22 - Trust the Process

©Miriam A. Mason

Today, after seeing my therapist last night, and reading her one and a half blog entries from this blog, I find today, I am not okay.  

I am not feeling okay. And it is okay that I'm not okay. I am on the verge of tears. I want to sleep and sleep and sleep. I am hurting physically from being active and paying for my activity with a re-balancing of energy, as in drain.  My poor adrenals are trying to keep up.  Catch up. A few days up and a few days down, is how my body is able to function these days.  And some down days are heavier than others.  

And inside, I feel quite shredded.  I've been deconstructing my past and continue to do so, and I have knocked the structures down upon which my life has been built since childhood.  And I can feel it.  And it can feel less than pleasant at times like this.

But I am going to Trust The Process.

I am in the middle of some important thing, and it's much bigger than it keeps seeming to be.  Every time I think I've gotten to a closing place, I end up digging just a bit deeper, and find more huge swaths of unspoken pain and sadness and resentment.  I rarely know when they'll hit, these moments of total and complete emotional and physical exhaustion.  These moments when an expression on my child's face can make tears roll down my cheeks, when I feel bruised by the world, laid out exposed, like an open wound on sore flesh. 

But I am going to Trust The Process.

I can't watch the news, it turns on my stress hormones and I get sicker.  I can't watch animal shows because nature is too fierce and final, and somebody always must be killed to feed another.  I can't even think about animal causes (a fondness of mine) because it's hurts so deeply thinking about all the pain and loss around trying save the beautiful animal legacy of our planet.  How few tigers are left now?  How many polar bear cubs are dying?  Too sad, too sad. Too much pain for my heart to take on.  

And even comedy shows just aren't funny because I tend to see the wounded hurt person underneath (especially if they are making jokes at the expense of another person) instead of hearing the jokes themselves.

But... I am going to Trust The Process.

Source: https://www.facebook.com/pages/After-Narcissistic-Abuse-There-is-Light-Life-Love/114835348601442

Because it is a process I am going through.  And yesterday wasn't like today.  And the day before it wasn't like today.  And the day before that wasn't like today, either.  Who knows what tomorrow will be?  

Source: https://www.facebook.com/pages/After-Narcissistic-Abuse-There-is-Light-Life-Love/114835348601442

 It is enough to have patience and kindness for myself to let myself go through this healing process, even when I personally feel like road kill.

Because, I need to Trust The Process.  I need to lean into that.

Today, I am a lump of flesh, struggling to find self worth, meaning, peace.  My heart is beating faster than usual and my limbs are shaky because of my chronic illness.  I feel as though I've been hit by a truck.  Twice.

Source: https://www.facebook.com/pages/After-Narcissistic-Abuse-There-is-Light-Life-Love/114835348601442

I am out of Spoons. (From But You Don't Look Sick, Spoon Theory, by Christine Miserandino.)  When I have low spoon days, I give my spoons to my kids, and try to save a few for maintenance of mental sanity, some food preparation and a shower before bed.  Everything else is fluff, except maybe this blog.

The spoons I have today

The spoons I wish for every day

Today, I am even having a hard time being properly present for my kids, because my own inner world is chaotic and struggling.  But at least I am not blaming my children, shaming them, making them feel bad, because it has nothing to do with them.  This is me.  This is a telling them the truth time, that my bad feelings have nothing whatsoever to do with them. This is the thing my parents couldn't say, or even come to terms with: this is me.  Feeling bad, alive, but not living, today.

So, I am going to Trust The Process.

Because...

Source: https://www.facebook.com/pages/After-Narcissistic-Abuse-There-is-Light-Life-Love/114835348601442

And finding who I am, that person I was underneath all those layers of imposed shit, is going to take time and inner work and effort and spoons.  And I am worth it.  I will be patient with me, and trust that my process is working.  Even on the hard days.

* * *

21 - OCD & Me? No, Mom Says I'm Broken

©Miriam A. Mason

By the time I was 15, I had developed quite severe OCD.  

While it was known what it was at that time (this was1977; OCD was "discovered" by Dr. Neil Bugusian in 1963, but had been referred to even earlier by Freud), my mother was not the type of person who was interested in helping me to figure out what was happening or in finding a solution or assistance for it.  She wanted me to be quiet so it would go away from her perception.

She was angered by it, resented me having it, told me she felt I thought she was "dirty" all the time, and burst into angry accusatory tears over it; acting as though I was attacking her with it.  She had no idea how to deal with it. She had no idea even to attempt to learn what it might be.  Let alone how to help me cope with it.  Because it, like everything else in my life, was my fault.  I was to blame.

[Can anybody reading this imagine how she would have treated my children's autism?  The thought actually makes me feel overwhelmed and sick, it makes my legs shake and my stomach fall like a rock.  It makes me dizzy, just trying to comprehend how she'd have blamed my beautiful boys for having to live differently than she envisioned her life.  I had to say this bit, for I have thought it so very often, I had to write this down.  And when I think about how she'd have treated my boys because they weren't living up to her expectations, my brain immediately calls her a "sick fuck."  I can't help it.  That's what I think when I see parents punishing children who live with autism especially.  It's possible that around my experience of living with OCD, my mother really did earn the title of sick fuck.  She punished me for having a biochemical neurological imbalance.  Yeah.  That qualifies as a sick fuck.  Ignorance, especially coming from such an academic family, is absolutely no excuse.  In fact, there is no excuse at all for the type of abuse she was profoundly guilty of.  She was either too lazy or too scared or just didn't care enough to be bothered to have tried to find help or at least, information.  I was very inconvenient for her.]

Source: https://www.facebook.com/EverythingOCD

I couldn't bear to have my mother's dirty robe touch me after I'd showered.  I had terrible trouble handling the detergents and cleaners and strong smelling chemicals required by my parents to complete my chore of bathroom cleaning.  I would be compelled to wash my hands multiple times until I could get rid of the smell of the chemicals.  I had trouble with touching floors with my hands or bare feet.  I began to wash my hands all the way up to my elbows several times a day, and I developed a rash all over my forearms from the dryness.

Source: https://www.facebook.com/EverythingOCD

[Note here, when my sister, who was a full MD at the time, saw this when I was a young adult, she laughed.  She thought it was hysterical that I was washing like a surgeon.  In typical Family style, it was entertainment, and the fact that I was struggling was non sequitur and ignored fully.  Frankly, as a doctor, I would have thought she'd have been a bit more aware.  Alas, not to be.  At that time, I still didn't know what it was myself.  I would find that out on my own later on.  Without any of my family members helping.]

I couldn't get into my sheets without showering and if I didn't scrub myself exactly so many times in the shower, I didn't feel clean.  My father would become furious about my showering too much.  I finally convinced them to get a water saver, so I could stand in the shower and soap off (freezing, but at least I wasn't running water, which cost my parents money, God forbid).

Source: https://www.facebook.com/EverythingOCD

Maybe I was crazy, like Mom thought, there was something horrifically wrong with me after all, and all the ails that I had experienced in my life were because I deserved them.

The really interesting thing is I never felt OCD at all at school.  On the contrary, once I was at my high school, where people were kinder and not harshly judgmental and there was fun and laughter to be had, the OCD slipped away and I didn't have to think about it.  It was a pretty healing place, actually.

Source: https://www.facebook.com/ocd.ocd

But once I got home, I had to wash again.  And wash and wash and wash and not touch my parents, or if I did, I had to take a wet washcloth and wipe myself down.  Especially if they were wearing certain things.  It was like a trigger system and I couldn't control it.

Source: https://www.facebook.com/ocd.ocd

I never made the connection.  I didn't make a connection with OCD until I was in my mid 20's.  At the same time I was diagnosed officially with OCD, I was also diagnosed with a form of dyslexia.  Funny, that, nobody had ever noticed that my struggle was harder in order to read a complete sentence, and retain the information at the beginning of the sentence.  At college it became evident to me at least because I had so much reading to do and it was painful to do it.

The solution to my form of dyslexia?  A simple blue sheet of clear plastic placed over a page will make those words quiet down.  I can retain information.  Help with the OCD was in the form of individual (and sometimes group) therapy, and old-style antidepressants, which didn't work very well.  But it was deeply gratifying sitting with others who suffered as I did, and having people who understood it rather than fearing it.

Had my parents noticed the dyslexia?  Nope.  Had they noticed that I struggled?  Nope.  Had they noticed how much I was struggling with the OCD?  Only where it interfered with their comfort or convenience level.  Because then they could lay it on me, guilt-free, apparently.

I cannot even begin to articulate with any accuracy the relief I felt upon learning that what I was going through had a name: Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, and that it was REAL and was something others felt, that I wasn't alone, and that it was potentially treatable.  There aren't even any words to capture the intensity of my relief.

Solutions like a clear blue plastic sheet and actual therapy that worked simply escaped my parents entirely because they panicked at every problem.  (They were partial to psychologists for analysis where I was concerned.  Therapy?  Pfft.  That would mean something is wrong with maybe more than just me and we can't have that.)  

They were remarkably inadequate at either problem solving or conflict resolution. They were simply children in adult bodies in this area (and in many others, because life is full of problems and conflict for human beings).  Because they were in the bodies of adults, they assumed they were superior, and untouchable.  These kinds of presumptions are a huge part of what allows abusive relationships to continue, and for our culture to never question the actions of a parent over a child.

The OCD lessened significantly once I was out of my parents' house for good.  I still had trouble, but it was less.  For a while at my apartment, I couldn't touch the floors at times, too, and it always got worse when I was frightened or scared or stressed about something.  And it came back every time I returned to my parents' house again, big and full and very mean and loud in my head.  For those who don't experience it, OCD is very brain-abrasive. A person gets tired of the endless repeating thoughts and actions.  It's exhausting and takes up far too much brain processing time and physical and mental energy.  It's not fun to live with.  At all.

Source: https://www.facebook.com/ocd.ocd

The other time the OCD returned was post-childbirth.  Both parents can suffer from post-natal OCD, and I definitely experienced a high clinical level for which I could have been hospitalized.  But I was on it this time, and treated it with the help of a therapist at my hospital, using SSRIs and gentle exposure therapy, which helped quite a lot, even though it was scary.

It never would have crossed my mother's mind to think that I was suffering from a clinical disorder that could be diagnosed and offered support and help.  That wasn't how she rolled.  If something was wrong with me, it was all on me, and it was inconvenient and it made her angry with me and she regularly taunted me and shamed me about it. 

Source: https://www.facebook.com/ocd.ocd

I still suffer from OCD, although I am not a counting person any more.  I mostly suffer from washing.  But I am slowly slowly recovering.  The panic state is gone.  The voices that tell me I need to wash, they can be overridden, and at least if they can't be, I know that it isn't my fault.  I can usually talk myself down.  And I have a husband who intimately understands it because his father also has it.  And that's pretty sweet (not that he has it, but that they really get it).

I didn't give myself OCD.  I didn't break my brain.  I'm not just a paranoid freak who's alone and unsupported in the world.

I am legitimate.  My symptoms are real.  Millions of others suffer like I do, many much worse than I do.  It's not their fault, either.  Brain chemistry, like DNA, can be altered.

Source: https://www.facebook.com/ocd.ocd

I wonder, if without all the childhood trauma I was forced to go through, if I had actually had my parents real love support, if I'd ever have manifested so many physiological and neurological symptoms.

OCD we know scientifically, can be created by mercury poisoning.  And I had a mouth full of mercury amalgam fillings, which, yes, have made me very sick over time.  But I wonder how much is also based on the trauma I suffered as a child.

To have hoped my parents would have put 2+2 together to make 4, and figured out the mercury piece would be like hoping to go build a house on Venus.  The way mother made me feel about my OCD made me want to go to Venus and bury my head in the sand there.  Forever.  I just seemed to be too broken for this world in her eyes.

As far as I'm concerned these days, I'm the normal one.  And she can go move to Venus and stick her head in the sand.

* * *

20 - The Family "Group" Meeting

©Miriam A. Mason

This was such an extraordinarily horrible experience for me, I remember only a very few details, so the shorter than usual blog.  I remember mostly being the only one doing most of the talking and assuming all of the blame. And nobody telling me that wasn't so.

In the 1970's in the Berkeley, California area, there were drug abuse treatment programs that were highly experimental.  One was called "Group" that my brother, I presume in an attempt to quit his heroin habit, went to.

Group was, in a nutshell, a bully session. You are broken down, apparently, until you are nothing but raw meat, then you are built back up in their model.  This practice is brutal and it was ineffective, clearly, in my brother's case, as he continued his addiction for many years following.  I don't think it helped, I think it hurt. 

 It was such a barbaric, inhuman, and embarrassing practice, that I can find little written on it when I search the all-knowing internet, but my dear husband did find the following, which is as close as we could find. As quoted from Sociology of Deviant Behavior, by Marshal Clinard and Robert Meier (Cengage Learning, 2011, Chapter 8, page 254):

"As an important part of the program, members met each evening in small groups or 'synanons,' of 6 to 10 members.  Membership rotated so that one did not regularly interact in a single small group with the same people.  No professionals participated in these sessions, which worked to 'trigger feelings' and precipitate 'catharsis,' or release of emotional energy.  The discussions also feature 'attack therapy' or 'haircuts' in which members confronted and cross-examined one another; hostile attack and ridicule were expected. 'An important goal of the "haircut" method is to change the criminal-tough guy pose' (Yablonsky, 1965: 241). The group intended this method to break down defensiveness about drugs and defeat denial of addition.  The haircut also triggered feelings and emotions about addiction and the problems of coping with a drug habit."

This was a common place practice and theory at the time, and my brother's only model for an even remotely more functional family.  Clearly, it should never, ever be used on a child who has never taken a single drug or done anything more than be a child. 

I have no idea if my brother's Groups sessions rotated (I rather doubt it), but certainly our family members couldn't rotate.

During his "treatment," when I was still very young, probably no more than 8 at most, brother decided the whole family would have one of these "Group" sessions.  I was informed that participation was not optional by my brother and mother and father and that everybody must attend and must participate.  I begged and cried not to go.  I feared I was to blame, and that it would be even more validated than it already had been in my experiences thus far.  But I was forced.  So was my sister, who remained silent through the entire event.

I remember little more than assuming all the blame for my brother's drug habit (because he didn't like me and I was wrong somehow).  I remember saying I messed the whole family up by being born.  I remember crying while my other family members sat still.  There was no communication effort at all from my parents, who mostly sat and watched. Nobody told me I wasn't to blame for my brother's drug habit, or for the dysfunction in the family.  I do recall that my brother tried to engage my parents, who were mostly silent observers (of course), and when engaged deflected effortlessly (of course).  I don't remember details beyond this.  My parents looked uncomfortable, but like they were trying to be dutiful good parents and participate, a bit like poor suffering martyrs doing "the best they could" but not making any effort to really do better or be involved.

Source: https://www.facebook.com/pages/After-Narcissistic-Abuse-There-is-Light-Life-Love/114835348601442

I recall coming away from the experience feeling as though everything wrong with my family was my fault.  And that I had been the only one who had spoken up at all, and that nobody said anything at all to me to tell me I wasn't right about it.  And then I recall something vaguely about being told I was "selfish" because I thought that and was crying about it.  I wish I remember more, but it's very fuzzy.  I also have a vague awful memory of having my fears actually validated during that session.  The more I think on it, the more I remember it.

As far as my 8 year old neurology could glean, the "Group" event could have been a younger version of "the circle" (4th grade), but it was in my family.  And it was so dysfunctional, this was the best model it could muster, and that from my brother, and not even a parent.

If other people spoke or said anything meaningful, I do not recall it. Because as a child I should never have been there in the first place. 

Well, yes, brother, you were absolutely right back then.  Mom and dad were screwing up as parents.  Mom and dad broke their relationships with us.  Mom and dad expected us to be extensions and reflections of them.  And it hurt you.  And it hurt sister.  And it hurt me.  Pretty badly.

It's called Narcissistic Personality Disorder.  And it's real.  And guess what?  What you were looking for is the information in this very blog.  And the links that I have posted on the side of it. 

Source: https://www.facebook.com/DomesticViolenceKills

I could have done without the destructive "Group" session and the attack type therapy at 8 years old, Family, thank you very much.

Never again, will I buy into believing that I am at fault.  Never again, brother, because you knew, too, as a child, something was very very wrong with our family.  We all did.  Silently.  No help at all from Group.

I hereby officially release with a clear conscious any and all self blame and trauma associated with that experience.

Source: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Survivors-of-Child-Abuse/279131948791470

* * *

19 - Dear Family, Why I've Gone No Contact (NC)

©Miriam A. Mason

Note:  I am writing this letter for myself here, obviously. I don't expect I will be heard or considered by any blood family members.  They are far too stuck in their idea of right and wrong and good and bad, and being this image they hold up to hold any genuine and meaningful concern about me.  They never have.  I still wish it to be heard, so you, my dear readers, get to be the ones who read it.  Should my family members find it, I fully expect a litany of efforts to shame, embarrass, belittle and dismiss me.  That's okay, actually, I forgive their anger and fear.  They don't know how to do anything else.

Source: https://www.facebook.com/pages/After-Narcissistic-Abuse-There-is-Light-Life-Love/114835348601442

Onward....

Dear Family, I have opted to go No Contact (NC) with you, both immediate and extended.  Perhaps it is time I speak my heart about why, not for justification, but for clarification.  

I know to write you privately would be to simply invite upon myself more of the things that I find deeply dysfunctional about the way you choose to interact and communicate with one another.  It is pointless.  In public, everyone can see exactly what I have said and there is a record of it.  One that I can stand by.  One that you cannot twist into whatever convenient set of judgments you would like to toss at me this time.  And, if any such judgments come my way as a result of this blog, they will also be published here in order to illustrate the method of preferred communication my family uses. (An example of this is below, in fact.)

None-the-less, it is unquestionable that you will take my actions personally and be unable to bring up anything in yourselves but judgment, because that is what you do.  It's actually not really personal any more.  It's a mental and physical health decision, and a safety matter.

You are drains for my well-being.  You suck my joy out of me, attempt to tell me how I should be feeling, use judgment, condemnation and shame in your every day lives.  You make me feel worse, not better.  Being around people who do not understand how to communicate on an emotional level, who do not practice daily at becoming something more authentic and less bound to their egos, who cannot manifest genuine empathy for another being (who is not your child), is not something I choose any longer.  
 

I no longer wish to argue or compete with you.  I do not wish to be better than you, or worse than you.  I do not need or value your judgments, for they are based purely on your incredibly scripted subjective views of the world.  You know almost nothing about me now, only what you can make assumptions about, based on the stories inside your head, which have absolutely nothing to do with my real life.  You don't know me at all, and, deep down, you never have.  I've kept hidden and silent about my real feelings up until now, so you couldn't see my inner responses to the profound dysfunction I have observed unendingly in our family.  It was never safe to speak truths.

Your way of being isn't the way of being I choose for myself.  Or for my family.  Because I haven't chosen to move through the same emotional path as you should not make me a threat, and it should not be hurtful, not where there is real love, instead of the conditional stuff you seem to equate with love.

Source: http://www.facebook.com

The other day, my cousin found a private Facebook account of mine (boundaries), and decided to ask, after the fact (boundaries), if he could post pictures of me on an ancestry site (boundaries).  He also requested, unbelievably, for me to assist him in contacting my sister (boundaries).  I wrote him back briefly to tell him I did not want him to post pictures of me on the internet.  Setting my own healthy boundary, end of story.  All the other stuff he said, which had to do with his interest, his wishes, his efforts, were lacking entirely in any query or question as to what I was doing or why I had done it.

It was a very typical form of communication for my family, one in which there was a request made on the assumption that I would jump in to assist (boundaries), without ever asking me if this was something I would even be willing to do (bang, more boundaries).  When I deleted said Facebook account, my cousin (who seems to NEED to have the last word) got frustrated and stalked down my husband on Friendfeed (BANG, a HUGE boundary!), and wrote him a very unpleasant little note (bang again, well done, another boundary!), which was supposed to scold me.  He said, and I quote: "You can tell your partner that I've done as she has asked. You may also tell her that what she is doing is extremely hurtful and selfish, and would not expected that of her."

Source: https://www.facebook.com/emergingfrombroken

Oh, delicious!  Bing, bang, boom.  Let's take this apart emotionally for a moment, shall we?  We won't even bother to count how many boundaries were crossed in that interaction, it's clear that such crossings were multiple.

"Partner."  I guess my name is mud, he couldn't bring himself to use my name, which means he's utterly disgusted with me.  There is a remote possibility he thought he was protecting me by not naming me, but that is highly unlikely because seeking out my husband on Friendfeed would not be the way to do that.  It is more likely that messaging me through my husband was a desperate (although impotent) attempt at shaming me within my own family.  All of my husband's friends know exactly who I am, are friendly with me, know what my name is, etc.  It was most plausibly an effort to display disgust and attempt to manipulate me into feeling shame.

(This is actually kind of fun.)  

"Hurtful." Well, okay, yeah, I'll give you that, if you aren't used to someone standing up for themselves, then, yes, it can seem a terrible personal hurt for them to suddenly decide to do it.  I guess that hurt had been a long time coming.  I have absorbed hurts for years and years, and more recently, some pretty painful ones from you.  I am done.  Apparently, you are not.  So go ahead, cousin, hurt. Maybe it'll actually lead you into a more authentic emotion, because anger is a great cover for fear.  Sadness and fear are the honest emotions.  Anger is just the cover for them, mostly for fear.

"Selfish," ah, now there's an attempt at trigger-pulling.  Judgment, especially without understanding, is overall a very weak position, no matter who does it.  The statement always refers to the giver rather than the receiver.

Additionally, if "selfish" means taking care of my mental and physical well-being and that of my children, then I embrace selfishness with an open heart. 

Source: https://www.facebook.com/pages/After-Narcissistic-Abuse-There-is-Light-Life-Love/114835348601442

Also, the words "may" and "expect" are fairly loaded as well.  For example: Oh, may I tell her she is being selfish and hurtful? As though it's a privilege that he is telling us this "important" information about me.  As well, expect?  What he expects comes from a script I no longer follow.  It is not, nor has it ever been my job to fulfill his expectations.  At all.  Even remotely.

An honest and respectful communication, as a basis for comparison, was my brief note to him.  I made no judgments, no criticism, no implications, I simply told him I didn't want him to post pictures of me on the internet.  His response *could* have been equally honest, and said something to the effect of "Are you okay? I am afraid you are distancing yourself from me because I may be a bad person in your eyes."  (This is the fear his anger was likely covering, it sure was a fear of mine when I was in the middle of all the dysfunction and couldn't see it clearly.)

From my family?  Highly unlikely.  

From my friends? With wonderful consistency. As well from me to them. Honesty and vulnerability opens others up to feel the same.  When I say "I am feeling vulnerable and scared and awful," no longer is that a signal for people close to me to move in like vultures to a kill to list what is wrong with me and  how wrong my feeling is, but instead it's a signal to offer love, compassion and empathy.  And for me to offer the same in return when it is needed.

Alas, the first and foremost thing on your mind, cousin dearest, is how I have hurt you.  It just doesn't cross your mind that I might be responding to being a handy dandy receptacle for everyone's judgment over a long long lifetime by you, by other family members.  It's just not in your paradigm to consider that a possibility.  So off you go wielding your weapon-y words, not even knowing that you are making the gap between us bigger instead of smaller.  If you are unable to perceive the combative mode of your own chosen (taught) manner of communication, I can't do it for you. 

Because really, who ever felt better and thereby did better by being shamed?  Over the long term?  Do you have science that shows that shaming is a long term effective strategy for getting a person to behave in the way you want them to behave?  Then why are you still using it?  Because you have not thought of any other way of being.

It would be an impossible hope that you might have responded with something empathetic, something that says "I hear your hurt."

You know what, cousin, I hear your hurt.  But I cannot assume responsibility for it.  I own mine and you get to own yours.

No.  My pain, my experiences with you, with attempting to communicate with you over the last several years, again, are irrelevant.  And only your hurt matters. You only care about how *you* feel when I respond honestly and hold up my boundaries.  You don't get to choose those boundaries.  I do.  They're mine.

You are not a safe person for me or my family.  You are not someone I would choose to have in my life were you not a relative.  The fact that you are family and blood related is not enough reason to continue to be treated as utterly without boundaries.  You have more recently practiced on or with me, competition, triangulation, ego-feeding, judgment, criticism, arguing, gaslighting, one-upmanship, all very well, cousin.  Congratulations, you have successfully become our fathers.  You win at everything that is apparently important to you.

This is as far from who I want to be as could be.  And not the way I want to spend my time or energy.

What you have not practiced even remotely is genuine empathy, support, openness and unconditional love. You don't know how.  Especially not towards me, you follow the same family script as everybody else.  You buy into the judgment of people who cross my boundaries without a second thought.

'Because the narcissistic family’s structure is controlled by those family members who are narcissistic and wish to make all the others satisfy their wishes and unhealthy needs, deviations from the narcissistic desires present aren’t tolerated — boundaries aren’t respected, and unreasonable responses are the norm. I have often described the narcissistic family as a “tiny cult” whose non-narcissistic members are expected to believe, do, have and be only what the narcissistic family members in power want them to believe, do have and be. Other thoughts and actions are not rewarded – or worse, harshly condemned.' ~ Light's Blog

Further, cousin, you have spoken about my children as though they are statistics (as have other members of your family).  I would never dream of speaking of your children in this manner.  Or even *thinking* of them in this manner.  That right there was enough for me to consider you unsafe, especially with my children and to stop further contact.

I don't owe you the ability to define my boundaries, or define who I am, or define what I'm supposed to say or think OR feel.  Truly, I do not owe you any of that.  None.  You have done nothing in my life or in communication with me that has motivated me to continue our relationship, except make me feel judged, misunderstood, unheard and continually called into question.

I am no longer misunderstood or unheard by my chosen family.  My boundaries are deeply respected and I am with people who love me for exactly who I am right now.  Not for what I have done, or produced. Not for the mask I hold up to the world, which clearly, I am no longer very good at.  I need no masks with them and in fact, they point it out when I start wearing one.  

I have no wish to continue the patterns of dysfunction our family has created as their basis for being in the world.  Between me and them, there is no there there. Their interpretation of reality and mine are very very different.

How my family have treated me (and my sister) is incredibly dismissive, hurtful, dysfunctional, abusive, competitive, with a lot of implied be good, do this, act this way, or you are the first goto word we know, which happens to be "selfish."  You are all very good at telling me how I'm supposed to feel and not hearing how I really am feeling.  

You don't get to do that anymore.  You don't get to define me in any way, according to how you see things.  If my practice of holding healthy boundaries actually upsets you, then it is time to examine that upset in yourselves.  To take a look at your own triggers.  

I choose to love myself, because I am worthy, and by loving myself, I am able to deeply love others and have them love me back.  My blood relatives do not fit into this paradigm.  I therefore choose to walk away from the hate, judgment, anger, criticism, ego, and walk towards the love.

Sincerely,
Miriam Mason

18 - The M______ - Or a Basis for Comparison

 ©Miriam A. Mason

My father was always asking me to "compare and contrast." It was his song, along with how to argue. So here, I will do as he asks and compare our family to that of a neighbor family, the M______. 

The M______ were the family that lived in the huge mansion house on the corner. There were 5 kids from my brother's age to my age. 4 girls and the youngest was the boy who my dad tried to teach Latin to, my age. They left their back door open at all times so that all the neighborhood kids could just come over and hang out, play, build, create, imagine, play board games, it was all there and at the ready. 

Source: http://www.facebook.com

It was that wonderful house that made me love life. There were years they did a carnival for all the neighborhood kids. Their father built us all a clubhouse, and built the kids a full sized puppet theater with footlights and overheads, and so many other wonderful toys. Their basement was a maze of fabulous junk to climb through and discover. Whenever I was at the M______'s house, I always wanted 20 children of my own, to have the laughter, creativity, music, science fiction, Halloween haunted houses, carnivals, puppet theater, homemade bands, adventures, and activity going on at my house all the time, every moment to be filled with that sort of fun. 
 
When I got home, that feeling changed. Our house wasn't full of laughter, you had to be quiet because dad had to work. It was solemn and adult. Jokes could not be played affectionately on parents (although I managed to pull one over on my mom once). It just wasn't done. You could read, play in the backyard in their garden, or go out and away to the M______'s house. The choice was obvious. I spent as much time at the M______'s as I possibly could. 

Source: https://www.facebook.com/pages/After-Narcissistic-Abuse-There-is-Light-Life-Love/114835348601442

The M_____s were very musical, almost all of them played at least one instrument and played it well. J____, the mother, would be playing Ragtime beautifully, her face raised into the air lit up with a smile across her lips, and the music would sing out through their huge mansion of a house. I'd dance to it, and I'd sit for hours curled up by their piano and listen to them play, especially A____ (about 4 years my senior), who was gentle and brilliant and composed pieces that were so beautiful, I could barely contain my joy at hearing them. A____ taught me the most basic beginnings of music, which is still a huge love in my life. One of my favorite musicians alive today reminds me of A____ M______, and I curl up in the same way and listen in awe of her, too (see Imogen Heap).

Source: http://www.imogenheap.com/

Photo by Miriam Mason

At a recent concert with friend Sarah (left), me in the middle and Imogen Heap is on the right.

 
At my house, big brother was never in, or accessible, although apparently, he played guitar some. And dad occasionally brought out his sax and played, but only jazz and only from a certain very narrow period of time. And he was relegated to play the same few things over and over again. I guess they spoke to his soul, but new things can be nice, also. I'm actually saddened by my father's limitations around music. He really missed a lot of wonderful amazing music out there because he was so narrow with his own choices. I played piano at our house. I had lessons, and eventually convinced my mother to take me to A____'s teacher, an old German woman in the Berkeley Hills, who gave me real classical music to play instead of the simplistic stuff my former teacher had. My mom used to play when she was a girl, but mostly, our piano sat dusted and perfect and quiet, unless I played it. And when I played it, I wanted to play my own music, which my father did put up with, unless he was working, and although every single moment was under his objection and subject to instantaneous criticism. 

I mostly focused on classical, though, because it made my parents happy. 

Picture by Maggie Rebhan

 
(My dad had this bizarre belief that popular music like rock and roll had an agenda that was deliberately marketed at young people to move their emotions. Like this was a bad thing. And that any emotions evoked by music should be evoked either by classical or 1930s jazz, as if these carried absolutely no agenda of their own. It was a very strange way to argue against my choices, and my sibling's choices, while defending his own as "real music." This was more than just a generation gap.  This was literally being stuck in one period without the ability to move forward.  To me, his ideas were just more of those enforced arbitrary limits.  I am grateful that all sorts of music speaks to me, and that as music evolves, I am able to enjoy it.  There is some really great new stuff out there!  Amazing talent, people my dad would write off without a second thought.)

Not so at the M______! Lot's of people participated in music, played.  It felt so rich and authentic and joyful, not forced or coerced or with a set of expectations attached.  Once, K______ created our own Monkey's band.  We made wonderful instruments to join in the festivities, tambourines and drums, and homemade cardboard and rubber band guitars, easy stuff for all the kids who loved to visit the M______'s house and to play along.

Every Christmas, they brought in a tree that was at least 40 feet tall (okay, creative liberty, it could have been shorter than that, but I was very small, and that tree looked *huge*) and made the whole house smell wonderful. And everybody gathered around for days before Christmas at the M______ watching and helping as they baked mammoth batches of cookies and goodies for the neighborhood party they would throw on Christmas Day. It was the best of parties ever. My mom made mulled wine for it every year and I'd sneak in as many glasses as I could, because it was fun and so busy, nobody noticed. 

At the M______'s, serious fights were rare (I recall only one in all the years of knowing them).  They certainly did argue a lot, but it was amicable and they found a lot of solutions to conflict on their own.  I never recall anybody being pushed out of any of their games ever. Play and pretend were enormous, and it was at the M______ that I was allowed to dabble in a love my father never approved of: television, especially science fiction. 

The M______ didn't practice television limits and so I got to see all the great shows that were forbidden at my house, "Lost In Space," "Voyage To The Bottom of The Sea," "Mission Impossible," on the rare occasion "Dark Shadows" (although I would wake up screaming in the middle of the night if I watched that one), and yes, even my all time love, "Star Trek." I fell in love with the entire genre at the M______'s house. At home, I got one hour a week of television and the shows I could pick from were my parents' selections. Eventually, my father let me watch reruns of Star Trek every night, and my parents and sister would sneak down and watch it with me, even though they never copped to enjoying it. In fact, my father, in his usual timber, was full of criticism for it.  Amusing that he later watched the followup series' too.

I saved this postcard from my first convention for years.  I may still have it.

It wasn't shameful to enjoy things at the M______. At Halloween, their mom would buy T____ a huge bunch of great haunted house gadgets and dry ice. The house would be transformed every year into a super spooky mansion and even indoor tours were created. One year I helped T____ stuff a whole dummy of his father's old clothes and it was set outside next to a pot filled with dry ice and running water, and many kids wouldn't even go past the dummy to get upstairs. Let alone stay long enough for the rubber spider to drop on their head when they rang the doorbell. 

The M______ never minded if you played on their huge property. And when I felt completely hopeless and depressed as a child, their big property had secret pathways and hiding places that were my secret places of inner peace, where I could cry real tears I could not cry at home without being punished or ridiculed.  I remember watching my tears falling into the dirt and soaking in at the edge of their house more than once.  I'm not sure they ever knew.

Source: https://www.facebook.com/pages/After-Narcissistic-Abuse-There-is-Light-Life-Love/114835348601442

One incident at the M______ particularly stands out. I was walking in the back door and the mother, J____ was standing there by the pantry. I smelled the M______'s house as soon as I walked in, a favorite smell of all. And suddenly, without any warning, J____ swooped me up in her arms and squeezed me in a huge bear hug and kissed me several times on the cheek, and said "I just LOVE you!!!" And then she put me down and so I could go off to play.  I had never had that happen anywhere before.

My parents never once did that. Love was not spontaneous or demonstrated in this way in our household. Love was, unless they were in a good mood about something in their own lives, to be earned via approval. 

To this day, I make sure I give my kids lots of enormous unexpected hugs and squeezes with kisses and I tell them I love them! How did I get so lucky to have someone like each of them in my life? Because it's true. And if you don't tell someone that, especially a child, they will really never know if it's true. Hugs are good for the body and the mind, and there is now science that backs this up. 

Source: http://www.mentalhelp.net/poc/view_doc.php?type=doc&id=47807

It was like being in full color life at the M______'s, and it was all shades of subtle dimmer damped-down colors at my parent's house. I had many things to keep me busy, I had toys, and books and limited access to a TV, and a back yard. But I was lonely for the one thing I didn't have, genuine unconditional love and acceptance for just being myself. 


To this day, I remain deeply grateful the M______ were in my life.  When I think of my childhood, it is they who I miss the most.

Source: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/greg-archer/gifts-the-gratitude-exper_b_582207.html

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