As I was travelling through some random blogs yesterday, I came across one which, step by step, told women how to get a man to complete them. Girl, I already have had my share of men in my life and not one of them have completed me. I think we should be telling our children, females and males, that they are enough on their own, and that they don’t need a partner to complete them. A partner is made to enhance a relationship.
Growing up, it was always implied that one needed a partner in life to make you whole. It didn’t matter who we chose, but being alone and not having a mate was unacceptable. I felt uncomfortable at family gatherings when I didn’t have a partner so I’d find someone, anyone, to go with me to fill that void. I felt incomplete. Let’s face it, there was a stigma attached to being without a partner, like there was something wrong with me, and I bought into it!! I became insecure and codependent in relationships. I felt like I, on my own, was not good enough. Not oddly enough, most of the partners I picked were like my mother, controlling and manipulating… and I kept leaving them. It was a vicious cycle that went on for most of my life.
It wasn’t until I came into recovery that I started to open my eyes to the insanity of my behavior. But I didn’t know, what I didn’t know. I didn’t have the tools or the guidance to figure all this out. Still, it has taken years in recovery to come to this place of acceptance of “I am enough”.
Some days, those old records still play in the background of my mind reminding me of whence I came and I hear her voice saying, “You will never amount to anything”. I have to tell myself over and over again… She does not own me anymore. She has no control over me. No one person has control over me. I am stronger than any words. I have proven time and time again that I am a survivor, I am a thriver and I am enough just as I am.
It wasn’t until recently that I had a name for my mother’s illness. I’ve always known she was off and not like other mothers I’d come across. Other mothers would put their children’s needs first without question or hesitation. Not my mother. She would say, “I can’t have anything without you damn brats wanting some”. That was a hint and a half right there that something was terribly, terribly wrong. It wasn’t until I had a name for her illness that I was able to come to terms with why my childhood was the way it was and why my mother did the things she did.
Wikipedia describes Narcissistic Personality Disorder as: Narcissistic personality disorder (NPD) is a long-term pattern of abnormal behavior characterized by exaggerated feelings of self-importance, an excessive need for admiration, and a lack of understanding of others’ feelings. People affected by it often spend a lot of time thinking about achieving power or success, or about their appearance. They often take advantage of the people around them. The behavior typically begins by early adulthood, and occurs across a variety of situations. Wikipedia’s description barely skirts the issue. It goes so much deeper, but you get the gist before I go on.
Growing up with with my mother was a nightmare to say the least. I never knew from one moment to the next which mother I was going to get depending on how she perceived life was treating her. She was not affection on any level and never had a positive thing to say to any of her children, only the negative. She didn’t sling around a lot of profanity, but trust me, she did get her point across. I was told I was going to be nothing from a very young age and anything I attempted to do was never good enough. In my mother’s words, “You’re not good at it anyway so you my as well just stop trying”. It seemed she was always putting me down to make herself feel better.
Everything was always about her and her feelings. She resented having to put her children before herself and it showed in her actions. She’d throw temper-tantrums… yes, temper-tantrums. It was embarrassing to see a grown woman acting this way, but it worked and my father would give in just to shut her up. After my parent’s divorced, I was left alone to deal with my psychotic mother. We were all teens by then and my 3 older siblings left the house (who could blame them), leaving my little 5 year old brother and me to contend with her. The tantrums, name calling and belittling continued if things didn’t go her way, especially if she didn’t have a man in her life to focus on, which was pretty much daily.
People who did not live in our house did not see the extent of my mother’s behavior. They did not live it, therefore they do not have an inkling of what transpired there. They saw what she wanted them to see, which is what she told them. Family and family friends took her word as gospel, pitting us children as the spawn from hell. The wall I have up while around her family members is tall and deep. They do not want to hear the truth of who my mother really was. Some of my own siblings are still in denial of who she was because of our different experiences, how we each perceive them, what role we played in her world and what we each took away from our relationship with her. I was the the sensitive one in the family. Coined by my mother as “spleeny”, not because I cried when I got physically injured, but because I felt and questioned everything. No, she didn’t like that. She was not to be questioned and her answer for everything was, “Because I said so”, or “Because it makes little girls like you ask questions”. End of sentence, no discussion. Crying also was not allowed. It meant weakness.
My mother and I were never close. We never had any kind of emotional connection whatsoever. Except for the fact that she spit me out of her vaja-jay, is the extent of our connection. When she married me off and I left the house at the age of 17, she bid me a bon-voyage, stating if I had marital issues just remember, “You made your bed, you lie in it. Don’t come crying back to me”. Of course, I never would have gone back there. I’d crawl through the pits of hell throughout my life before she’d even know whatever happened to my children and me. She did this with all her kids. Washed her hands of them the moment they left the house.
As time passed and my sibs and I made our way through life, making something of ourselves, she would get word and she would brag about us to anyone who would listen, and how close we all were to her. Typical trait of a narcissist. She was grandiose about herself, saying certain men wanted her and women were jealous of her. She never, ever spoke of her past, her childhood or when she was growing up. I can only recall one story she told and that was about when she and my dad were dating.
My mother was the oldest of nine. Her father passed when she was six and then she had a slew of stepfathers which she was never close to. My mother’s mother was also a narcissist and always put herself above her children and her spouses. So, I’m sure hers is learned behavior and my mother must have had the “if you can’t beat them, join them” mentality from a very early age. Her own mother would have nothing to do with us kids from as far back as I can recall, and my mother enabled her mother’s behavior. My memory was always seeing my mother chasing after her mother’s skirt-tails, begging for her love and attention, her own children be damned. What a sad, sad story she must have had with her own mother.
Whatever their demons, they are both gone from this earth now. They have to answer for their actions while they were here. I am not their judge or jury. But my mind is one of the products of the wreckage that they left behind, and I’m the one left holding the bag, the one left to deal with the emotional crap.
This subject was a difficult one for me to share due to the intimate details and painful memories it brings up. I know within my soul this is my journey and she was an intricate part of of it. She was my teacher of sorts, as were many, many others along my life’s path, of what choices I did or did not wish to become. It’s all a learning process.
It’s a shame that I’ll never really know who my mother was from a soul’s standpoint. I think she was a victim of her childhood to some extent. I believe we all have to take accountability for our choices in life. She chose her path in life. At an early age I made a conscious decision not to be like her. I do know that although narcissistic personality disorder is difficult to treat, it is treatable if the person is willing to admit they need help. She was not willing.
Today I pray for her. I tell her I forgive her. Not because I really want to or because I think she deserves it, but because I have to for my own sanity. I do this every single day, sometimes several times a day, whenever the thought comes to mind I simply say “I forgive you Mom”. Without doing this, the anger, resentments and disdain will eat me up inside like a cancer. I pray because in the end the forgiveness is for me, not for her.
So mommy’s, hug your babies tight, no matter what their age. Tell them you love them, how special they are and how proud you are of them just as they are. Allow them to be human and be there for them when they fall… and fall they will. Just be their mom, that’s all they really need.
Well, I spent a good part of the morning writing about the saging process of my home, why I do it and the benefits…. and I lost it. It’s somewhere out there in WordPress Land. Maybe someday it’ll find it’s way back home to me. I wanted something a little lighter, less dark to talk about after saging.
In the meantime, I’m having a brain-fart…. so, I’m going to just add a piece I wrote, back in 1999. It’s upbeat, unlike most of my dark, deep stuff. Needless to say, I was in a really good space when I wrote this for a friend who was not.
author unknown
My Heart Says...
I come to you now
with my heart on my sleeve
Re-membering it's ok
I just have to believe
I feel such a sadness
for those I can't help
I can, but I can't
without hurting myself
The choices are many
but seem like so few
And I know in these times
it's hard to know what to do
The path you have taken
seems rocky and bare
and sometimes it appears
you are all alone there
Lie your head to your soul
and listen real close
The answer will be
the one you "feel" most
When you look to your heart
to find what is true
You live in God's plan
and what is right for you.
I cannot tell you how many times when I was growing up I would hear “Stop crying or I’ll give you something to cry for!” Well, hot damn! After you’ve fallen and had glass embedded in your hand at the age of 9, just had your hind end beat with a belt or been molested by an uncle who lives at your house, who the hell doesn’t have something to cry for. These are just a few examples of the dysfunctional dynamics of my childhood home. So, when I figured out I could put my feeling to pen and paper, out they came.
It took a few years to actually express how I really felt, because of all the confusion I had surrounding my feelings. I didn’t know how to express them appropriately. So crying was my outlet for anger, resentment, hate, anguish, sadness, love, anything positive or negative.
Back in 2001 I wrote a little ditty called “It’s Ok if I Cry”. I was still trying to come to terms with being ok to cry and that it was not a weakness.
By the way, the little girl inside of me that you will read of so much in my poetry, has healed nicely today. The person she gets to lean on and depend on to protect her, grown up me.
My oldest grandson, Alec, as a baby
It's Ok if I Cry
There are times I sit and wonder
why I'm the chosen one
To bear the physical hardships
For someone who's so young
I'm told that I am strong
and I'm lucky to be alive
I smile and nod in agreement
If they could only see inside
Sometimes I feel like a little girl
needing someone to hold me near
Someone to lovingly stroke my hair
and help ease away my fears
Someone who'll say, it's ok to cry
"as much as you need to dear"
Someone who will not leave me alone
in my darkness and my fears
Someone who will not say "Don't cry"
Or say, "Please don't be sad"
They will not say how brave I am
or that things aren't all that bad
Sometimes I feel not all grown up
I still have a little girl inside
Who fears what she does not understand
And sometimes she just needs to cry.
Aleta’s Attic 