Narcissistic Abuse in a Nutshell Take 2

Anonymous is

one day waking up and finding yourself

missing

from your own life.

Replaced

by an alien you helped create.

Invisible

you slip toward absence.

The Story

One of my favorite books is The Things They Carried by Tim O'Brien. An apparent, loosely related collection of short stories, with one repeated over and over where Tim kills the punchline and tells you the ending of the story over and over, as the reader, you almost reach the maddenly, irate point at the redundancy. You feel like you've got it already, as if Tim is deliberately insulting your intelligence as a reader. That arrogant writer, who clearly thinks I'm not paying attention to the Curt Lemming story?  Enough, already....

And then it eventually hits you, that you've never felt the story. And this matters to the story. In fact, this means that you've never really heard the story in spite of his telling it over and over. Somehow, you didn't quite get it that Tim held back the pieces that matter. Until, you've really heard the story--which incidentally, is the uncircumcised poignancy of the story intact. And that's when you finally feel it all most acutely.

Today, in this new land of towers. I told the first layer of the story I've been hearing and telling to those that want to hear for nigh on 20 years. The backstory, really--of how my ex came to be evil. The story that birthed my ex on the path to narcissism. How the darkness of death and grief at the ripe old age of two started the cascade and transformation to being a pathological lying sort of person that feels no empathy, in spite of anything.   

As I told it, it struck me in quite a different way, a rather new way, more than it has in the past. My experience of different people listening to the story shaped my sense of the story, itself. Telling it was such a different experience. It was an entirely different story. For the first time, I felt a large distance from the story. And this--this little bit of distance was good.

For the first time, I didn't feel entirely entangled up in the web of compassion and empathy for my ex narcissist. While I was in touch with the traumatic circumstances of his childhood, I could see the steps he has deliberately taken; whereby he decided to sever himself from compassion, cause it might get in the way of getting your way if you're a narcissist.

And I saw anew the power of the story. The power of telling it over and over again. The power of retelling it in a different way, to a different crowd. I saw anew the story itself transformed by the telling of it. And somehow the sense that, just like Tim O'Brien, I've never really told the story in such a way that the emotion gets understood by the listener. And that is the story that most needs to be told.

Church of Stone

What is it about a place that can affect us so?

This year's Christmas, I was dreading being away from my kids as the ex has them this year. So I decided to go back to church. Truth is I haven't been in a while and I knew it would take a fair amount of effort getting there.

In spite of my last minute scrambling, the details somehow managed to work themselves out almost perfectly. I have no doubt that my visiting this sacred church was meant to be.

I set out alone, late morning, down a typically well traveled path, but this time, my fellow walkers were quite sparse. At times I went for several miles without seeing a single other human. I watched a massive storm close in on me, then stalk me on the path for a bit which made me feel like some sort of character out of Pilgrim's Progress.

But, I felt unshaken. I felt 7000 feet deep in me, that I was supposed to be here in this church of Stone baptized by the hushed drizzle. Somehow, this time the stillness had my back in this ritual of awe.

At one point, while crossing a spiny section, forty to fifty mile per hour winds gusted me. My mind's thoughts joined forces with the wind to try to deter me from continuing. However, my thoughts were distracted by my eyes noticing the largest Raven I've ever encountered on the path a few feet in front of me. Intensely staring at me, he spanned his massive wings then almost smirking, playfully jumped into the wind's updraft.

He let some of his calm hang in the air and it quieted my mind and strengthened my heart.

The silence seeped into my soul with the rain as I walked, the cherished gift the Canyon imparts to all who set foot inside her hallowed walls. The untethering of contexts from everything and everyone but my own soul, lent the gift of perspective taking.

The immensity of the soulful emptiness of the Canyon filled me til it seemed the only thing. But, how can such a place most characterized by Her empty space so fill you? I suppose that is the question of the Sacred feminine, after all. I suppose that is also the non-piece to most get in touch with in the recovery from the narcissist--he who often denigrates the emptiness--what to do with the hole of seemingly endless emptiness dug after the taking away of goodness and hope and joy by the narcissist--by the very One thinking you rid emptiness by taking all the material goods you can possibly acquire from others and fill in that crack in the dirt, cause maybe then you won't feel that emptiness?

And this is the catechism of this church of Stone--the experience--the attention to this emptiness, the going there to the absent space, the breathing in the vacuum of apparent nothingness is, in fact, how you fetch soul to the emptiness. Emptiness beckons soul flow, like this Canyon calls water to herself and then the sea.

Mine

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...

Somehow I Hope

There is a feeling somewhere between full on hatred and adoration. I'm trying to unpack this feeling and what it feels like. I'm trying to conjure it, I suppose. Because somehow, I can't necessarily feel the hatred that I ought to feel toward my narcissist.

Nobody gets this, really.

A good friend recently told me I ought stop seeing the world in "Narcissists out to get me..."

I had some explaining to do. So explain I did.

I told him how the thing that kept me trapped was not the fact that I see the world as a bunch of narcissists, but rather, my own wanting to see the best in people, in everyone, in my own narcissist for years. This was the piece that held me hostage for 17 years. And only now am I more free because I see his narcissism and that consequently, I can't heal him.

But, even still I'm not to the hatred point. There are times it seems close. There are times I wish for the relief of his non-existence which feels something akin to hatred.

And all the same, he has indeed, suffered so much. There is great pain. Regardless of his ridiculous choices to not deal emotionally with that pain, I cannot add to it, today. There is still a far off part of me that loves the idea of him becoming a different--healthy person one day. Perhaps, the new She will somehow conjure it out of him.

And even still there is this ultimate pain, buried deep that for me is that I would have given anything, maybe everything for him to just step onto the healing path that he never would step onto. And so, I watch my kids pained by a breakup, a divorce. I watch myself, and I watch a woman step into his life who seems kind, sweet, lovely, and good. And though my family gets angry at her, feels all the indignation in the world, I feel hope and gratitude at her being with and near him.

I suppose most ex wives are jealous, indignant, often aiming to thwart things for their husbands that are no more. Somehow, I feel nothing of that. All I feel is hope that somehow she makes him the man he could be. Somehow I hope, even still. Because being him and being her with him is enough burden on its own. There is no reason I need to somehow add to that. And nobody will get that unless they've lived intimately with a narcissist.

on Death Stamps

Sometimes I wonder at the course death may have taken if the guy dumping the coal, had looked away? What if the twenty two year old boy had just seeped away into the void of nothingness? No detectives dawning the door at half past 11. No phone calls to Africa beckoning the parents homeward in a hurry. No lonely buglers haunting the silence of a gathering with the presence of the minor keys of sadness.

Death and grief. Such strangeness and yet, such odd familiarity.

I remember playing Hide-n-Seek amidst the headstones in the South as a young child. After sitting still for far too long, we'd dart out of the country church where the old ladies still donned over-sized hats and gloves to shake the hand of Gran the Preacher. Escaping to the cemetery we'd irreverently jump and climb the dead's makeshift jungle gym until the old ladies would shame us with their scolding eyes. Retreating to the long stone tables under the shelter we'd await the lecture from the preacher himself. The lecture never happened. Instead, his wild eyes merely suggested hiding near the back of the cemetery, where our sacrilegious play wouldn't ruffle the feathers of the little ole prim-and-proper ladies.

The death rituals didn't seem any sort of different from the living rituals, then. No, rather there were giant stones with dates stamped on them marking the basic details and sometimes a quote or a little lamb which seemed fair climbing material. It didn't seem to us that the dead would actually care about the traipsing all over their space.

But, the death rituals were handled differently in Arlington. I remember the hypnotic rhythm of the marching, the clicking of the shoes, the gun cocking, the endless back and forth and the non-flinching-in-the-face-of-a-bead-of-sweat-dripping-down-your-nose in the middle of the summer humidity. These rituals communicated a different rendition of death, contrasted starkly against the graves turned jungle gym. Twenty four seven, rain or shine, timed paces back and forth for years in front of the Unknown Soldier imparted a special heaviness and honor to the idea of death and all its enshrouded acknowledgments. These rituals almost seemed more important in the face of the unknown details.

And then there was the day the detectives knocked and we planned and stewed over the most minute details in the going about of the burying of the twenty-two year old boy in the frozen January earth, the day before his 23rd birthday. It seemed pertinent to avoid having the funeral on his birthday.

A thousand people drove in. The folks hopped a plane out of Africa and a people did what they do at funerals.

The rituals seemed inept. Not enough wrappings to dress the body of loss.

And then the day came and went when a relationship a few years shy of being as old as the almost 23 yr old, was declared dead.

And nothing happened. Nothing was different. The passing in all its finality was just dumped into the vat of void. No corduroy suit or Stone to climb on or march in front of for this death. No funeral pyre, no flower arrangements, no freshly disturbed dirt, no place tethering the grieving and keeping the feet on the ground. Instead the death and change of life's trajectory warranted a stamp from a robed stranger and an email from an expensive lawyer the day after the anniversary.

And nothing was the same.

Writing Exercise: Five Core Values

This comes from the book: Ensouling Language by Stephen Harrod Buhner.

Directions: Choose 5 deeply meaningful words, ones that approximate the center of who you are and evoke emotive content for you. Write them down. Any words will do--as long as they are meaningful to you.

Example. Earth, Stone, Green, Leaves, Plants.

Or another. Love, Happiness, Child, Wandering, Hope.

Here was my list: Soul, Compassion, Creativity, Healing, Intuition.

Do this part of the exercise now without reading the rest of the directions...

...........................................................................................................................................................


Next. "Write five poems, each of which uses all five of the words. You can use as many other words as you want, nevertheless each poem must contain all five of the words you have chosen. Take as much time as you need..."

When done, read the poems in sequence. You might be amazed by what comes out. Here are all five of mine in order...

One
the soul of healing
grabs intuition
and holds on
birthing compassion
creativity's apex.

Two
intuition speaks from soul
breathing with compassion
creating a healing force
magical enough
that few believe its existence.

Three
the real trick in life
is ferreting out compassion
from soul
when poured empty
and used up.
creativity wanders in
searching for healing intuition
that has sporified
in order to survive.

Four
living the soul's creativity
heals the parts of
intuition, wounded by those
that sacrifice
compassion on pain's altar.

Five
healing
pilgrimage of creativity
to soul's center.
seeking out
bits that keep us human.
splinters
most wanting of compassion.
the inward glance
pains.
but, in the stumbling dark
intuition
holds our hand.