They are sick of hearing the story. They all almost always nod with that knowing look that tells me that they have no fucking idea what the story really is. Rather, it tells that they don't know. And truth be told isn't it interesting that the word "nod" is a verb for what one does to go off to sleep.
But, all the same, they are sick of hearing the story. And I get it.
Truth be told, I'm sick of telling it.
Except that sometimes I must. I am compelled. I sometimes think, if you want to get me, you have to get this terrible piece of my survival story, And so I dumb the volume down, I minimize most of the details--making them seem more realistic, more believable, cause the truth isn't--and somehow I think "my listener" might get some small bit of it if I make it more tolerable. And the new guy that I just met, that I'm on a date with, would most certainly think I'm exaggerating if I tell the actual truth.
And so I make it more palatable. More ok. I often tell myself the same lie so I can get through my day.
He really wasn't that bad, after all. You created a lot of this shit in your own head. You imagined it.
He isn't really all that bad, still.
This is all in your head, as its always been. You have a massively active imagination, just as your youngest does.
Today, I was told that I was talking too much about me ex. I feel like you are comparing me to your ex, he said.
And there is an emptiness--a sadness that trickles into my soul at those words, cause if you got it, you'd probably also get that there is no one to compare my experience with him to--it's a bit too alien. And so that bleakness clouds me and the feeling that nobody really understands it catches in my throat pit again--and the countless lectures begin that tell of my listener's status hanging outside the ballpark waiting for the flyball to pop over the stadium seats altogether. And my listener is ready to solve all my narcissistic problems in 5 mins flat. Just step up to the plate, girl, and own your own shit.... Cause I've definitely not been trying my damnedest to own my shit for 19 years. Yeah, that is most definitely it, bro. Yeah, uh, thanks.
Truth. This story--the one that I'm telling--isn't actually the narcissist's story. It's not a war story about some fucker who blew up the jungle or threw a grenade into the hole of life. It's a love story about finding yourself again after all the terrible soul stripping, the awful dark night, when you think you just might not make it to morning. It's about the new you that somehow emerges after the volcano blackens everything. It's about that hope spark that somehow smolders on, in order for you to survive, for years. It's about that soul friend that happens along and reminds you of the song of who you are. It's about these important things. And so this story isn't about the narcissist, at all. This story is about the soul surviving. And it's just possible that you might just get that, if you'd shut the fuck up and just listen.
Cause this story is all mine. And I'm taking it back. Right here, right now. It's about the beautiful compassionate piece in me--in all of us--that even the narcissist cannot effectively snuff out, ever. You might not get this, and that is ok. But all the same, please either shut up or get the hell out of my story, cause clearly, it will never ever be one compatible with yours...
Showing posts with label over narcissism. Show all posts
Showing posts with label over narcissism. Show all posts
Friday, December 9, 2016
Saturday, November 12, 2016
Mr. Narcident
Predictably, a full fledged Narc being elected as president of the United States triggered trauma for me. Wednesday whirled. Looking out the window of the plane, I could not stop the tears. They seemed to just want to bleed out of my eyes, endlessly.
It wasn't about the losing. I didn't feel that strongly about the candidate I voted for. Except that she represented me. And for the first time I had the privilege of voting for a member of my own sex. I've never had that opportunity before.
Instead, it was about the denigrating things he has said--over and over--it was about those such as myself that are considered less than--it was about not wanting to be considered just a pussy that a man can grab or fuck in the alley if he has a lot of power or chooses to because he often can and damn it she wore "that slinky red dress" which somehow entitles him to rape her with a gun.
It was about being a woman who stands up to the male establishment and isn't afraid to enter the male dominated pant suit world, but then is mocked for doing just that. It was about being an intelligent woman, exceptionally qualified with massive experience going up against a man who has never held any public office, who has no experience to have the most powerful job in the world and being harshly chastised for sending emails in the wrong way. It was about the standards being drastically different for women than men. It was about having to out-think, out-play the narc just to escape the difficult marriage that occurred when too young where he had all the power of entrapment.
Melania voted. Trump looked over her shoulder. That familiar look of being controlled traumatized me because I recognized how it is no better to be "kept" by a rich, powerful narcissist. She may never get out. How do you divorce the president of the United States of America? Sounds more difficult than divorcing the average college professor narcissist who just wants to disrespect you by sleeping with his students.
It was about the children waking up afraid of deportation because they are darker skinned and speak Spanish. It was about the LGTBQ community being afraid. It was about Muslim families wondering where they should go now because they are all considered evil by the white house.
It was about the future feeling even more unstable. It was about the men that I've dated who "voted" for him all the while proclaiming how much they "loved" the idea of voting for a woman but just "not her." And yet all the while, the majority of the women I know somehow saw something different. Perhaps, they, like me, saw that the standards were and always have been different for her and most men in their sexism have never being able to see their own silver spoons. And this made me sad.
It was about remembering how many times, I've denigrated myself so that some man's fragile ego can withstand the fact that I am a strong woman. Educated. Intelligent. Doctored. Empathic. Compassionate. Aiming to make it in the world.
It was about wondering if she would have run for the most powerful office in the world by staying in her place in the "right" man's world-way, if she would have gotten in? Would it have made a difference? Would she have burst through the glass ceiling for us all? Or would it have ended in the same pussy-grabbing locker room scenario?
It wasn't about the losing. I didn't feel that strongly about the candidate I voted for. Except that she represented me. And for the first time I had the privilege of voting for a member of my own sex. I've never had that opportunity before.
Instead, it was about the denigrating things he has said--over and over--it was about those such as myself that are considered less than--it was about not wanting to be considered just a pussy that a man can grab or fuck in the alley if he has a lot of power or chooses to because he often can and damn it she wore "that slinky red dress" which somehow entitles him to rape her with a gun.
It was about being a woman who stands up to the male establishment and isn't afraid to enter the male dominated pant suit world, but then is mocked for doing just that. It was about being an intelligent woman, exceptionally qualified with massive experience going up against a man who has never held any public office, who has no experience to have the most powerful job in the world and being harshly chastised for sending emails in the wrong way. It was about the standards being drastically different for women than men. It was about having to out-think, out-play the narc just to escape the difficult marriage that occurred when too young where he had all the power of entrapment.
Melania voted. Trump looked over her shoulder. That familiar look of being controlled traumatized me because I recognized how it is no better to be "kept" by a rich, powerful narcissist. She may never get out. How do you divorce the president of the United States of America? Sounds more difficult than divorcing the average college professor narcissist who just wants to disrespect you by sleeping with his students.
It was about the children waking up afraid of deportation because they are darker skinned and speak Spanish. It was about the LGTBQ community being afraid. It was about Muslim families wondering where they should go now because they are all considered evil by the white house.
It was about the future feeling even more unstable. It was about the men that I've dated who "voted" for him all the while proclaiming how much they "loved" the idea of voting for a woman but just "not her." And yet all the while, the majority of the women I know somehow saw something different. Perhaps, they, like me, saw that the standards were and always have been different for her and most men in their sexism have never being able to see their own silver spoons. And this made me sad.
It was about remembering how many times, I've denigrated myself so that some man's fragile ego can withstand the fact that I am a strong woman. Educated. Intelligent. Doctored. Empathic. Compassionate. Aiming to make it in the world.
It was about wondering if she would have run for the most powerful office in the world by staying in her place in the "right" man's world-way, if she would have gotten in? Would it have made a difference? Would she have burst through the glass ceiling for us all? Or would it have ended in the same pussy-grabbing locker room scenario?
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