has been written again and again in countless novels and poems. The real story and real delusion was that I turned out to not be who I thought I was. Narcissist be damned. The story has shaped up to not really be about him, at all--at least that is how I'm writing it. 

And just who am I?

Not entirely sure. But. These bits I know...

Resilient. Authentic. Real, in a Velveteen Rabbit sort of way. Weathered by life's experiences, yet strangely young in spite of or maybe because of these experiences.

Honest, to a fault, perhaps.

Highly intuitive. Learning not to buy into the world's and my ex Narc's rendition that this means something is wrong with me.

And then there's the compassion piece that I'm not sure about. Is it who I am? Not sure. It's not that I lack compassion. Far from it, I seem to have an excess of it. But it doesn't feel mine. Reason being, I don't have any control over it. Rather, it is just there hovering around me like a cloud, cloaking me in softness.

"My compassion" appears as if from somewhere else--much more than it should be allowed based on the horrific narc shit I've lived through. The compassion is the part I don't really understand. You'd think it would have been banished somewhere along the way. The narcissist certainly tried to drive it underground by pillaging it. Multiple therapists told me to abandon it as it often makes me vulnerable. Which is why its persistence puzzles me. And why I don't think its really mine, at all. It hovers around me like a cloak from somewhere else. When I'm exhausted and empty and completely lacking in every way it appears more prominently from wherever for someone else who needs it, like magic. Usually feels like some sort of river of energy flowing through me. Something I can neither stop nor start--something I just watch flow at the exact point where somebody needs massive amounts of it.

And so that settles nothing, really.

And just who am I? Not sure--but learning. And becoming more kind to myself.

I guess I'm still becoming as I watch my real self sneak back up on me.

the Authentic Grief

Apparently, he is getting married again. And as much as I knew this day would eventually present itself, I really didn't expect this particular stew pot of emotions. Grief. Sadness. Disappointment. Jealousy. 

My old friend grief has parked on the davenport again. The flavor tastes different this time around. Waves merging into one another, I float on a raft in the middle of the water. Last time, the open ocean washed over my raft-less form, pushing water into my lungs. Last time, I was certain I would drown. Last time, I cried myself to sleep for a solid year. This time the water from the ocean is spraying me, but I am floating more than not.

This time it's strangely different.

I can't exactly put my finger on it but this time it is as if I'm grieving on humanity's behalf. Not really my own grief.

I'm sad at the loss--but it isn't a loss of the past, rather a loss of the future. I'm sad about what never was. I'm sad about what might have been. I'm sad with a strange acceptance and without hope.

It likely sounds dark. But his story is so sad. He was dealt a bad hand--a tragic hand in life. I see that. I feel empathy on that front. Not so much empathy that I would ever have contact with him again, but still empathy is there at the tragedy. And all the same he had so much potential. Gifts. Strong intellect. Wit. Brilliant mind. Artistic capabilities. Creative leanings.

And as in the Parable of the Talents told by Jesus, the potential authenticity was buried, submerged under the water of unexpressed grief that he never got near enough to work with.

Last night, I cried for the tragedy of it all. I cried for the sad story that doesn't have a happy ending. I cried for the lost authentic self that he might have been if he ever would have approached his highest calling in life to just become. I grieved that person he might have been. I grieved his incredible lost potential. I grieved what I now think might be the real tragedy of it all. And that is the fact that no one--nobody--not me--nor anyone else will ever know the real authentic him. In 20 difficult years, I might be the person who got the closest to knowing something we might call the real authentic him.Which was nothing of the real him, I might add--only shallow and empty longing for the real, lacking anything even remotely resembling emotional intimacy.

And in 20 more years, she--the new fiancee--is not likely to get past the narcissistic walls keeping him from what used to be the authentic self's potential.

That core self certainly had potential years ago. But after being buried for so long the core self eventually atrophies and dies, or so suggests my epic dream.

I've come to see that my gift in life and at times, curse, is in seeing potential.

And so today I sit with my old friend, grief, speaking of what no one else will.

In my grief, I vow to learn from this his fatal flaw of not stepping into his own authentic self. I vow to keep becoming more me even if that means I end up walking this path of life, alone.