On Healing

For a long time, a seemingly endless, enduring amount of time, I've been doing this work of healing from narcissistic abuse. Depending upon how you frame it, eight or nine odd years now--give or take--from the waking up point in the Matrix, through the hell, fire, and brimstone of getting the fuck out of the marriage, to the moving away, to the starting afresh in the mountains and again now in the east. Looking back on the pilgrimage thus far, nearly nothing is the same. I'm a different creature than who I was upon waking up in the NPD Matrix. Red pill swallower that I am, the overhaul has been overwhelming at times. And exhilarating. And terrifying. And heart wrenching. And sorrowful. And strangely joyful. And relieving. And infuriating. There have been paralyzed moments where the upside down felt inescapable. Where death felt next to me all blanket-esque and truly living felt so far off it almost couldn't exist even in my imagination, and the Shaman priest, alone, held onto the golden thread to find the way out of the web--a way--any way.

The gift of this much time spent climbing out of the Matrix is the gift of perspective. Only now, am I beginning to see the bigger picture. As I gaze backward like Lot's wife looking at the glowing, obliteration of Sodom and Gomorrah (which by the way, I'm not sure why she was crystallized into salt for that?) patterns emerge. Also gratitude emerges. 

I see that somehow, Healing in all her grace has climbed out of the gauntlet with me. Walking beside me, my ever present companion of original lovingkindness, she afixed herself to me, all glue like, all over me like my shadow on this journey. Hovering so close, shading me from the bombastic sun, even as I've felt completely lost, wandering the desert of narcissistic abuse--Healing was there hunting me down.

I now see that I haven't actually been alone on this journey--in spite of it seeming that way--in spite of seeming as though there was no one in the pitch black, cave like dark. She's been there. Right there. So close, I couldn't even see or feel her breath.

As of late, the healing She has settled a bit, as the traumatic tentacles have loosened and receded back like the falling tide into the abyss or where-ever tentacles recede to, a mild sense of forgetting has come ashore. She--the healer hasn't needed to be parked upon me, pulling my lungs up to take in oxygen, or pressing on my chest to remind my heart to contract, or restlessly compelling my legs to take another step.

Panic no longer greets me everyday at dawn. Anxiety no longer paces my room far into the night. Sadness no longer steals my breath from my chest nor my throat.  

Peace is a newish companion. 

There is this amazing bearded wonder that has been hanging around a lot, capable of connection on so many levels--emotional, intellectual, spiritual, physical. He shows up. All there and then more. He feels. He gives. He loves. 

And with gratitude, I love. 

Already, I feel as though I can't live without him. Already, I feel a wonderous intensity of bliss beyond reason.

Somehow, this blissful feeling, in all its glory is also terrifying and triggering. For in it, I feel the remnants of the narcissistic tentacles on my mind. The warped, poison words of the past echo in my spinning head, the lingering brainwash from someone who was supposed to love me, but never really did. The perpetual, painful, embedded, You're not good enoughs and Why can't you be such-in-such and No one but me would ever want you.  

I know that we all have to do enough of the work in order to engage in a healthy relationship. We have to be whole again. We can't go in thinking, This person will heal me, fill up all my emptiness, and complete me.

And yet, the paradox is that we do heal in relationship. A regulated nervous system guides another adjacent nervous system back toward self regulation. A thumping heart in the midst of fight or flight, slows down to parasympathetic levels when another nearby heart beats at a slower rate in peace.

And so I lean in to healing and love with courage and tenacity. I lean in and hope that the demons in my head find there way out of my head. I pray that I give them the right amount of attention, but not too much and that healing and love relentlessly chase me and always find me. And that this amazing bearded wonder has all the courage and patience and compassion and love that it takes to keep on coregulating. Amen.

the Revolution

There are things I'm grateful for and then there are things that I basically cannot express enough of my gratitude for. These things extend so far beyond my ability to be grateful for them--that I almost don't know how to describe them. Things that literally revolutionized everything. Lately, I've been mulling over those things. Which relevant pieces essentially revolutionized everything? That is the question I have been pondering, as of late.

First, there was a listener. A revolutionary priest. A grizzly, bearded, long-haired tatted, F-bomb dropping priest.  Prolly goes without saying but not your typical rigid-religiosity-instilling-personhood-bashing-priest. No. A listener--and that's relevant. A priest with (in fact) something on par with turning-water-into-wine miraculous listening skills where I could bump into myself somewhere on the bookshelves near the magic-eight-ball Jesus in his office.

I remember the startled feeling of not being interrupted. I remember the long pauses. Half the time, I would interrupt myself. Only then would he speak.

I hadn't had that experience in seventeen years. Always talked over. Always repeating myself because the narcissist never actually heard anything I said, except way back in the beginning when it was something akin to ammunition to later use against me way down the road. But I didn't know that then.

So a bad-ass listener. Key.

That and the screaming dreams was how I started to wake up in my own life. 

That was how I started to arm myself for the hellish battle of escaping the Matrix that I didn't know that I was about to undertake.

For something like a solid year he--the Priest--listened while I unloaded--verbal diarrhea for hours every single week. It seemed endless once the Dam broke and uncontrollably the water ran. Sometimes the literal waters ran. Sometimes I gut wrenchingly sobbed for most (all) of the appointment. I had no idea that I needed a place to park my sorrow. Hell, I didn't even know that there was so much unattended sorrow underneath. I had so effectively walled myself off from it that I didn't even know it was there. And certainly, didn't know it was mine.

I think he did know it was mine. He had a sixth sense about those sorts of things. Shaman-esque.

He would do what priests ought to do, but most don't or won't, and just hold space. That is something that should be taught in Priest 101. He could endlessly hold space like nobody's business. And finally then I could breathe. It was one of the only places in my life I could actually breathe freely. But I didn't even know that--that I needed a place to breathe--cause I wasn't really breathing elsewhere.

I started to notice that. I started to notice that I was breathing mostly in his office. I also started to notice that I was not breathing when I was around my ex the narcissist. I started to toss and turn a little bit in my narc induced sleep.

And so that was how the revolution started.

There were others who joined the cause. Others who listened. Others who pointed things out. Others who oh-so-directly spoke into my life. Others who helped imagine a way out.

But his bad-ass listening skills are like none other. The root of the revolution. The revolution would not have ever existed without them.

A string of therapists were certainly helpful. Important. But if I can point to only one person--one significant person that made the revolutionary difference--the person that single-handedly triggered the rebellion--it was this one human who listened like I was the only person left on the planet to be listened to, like there wasn't anyone else, like judging other people about weird things they think or do didn't even exist. And that in a nutshell is how and why I escaped.   

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.    

Things I Remind Myself of When I Start to Waver

One. I swallowed the Red pill. This hell of being awake is still better than the hell of being in the delusional narc matrix.

Two. Even if I'm alone the rest of my damn life, true aloneness is still better than false togetherness which is really just hidden aloneness.

Three. The hidden, narcopalypses that will emerge along the path like trip wires and bouncing betties, start to form patterns. Take for example this Christmas. Predictably, when I have my kids and am engaged in being present to them, my ex will do something to sabotage the time. This is absolutely predictable. There will be a letter or email or phone call or text designed to wound me in some way. Since I've gone "minimal contact" it will be embedded in a communication that has the guise of being kid related. I therefore already have a plan. No opening of anything, no matter how "urgent" until my time with my kids is over.

Four. Focus on the progress. The rattling and emotional abuse used to throw me off for months at a time. Lost in the fog, I couldn't find my path or my way. Now, I'm thrown off for a few hours or a day and then back on track. Decreasing your being rattled time is progress.

Five. I swallowed the Red pill. I chose the Red pill. While it would be much more difficult to choose the Red pill if prior to swallowing I had the horrific knowledge from these past four years of this hellish Odyssey, even still, I would choose again to wake up and get the fuck out.

Dear Woman I Never Knew

I don't know what to say to you except perhaps well, you got out. Sure you had to die to do so, but on some level I have come to see your passing as a kind of mercy, a severe one, but a mercy nonetheless. I've supposedly gotten out but alas it doesn't end. Your son, the one I was tethered to all those years, well it just doesn't matter that I moved away to escape, he continues to entangle me. And this, this is the sticking point. I've certainly thought about death, more as a means to escape than anything else. I don't necessarily want to die, its just I'm so tired of the endlessness of the emotional and psychological abuse. Hope as it turns out seems to be a terrible thing. For in spite of all the terrible things he has done to me over and over again, my brain stubbornly refuses to comprehend that someone like him can exist entirely without any compassion or empathy. He grows worse by the day. And in spite of me losing almost everything, he wants to suck more life out of me like a dementor. Why? He has already won a million fold over and over. He now has my children full time. Even still he wants to take more. He bullies. He stabs. He wishes me harm. All that to say, your murderer (your ex) whom fathered this thing that I was tethered to for so long, in so fathering spawned another alien just as his father spawned him. I wish I could say that your tragic death changed him--that he was able to rise above it and break the cycle of narcissist creating more narcissicism. But, I have no such news to write you. I fear for my children. I am hoping and praying that in spite of my not being able to be in proximity to them that they will somehow see through all these narcissistic enchantments and mirrors. I am hoping that I have somehow burdened them with overpowering tools that help them separate wheat from chaff, truth from lie. I pray that the narcissistic propaganda does not penetrate their spirits and souls. I pray that they hold onto compassion, empathy, hope, and kindness toward humanity and that they begin to recognize that there are things in proximity to them that are more alien than human. I'm so sorry that I failed you. When I first met him, I only wanted our relationship to be a source of healing from all of this shit for him. It still grieves me that he ultimately chose this path. They say that the narcissist cannot ever recover. But, alas I am cursed with microscopic hope that somehow this new mother figure in his life will somehow trigger healing in spite of the damning odds. And regardless of what happens with your son, I am hoping that the pattern ends with him. 

Gaslighting

True story. Late one night recently, a couple of glasses of red wine already imbibed, I saw on that all powerful FB feed that a band I've enjoyed since college is coming to town. Small venue situation, tickets in the realm of reasonable, conditions seemed almost perfect. Even my musical friend who enjoys these sorts of venues agreed to go with me. So I clicked on the link to make an in app ticket purchase, and the deal was done row G seats 32 and 33. Or so I thought. I texted musical friend and went to bed.

About a week later I realized I'd never seen the email confirmation. Hmmm. Why not? And this is the point where the gaslighting, the it's-everything-that's-ever-been-wrong-but-it's-all-she's-ever-known crept in. You see, when your memory is always questioned, second guessed, deemed unreliable at best, for the better part of 20 years, over time you develop a mistrust of your own memory. Because you were manipulated into mistrusting your own self. So that you could more easily be controlled.

Did I really order those tickets? Did I only think I ordered those tickets? Where was the email confirmation? I did have a couple of glasses of wine that night... These are all things my ex would have suggested or hinted at...

My own mind conditioned as it has been by the Narc ex in the abuse for all those years started doing what he would do.

But she cuts herself on you every night.

As in, You know that never happened? You know your memory is unreliable. You didn't really order those tickets. You only imagined it. You wanted to go so badly that you emotionally got attached to the idea of going and you thought you ordered those tickets. But we know, you're not quite right in the head. It's understandable, really, you're under a lot of stress these days.

And on and on my brain stewed and swirled. And then the anxiety crept in and started growing into a mountain. My body tensed up, the adrenaline raced through my arms, the thoughts took flight, the overwhelm, the cyclic edge and the feeling of being lost in the drowning ocean of cPTSD swirled....

But, I've been doing a lot of work in healing. And eventually something snapped. And I went, wait. Do you see what you're doing? You're fucking gaslighting yourself!!! You're perpetuating his shit again! You're scared and anxious and losing your head, not because you're going crazy but rather because the PTSD got triggered and this experience took you back to the Matrix. There is another explanation for this rather than faulty memory. Take a deep breath. Figure it out. 

It was only then that it occurred to me to check my bank statement. And I've never been happier to see money charged to my account! Hallelujah! That charge felt like a bona-fida certificate from the school of Narc Abuse Recovery. I grinned. I'm not crazy!!! I did order those tickets! And then it occurred to me that the email tied to my FB is a rather old email address that I never check. And the confirmation was probably emailed to that address--the app having been a FB app. I accessed the email and found further confirmation that I need to keep restoring self trust!

And this felt like progress. This felt like I can do this thing called recovery. And I don't have to be perfect at it. There will be hiccups. There will be bumps in the road where I wander off the path and get a little lost. But the further I walk down the healing path, the more certain I am that I will find my way in recovery and continue in realizing that He's just a blade too dull to raise.

And in some sort of twisted irony, the band in question, Over the Rhine, has one of the most apt lyrical descriptions in song format of narcissistic abuse and the struggle to recover and get oneself out of it....

She

What she would like to do
Is get you out of her head
She's tried every trick
She's so sick of thinking about it

What's so special about you
You're an ache she's learned to crave
You're a blade too dull to raise

But she cuts herself
On you every night
She's just dying
To lay down the knife

What she would love to do
Is get you out of her bed
She's played it over and over and over
In her head

But she cuts herself
On you every night
She's just dying
To lay down the knife

She clings to what's familiar
She thinks a change would kill her

What she ought to do
Is put a gun to your head
For all the things you said and did

But what she will not do
Is let you go before you're gone
It's everything that's ever been wrong
But it's all she's ever known

So she cuts herself on you every night
She's just dying to lay down her life.
What she would like to do

Is get you out of her head....

-Over the Rhine

On Mattering post Narcissist

Maybe one of the real reasons I was able--am able to be escaping the narcissist in the first place was because my work compelled me to do so. You see, if your work is intense enough, obvious enough, especially on the helping people front, it will teach you things, in spite of what the narcissist says. 

And when your work gives you a reason to believe otherwise, or directly contradicts what the narcissist says, you have some thread to hold on to. Mostly, he told me shit like that I was terrible at what I do. Mostly, he was quite critical of my every flaw, even my skill that clearly wasn't on par with his. Mostly, he was the one pulling--dragging us along. Mostly, his work mattered, not mine. But, the facts are that when it comes down to what I do--helping people, well most days, I think it does matter. 

Some days, I can point to real people who might not be around, but for my work. There are folks that might have taken their own lives. On those particular days, I think it does matter, this thing that I do.

But, anyhow. I'm definitely not perfect.

All I can say is some days I do help people. I can't say it's an easy thing, talking someone out of suicide who is dead set on it. (Really, no pun intended). That space opens up and you feel swallowed up. so inept, so small. The emptiness hits you. A human being is waiting alone in the dark for somebody--anybody--to contradict the screaming worthlessness in their own head. And mostly you don't really know if you have the right words. Maybe, you don't have any words.

Please don't kill yourself. Please don't take your own life. Please give it more time.

That's all you have. And it feels so ridiculously inept. After all the specialists, all the people who tried but somehow couldn't reach them, and you might be the last stop?

And there you are trying not to hear the narcissist screaming about all your flaws and shortcomings cause honestly, that might get in the way of helping. You can't go into helping someone in a really dark space with your own demons.

And the psychic space where someone wants help often has its own set of demons. Sometimes that person throws out attempts to sabotage any and all help--sometimes they legitimately want to alienate, to abuse, in order to get someone to give up on them. That is most difficult. It is most heavy. And that is the space inhabited, in this kind of work, a lot of the time.

It is saturated with the great weight of a storm cloud.

And you have to do best to talk them back from the ledge. You have to remind them that they do matter. Sometimes, it sneaks up on you that you are there reminding yourself as well as the other person..The world needs you. There is no one else like you. This is what it means to be human, after all. Unique individuals trying to contribute to the good of the planet.

You say it to yourself as much as to the person in front of you:

Please don't kill yourself.

They don't know you're saying it outloud for both of you. It's not supposed to be about you.

But, sometimes it happens to fall on a day where the narcissistic brainwashing lingers loudly in your head. You try to force feed the good stuff into your own brain as much as into the brain of the person sitting in front of you.

And sometimes the act of doing that helps. The action reminds that what the Narc said about you wasn't true. Your work does matter. At least, sometimes. For the other. For you. For us all, as human beings. Which is something the narcissist really can't understand and never will.

And sometimes you just have to go on clinging to the fact that your work, imperfect though it be, is beneficial. And it helps others and yourself with the narcissistic deprogramming.

Waiting for the Fog

Crossing the ridge on Kepler, if one is smart, one considers the potential for crosswinds and fog and summer snow and Avalanches any time of year. No matter the actual conditions when you set out, the island factor must be considered and you must always be prepared for things turning on a dime. If you can't see the way ahead, you might spend useless hours going the wrong way and you must carry basic tools to deal. A few die every few years on the trail, losing their way in the wrong conditions or not taking seriously the potential for things not going as intended.

Sometimes I think I chose this particular track because it must have somehow felt familiar due to the unpredictability factor. Maybe I chose the whole damn country because of that, as well. My making my way was symbolic. A pack strapped to my back, it was more than a tramp, it was a statement to myself, to the world that I can do this thing called living on my own, independent of my ex.

The truth is, I'm not so sure I can.

Most of the trail I spent thinking just how ridiculous my own anxieties actually are--at least while hiking. My world, my future all felt so crisp and clear and at hand. My intuition, my true self felt so close, it was as if the real authentic me who has felt a long way off was back--central, rooted, strong like the trees on the trail growing straight out of the rock.

Even crossing the spine, the fog rolled in and out like anxiety sometimes can. When it was close at hand, the visibility was sometimes 6 feet. But, even still the sense of things lurking behind the fog did not disturb me. When it cleared you could see for miles. While trekking, I enjoyed the clouds dancing with the mountains like some ballroom choreography set to the rhythm of the winds. So relaxed, as if dancing with my lover on the ballroom floor.

But once back, my anxieties and worries seemingly grabbed on, clinging with a fierce death grip like the moss and trees that clung to those rocks on the sides of the mountains of Fiordlands--waiting to topple and strip a clearing in one giant tree-slip avalanche.

I'm not sure why I chose to hike Kepler in Fiordland. And maybe I didn't choose it. Maybe the track chose me. It was fitting on most levels. The concerns of such variable weather conditions taking me off the trail hit close to home. Much like the narcissistic storms that come out of seemingly nowhere, blind siding my purpose or day or stability and necessitating tools to find my own way, yet again. I perpetually worry that I've lost my way in life--that I'm not getting out the right way, that I'll never find my own somebody to connect with again, that I'll continue at failing on every front in life over and over again. I feel like I've been tramping alone for so long, with a pack so heavy that I'm not sure I can relate anymore to most people. I'm tired of explaining to people who don't listen, who think they get it, who compare their drifting divorce experience to the one where you leave a narcissist who won't let you leave, ever.

Even four years out from "waking up," with his soon to be new wife settled in to the new house they bought together with the pool and the potted planters, you might still get blindsided by deep indescribable sadness as it once again strikes you that he never did love you and the years were just an illusion. The torture of potential memories that you haven't yet grieved for what they really were blowing in like a snow storm on Kepler in the middle of summer can keep you edgy. You do traverse a ridge.

You might never doubt the decision you made to leave the narcissist, but the overwhelming endlessness of the trek floats in like the clouds at times. I still worry I'll never fully escape his orbit. I worry he'll never get bored and leave me alone. I worry he'll never tire of trying to take or find something else to take from me. I worry that this track has no end or that it loops on forever like Kepler.

But looping though it is, Kepler does have a bridge at the end or beginning, however you manage it. And the name of the bridge is called Rainbow Reach. And I'm sure we can all imagine the symbolism of a Rainbow.

I know there were lessons in tramping this track. I'm still sorting out what those lessons might be. Part of that sorting out unfortunately appears to involve still more waiting--waiting for the fog or winds or weather to change.

Realness that You Don't Recognize

Sometimes the realness surprises you at the most inopportune, uncomfortable times when you'd rather not look your own shit in the face..

The times when you're ready to parade the story out and believe your own bullshit about how things really are.

I've dealt with this shit. I'm over it. I totally know what I'm doing....

And then that real friend shows up and is right there in the middle of the storm. Perhaps being scooped into the ice cream cone, himself. Taking the brunt of the ice cream shit show. Feeling the all powerful anger and whatnot and don't fuck with me edge....

And he just shows up. Takes the words and responds to them even if they don't fully make sense. As if to say it's ok....

Often, he doesn't actually use any words. Just shows up with the joke and the half hearted smirk that makes you catch a glimpse of your own bullshit.

Totally over my ex, you say. 

You don't even really get how much he actually sees through the bullshit smokescreen that you happen to believe about the story you tell yourself everyday until he is there dealing with the windmills and cardboard head gear like Sancho Panzes.

Notes to Self

When someone tells you who they are, believe them, the first time.

Remember that most of the time a person will tell you what you need to know about them without words. You will be tempted to pick the words they say that you find lovely and beautiful, that quite possibly contradict what they have already told you without words. Instead focus on what their actions say and run like hell if you find yourself wanting to focus on those flowering, smoke-screen type words that you especially like. These words aren't real. You are the one who added to their un-realness and you might be creating what you want to see in the world rather than what is.

When someone tells you who they are, believe them, the first time.

Remember that most of the time you will want to project good things onto a person, that aren't there. Wait. Give time. Give space. Shut the fuck up yourself and listen with your whole damn body to the space between the words. The attitudes, the quick judgments, the lack of compassion. If you cringe and want to apologize on the person's behalf to the exhausted waitress or the gay bartender, listen to your own damn body. Get the hell out of there.

When someone tells you who they are, believe them, the first time.

Remember that most of the time they will tell you things about how they see the world in the jokes, in the making fun, in the guessing at what you or others are experiencing. A wise person knows they don't know. The unwise will believe in their own ability to know, swiftly and quickly even in the huge wake of poor listening skills. Pay close attention to the things they "jokingly" accuse you or others of. It is often indicative of how they see the world and communicates much about their unhealed shit. They can't pretend in these instances, and the anger or irritability that is sugar coated in the name of humor will tell you a lot. If you say something and they "can't hear what you say" because "you can't take a joke," it is likely to be their best hearing and their hearing is not likely to get much better even with time. Walk away.

When someone tells you who they are, believe them, the first time.

Leaning into the Lies

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. 

Dating the Real Me

Now that things are officially done, and my lovely narcissist has kinda moved on, I've finally moved into the space of being a free agent and so of course I decided to do something absolutely ludicrous like join a dating site.

You could probably argue that I'm not quite ready. You could probably argue that this might be the worst place for me. And you'd probably be right in so arguing all of the above. But, seeing as how I'm no longer living on the alien planet of narcissism, I was feeling a bit nostalgic for alien and so I thought I'd replace said alien planet with another equally strange place--the wonderful world of online dating. And truth be told, I'm sure I'll come across a narcissist or two in said ventures without even really looking.

You could say the online dating world is a bit in-authentic and rife with said characters and you'd probably be absolutely right in saying so. I've decided to consider it more of a nuclear testing ground for all things explosive in the dating world, which may or may not be about how I feel, relationship wise.

And so it was that I found myself on a casual meet up for coffee last week which seemed harmless enough. Seemingly, everything went fine until near the date's end when the conversation turned toward the topic of whether or not there would be another date. He wanted to go out again. I thought this to be a good thing. Until he said, I'm kind of a traditional guy. I'm not trying to control you but I want to get to know you without you getting to know anyone else.

Uh, dude have you forgotten that we just had coffee? We just met.  And you are trying to control my life already. 

No, really. How would you feel if tomorrow night I was out with another girl like this?

I should hope she could keep the standard as high as I have... I should hope she could raise the standard, even. And I should hope to be the sort of person that you don't forget so easily.

I want you to consider this compromise where you do exactly what I'm proposing and don't date any other guys while we are getting to know one another...

Uh, I'm sorry, but what part of we just met, don't you understand? I felt the oddly familiar coiling and talking and hypnotic looking into my eyes in trance formation. As the strangulation factors began to seem cozy, something triggered. There is a snake, I thought.

Startled. I got my bearings. I'm gonna check in with a friend, I told myself. I'll ask my friend about this boa looking thing coiled around me sharing my breath with me after coffee.

That's weird. Bizarre. Clingy. No, you're not the crazy one. It was only coffee... 

I knew it. I knew all the stuff my friend said. I think I had almost the same thoughts my friend had. Except I didn't trust my thoughts. Thanks to the lovely stamp on my soul by Mr. Crazy Town, himself. This is why I still need for somebody outside of myself to confirm to me that I'm not being crazy. Or unreasonable. Or paranoid. Or over-reacting. Cause the brainwashing continues onward sans narcissist.

The voice of my ex is still there right inside my head. Loud as ever. Telling me I'm stupid. I'm less than. I'm inept. I'm paranoid. I'm over-reacting. I'm worthless and don't matter without him. And as much as I've journeyed onward and I don't believe these lies, there is still the problem with the doubting of self. I know all these things are not true and it's still hard to argue against the part of me that I became in order to survive, and now suddenly I'm apparently supposed to cut off this gangrenous part of myself--but it's still me that I must now ironically sever in order to become the real me again.