© Miriam A. Mason
After contemplating for the past 8 months, I have decided it is time to reveal who my narcissistically sick father was. Because it shows how good someone can look on paper, while being torrentially abusive in private.
His name was Leonard E. Nathan. Actually, his name was Edward Leonard Nathan, but he was called Leonard his entire life. I guess "Ed" wouldn't have fit his narrow idea of what a poet should be called.
Look him up. He's on wiki and has several books of poetry out. Regardless of what it says on paper in any form, his actual living of life involved destroying his children's individuality and loves every single day. Of being so absent a parent in other regards that his oldest became a heroin addict at 14 and his second child divorced the entire family, and now me, and this blog.
He was an ugly human being inside. A child never emotionally grown. And the result was a self-interested schmuck. Scared, power-biting, cruel, mean, neglectful, and prone to physical violence against his kids (I didn't get dad mad if I could possibly avoid it).
Now there's something more honest about him on paper. Right here. On this page.
You can figure out the rest of the names of my family members from here, pretty much.
* * *
Wednesday, August 27, 2014
Tuesday, August 19, 2014
30 - Dream Shift: Of Murky Waters and A Home for the Heart
© Miriam A. Mason
All my life that I can remember my dreams, the bulk of them have always involved being on land, with a slowly rising murky muddy unclear water all around me and everyone around me.
It's still brown water, no clarity, inching toward my place of safety, removing places I had once felt safe, drowning them slowly, killing all it swallowed up. No way to ever know what lies below that water. It never reaches me, but it comes close, before I wake up in a cold sweat, wondering why my dreams wanted to drown me in murky waters.
My place of safety is usually a house of some sort. But I never get to pay attention to the house because of the rising water. What is this water? Why is it present so much? Why is it rising, threatening to cover up everything around me including myself?
I cannot count the number of times I've dreamed of this gray-brown water. Thousands, probably. It has always been a common theme, since I was 10 or 11 years old. (These were the years of the rapes in the Berkeley, California, school system.)
I've never known the meaning of the water, even though I knew it must symbolize something very important to show up so often and perform the same slow rising engulfment of myself over and over again.
As I got closer and closer to having the break that eventually inspired this blog, and moved from viewing my family as perfect to viewing them as deeply dysfunctional, with all the classical signs present for all to see, this dream evolved. Now, the water was much more active, and became a dark ocean, deep and vast, but making huge waves toward my place of safety. With each growing gray wave, the water would again rise a bit more, still swallowing me and everything around me up. It was drowning me much faster, much more threateningly.
Then this blog exploded out of me, and light poured into my mind as I wrote and wrote and processed and processed. The dreams of water halted. For the first time in over 40 years.
Only now do I realize clearly that the gray-brown rising water was my family taking over who I was entirely. It was my admission to my loss of my own identity and power. It was pursuing me, after me, always rising, slowly choking out all the things I loved and dreamed of, especially my own being.
Now that this blog has been written and I continue to process what happened in my life and how I feel about it, and who I really am underneath all that dark murky threatening water my family was, I find I am having a new dream thematic.
Now I am dreaming of a house. In each dream, it is a different house, but always a pretty magnificent large one. A house I feel love for, and want to explore, want to savor, want to stay close. So far, I have only explored the room I am in within my dream, except perhaps in one dream, in which I discovered my parents in another room of the house and felt the hint of gray water rising again. But my goal is to begin walking around each of the houses I find, and finding all the good things that are me in each of the rooms. The feeling I get when I am in the house in my dream is really good. A feeling of deserving this big house, of wanting it to remain, and even not wanting to wake up because I love the house so much. I need more dream time there.
And no gray water. No murkiness. Just a big magnificent different mystery house in each dream.
Both the water and the houses make sense to me now. The house is who I really am, who I really want to be without any imposition from any family member. I feel new in the house, as if I've never had the opportunity to explore my own house and I'm just now, at 52 years old, beginning to do so. And I feel so young in the dreams.
I wanted this down on paper. And I am eager to explore this dream more than I've ever been before about any dream. I want to walk all through the house, and look at each beautiful room, lighted with great big opened windows, sunshine, clear skies, trees. The murk has been replaced by clear water, from faucets or a peaceful ocean lapping at the sand quietly and withdrawing as it should nearby. And no parents, no family. They were washed away with the water. Perhaps I will find me at different ages, in which case, I would very much like to stop and hug that younger me. Tell her she is worthy of so much love, full of beauty in her individuality, and deserving of so much better than she was given. I want to tell each one of her that she did an amazing thing simply by surviving. And that she is powerful and she will find her way. And that I am here for her.
No longer am I looking out windows or down steep walls at a rising body of water. Now I am in the house. In my house. Making up my own mind about myself, about who I am, and what I want.
It feels poetic (a trigger word, obviously, but unavoidable, and still working hard to disassociate poetry and my father). And as though a weight has lifted that I finally understand what all those years of the gray murky rising water meant to me.
I love my subconscious. I think it's helped more than I can possibly understand around all this recovering I've been doing.
Dream on, Me. I deserve that big beautiful house, all of them, actually. They are my dreams, after all.
* * *
All my life that I can remember my dreams, the bulk of them have always involved being on land, with a slowly rising murky muddy unclear water all around me and everyone around me.
It's still brown water, no clarity, inching toward my place of safety, removing places I had once felt safe, drowning them slowly, killing all it swallowed up. No way to ever know what lies below that water. It never reaches me, but it comes close, before I wake up in a cold sweat, wondering why my dreams wanted to drown me in murky waters.
My place of safety is usually a house of some sort. But I never get to pay attention to the house because of the rising water. What is this water? Why is it present so much? Why is it rising, threatening to cover up everything around me including myself?
I cannot count the number of times I've dreamed of this gray-brown water. Thousands, probably. It has always been a common theme, since I was 10 or 11 years old. (These were the years of the rapes in the Berkeley, California, school system.)
I've never known the meaning of the water, even though I knew it must symbolize something very important to show up so often and perform the same slow rising engulfment of myself over and over again.
As I got closer and closer to having the break that eventually inspired this blog, and moved from viewing my family as perfect to viewing them as deeply dysfunctional, with all the classical signs present for all to see, this dream evolved. Now, the water was much more active, and became a dark ocean, deep and vast, but making huge waves toward my place of safety. With each growing gray wave, the water would again rise a bit more, still swallowing me and everything around me up. It was drowning me much faster, much more threateningly.
Then this blog exploded out of me, and light poured into my mind as I wrote and wrote and processed and processed. The dreams of water halted. For the first time in over 40 years.
Only now do I realize clearly that the gray-brown rising water was my family taking over who I was entirely. It was my admission to my loss of my own identity and power. It was pursuing me, after me, always rising, slowly choking out all the things I loved and dreamed of, especially my own being.
Now that this blog has been written and I continue to process what happened in my life and how I feel about it, and who I really am underneath all that dark murky threatening water my family was, I find I am having a new dream thematic.
Now I am dreaming of a house. In each dream, it is a different house, but always a pretty magnificent large one. A house I feel love for, and want to explore, want to savor, want to stay close. So far, I have only explored the room I am in within my dream, except perhaps in one dream, in which I discovered my parents in another room of the house and felt the hint of gray water rising again. But my goal is to begin walking around each of the houses I find, and finding all the good things that are me in each of the rooms. The feeling I get when I am in the house in my dream is really good. A feeling of deserving this big house, of wanting it to remain, and even not wanting to wake up because I love the house so much. I need more dream time there.
And no gray water. No murkiness. Just a big magnificent different mystery house in each dream.
Both the water and the houses make sense to me now. The house is who I really am, who I really want to be without any imposition from any family member. I feel new in the house, as if I've never had the opportunity to explore my own house and I'm just now, at 52 years old, beginning to do so. And I feel so young in the dreams.
I wanted this down on paper. And I am eager to explore this dream more than I've ever been before about any dream. I want to walk all through the house, and look at each beautiful room, lighted with great big opened windows, sunshine, clear skies, trees. The murk has been replaced by clear water, from faucets or a peaceful ocean lapping at the sand quietly and withdrawing as it should nearby. And no parents, no family. They were washed away with the water. Perhaps I will find me at different ages, in which case, I would very much like to stop and hug that younger me. Tell her she is worthy of so much love, full of beauty in her individuality, and deserving of so much better than she was given. I want to tell each one of her that she did an amazing thing simply by surviving. And that she is powerful and she will find her way. And that I am here for her.
No longer am I looking out windows or down steep walls at a rising body of water. Now I am in the house. In my house. Making up my own mind about myself, about who I am, and what I want.
It feels poetic (a trigger word, obviously, but unavoidable, and still working hard to disassociate poetry and my father). And as though a weight has lifted that I finally understand what all those years of the gray murky rising water meant to me.
I love my subconscious. I think it's helped more than I can possibly understand around all this recovering I've been doing.
Dream on, Me. I deserve that big beautiful house, all of them, actually. They are my dreams, after all.
* * *
Thursday, June 19, 2014
29 - The Erasure, Into the Heart of the Onion
© Miriam A. Mason
One of the biggest reasons I seem to be having trouble finding who I am, peeling off the layers of the onion, is that my father practiced character-erasure from the beginning of my life. It was one of this favorite pastimes, in fact, removing anything that we loved and cherished and replacing it with ridicule, belittlement and his better, smarter choices.
When this happens to a tiny child over and over again, she really does lose who she is completely. The possibility of her ever finding out who she is without the influence of the emotional (and physical) abuse her father placed upon her becomes quite small. The onion started building itself up based upon layers that were not my own from so early on. And peeling my onion down to the bulb doesn't seem practical on some level, or even possible really, at the age of 52.
If I am anything like my father, then I want to be someone else. He was repugnant to me because his love cost my individuality.
So, what I have to do is un-peel layers and layers carefully, without the entire structuring collapsing, and examine *every* emotional response I have to anything I experience as intense. How else can I figure out which layers are mine among all the many layers that create me? It's all a big mystery still, and I feel I am just beginning to work my way inside myself, even after all this writing. Just recently I internalized something that had essentially nothing to do with me, and I knew it even as it happened. I'm exhausted from it, and want to rise above that level of existence.
There is a reason for the saying "you can't teach an old dog new tricks," for people like my father and brother, but I also believe it's possible to do so for us old dogs that aren't wrapped up in some false image of ourselves, and, given the right set of circumstances, the right environment, the right support.
It's almost a time-travel story in the sense that I must work backwards through time to really figure it out, because I can't always find the original unless I work through more recent emotions. And then I have to figure out if each emotional experience was 1) actually mine, 2) an adaptation of my father's or mother's, or 3) my survival tools for the emotional (and the threat of physical) violence I grew up in. And then once I figure that out, I have to figure out what to do with it now. Whether to toss it, because it's creating dysfunctional behaviors for me; whether I want to keep it, or adjust it, and even whether I want to have a single shred of my father in me or not, he's in there. Extricating him will be delicate and difficult and probably lengthy work.
It's all very confusing and head-spinning. But I do feel I'm on the right path here. One thing my father did was intellectualize everything. Some things cannot be intellectualized, particularly emotions of the heart. My father taught me to listen to my head, with all its cacophony of voices, and to ignore, even suppress my heart. But it is with my heart open for the first time that I peel this onion.
One thing I'd like to address is anger. It's a very common occurrence for me and over things that don't even involve me. When they do involve me, it's worse. I can't seem to shed my anger at my parents. I was angry before I had spoken truth about living with them, but now that the truth is spoken, I am still angry. And I guess that's okay and part of the process, too. But anger is tiring and uses up spoons I don't have. My father was a hugely angry person, as was my mother. Now my brother is the same way, quickly and easily angered. My sister has learned to contain hers (being a doctor requires this), but I know she felt it too early on. She used to say to me "Angry people get things done."
Perhaps so. But in what state of mind does that leave the bearer of this anger? And for me, who's never been allowed to express that anger to my parents or brother or his wife without serious repercussions, that anger turns in on itself, toward me. I note all my insufficiencies and what the world could judge as failures. I insult parts of my body and my mind. I am the meanest person I know to myself, now that I no longer contact my family.
My father erased each of us. Our natural strengths were either pushed to extremes, judged or summarily dismissed/ridiculed. Only dad could make accurate and true judgments about people and the world. Only dad could hold the moral high ground, as he sent his youngest daughter into a prison-setting school to be raped every day. And he was always right, which meant I deserved everything I got.
My earliest memories of me remind me that I am a very sensitive person. That I can miss certain social cues while I see others that many miss. I am deeply intuitive and perceptive. I absorb the feeling of others. I have a wonderful imagination. I can make visual wordless stories happen in fractal-like patterns when I close my eyes. I can perceive infinity and when I do, the ground disappears out from under me and I hold on to the nearest bit of matter, knowing the universe is so much bigger, vaster, wider than my human mind can perceive. I know I am kind and empathetic, crying at the stepping on of a bee. I know I am deeply woven into justice. Although justice is a swift kick in the knees as my father would have it. I think maybe I might be able to do a bit better, by adding empathy to justice. I know that at the root of my being is nothing but energy, chasms between the particles of the atoms that make up my body. I know that I am a wave frequency, because that is how animals have always read me.
I know some pretty interesting stuff, actually. Just me.
So I guess the core of the onion is still there and I just need to reconnect. And maybe the layers of the onion that need to fall away will as I continue this process.
Very stream of consciousness. Thank you for reading.
* * *
One of the biggest reasons I seem to be having trouble finding who I am, peeling off the layers of the onion, is that my father practiced character-erasure from the beginning of my life. It was one of this favorite pastimes, in fact, removing anything that we loved and cherished and replacing it with ridicule, belittlement and his better, smarter choices.
When this happens to a tiny child over and over again, she really does lose who she is completely. The possibility of her ever finding out who she is without the influence of the emotional (and physical) abuse her father placed upon her becomes quite small. The onion started building itself up based upon layers that were not my own from so early on. And peeling my onion down to the bulb doesn't seem practical on some level, or even possible really, at the age of 52.
If I am anything like my father, then I want to be someone else. He was repugnant to me because his love cost my individuality.
So, what I have to do is un-peel layers and layers carefully, without the entire structuring collapsing, and examine *every* emotional response I have to anything I experience as intense. How else can I figure out which layers are mine among all the many layers that create me? It's all a big mystery still, and I feel I am just beginning to work my way inside myself, even after all this writing. Just recently I internalized something that had essentially nothing to do with me, and I knew it even as it happened. I'm exhausted from it, and want to rise above that level of existence.
 |
| Source: https://www.facebook.com/pages/After-Narcissistic-Abuse-There-is-Light-Life-Love/114835348601442 |
There is a reason for the saying "you can't teach an old dog new tricks," for people like my father and brother, but I also believe it's possible to do so for us old dogs that aren't wrapped up in some false image of ourselves, and, given the right set of circumstances, the right environment, the right support.
It's almost a time-travel story in the sense that I must work backwards through time to really figure it out, because I can't always find the original unless I work through more recent emotions. And then I have to figure out if each emotional experience was 1) actually mine, 2) an adaptation of my father's or mother's, or 3) my survival tools for the emotional (and the threat of physical) violence I grew up in. And then once I figure that out, I have to figure out what to do with it now. Whether to toss it, because it's creating dysfunctional behaviors for me; whether I want to keep it, or adjust it, and even whether I want to have a single shred of my father in me or not, he's in there. Extricating him will be delicate and difficult and probably lengthy work.
It's all very confusing and head-spinning. But I do feel I'm on the right path here. One thing my father did was intellectualize everything. Some things cannot be intellectualized, particularly emotions of the heart. My father taught me to listen to my head, with all its cacophony of voices, and to ignore, even suppress my heart. But it is with my heart open for the first time that I peel this onion.
 |
| Source: https://www.facebook.com/BKTYMovement?ref=br_tf |
One thing I'd like to address is anger. It's a very common occurrence for me and over things that don't even involve me. When they do involve me, it's worse. I can't seem to shed my anger at my parents. I was angry before I had spoken truth about living with them, but now that the truth is spoken, I am still angry. And I guess that's okay and part of the process, too. But anger is tiring and uses up spoons I don't have. My father was a hugely angry person, as was my mother. Now my brother is the same way, quickly and easily angered. My sister has learned to contain hers (being a doctor requires this), but I know she felt it too early on. She used to say to me "Angry people get things done."
Perhaps so. But in what state of mind does that leave the bearer of this anger? And for me, who's never been allowed to express that anger to my parents or brother or his wife without serious repercussions, that anger turns in on itself, toward me. I note all my insufficiencies and what the world could judge as failures. I insult parts of my body and my mind. I am the meanest person I know to myself, now that I no longer contact my family.
My father erased each of us. Our natural strengths were either pushed to extremes, judged or summarily dismissed/ridiculed. Only dad could make accurate and true judgments about people and the world. Only dad could hold the moral high ground, as he sent his youngest daughter into a prison-setting school to be raped every day. And he was always right, which meant I deserved everything I got.
My earliest memories of me remind me that I am a very sensitive person. That I can miss certain social cues while I see others that many miss. I am deeply intuitive and perceptive. I absorb the feeling of others. I have a wonderful imagination. I can make visual wordless stories happen in fractal-like patterns when I close my eyes. I can perceive infinity and when I do, the ground disappears out from under me and I hold on to the nearest bit of matter, knowing the universe is so much bigger, vaster, wider than my human mind can perceive. I know I am kind and empathetic, crying at the stepping on of a bee. I know I am deeply woven into justice. Although justice is a swift kick in the knees as my father would have it. I think maybe I might be able to do a bit better, by adding empathy to justice. I know that at the root of my being is nothing but energy, chasms between the particles of the atoms that make up my body. I know that I am a wave frequency, because that is how animals have always read me.
I know some pretty interesting stuff, actually. Just me.
So I guess the core of the onion is still there and I just need to reconnect. And maybe the layers of the onion that need to fall away will as I continue this process.
Very stream of consciousness. Thank you for reading.
* * *
28 - Finally Yelling Back at Brother - VENT
©Miriam A. Mason
WARNING: Pissed Off Rant Ahead! I have never been allowed to express the 50 years or so of built up fury I feel towards my brother, so I'm letting it out, in a big storm. Perhaps this won't cancel it out, but at least it is providing a much needed and long deserved release. You have been forewarned.
Ever since dad and mom have died, you and your wife have attempted to assume a parental role towards me.
Dear brother, you weren't there for my childhood. You weren't there for a single special event in my life. You weren't there during hard times for me. You weren't there in terms of the slightest interest in my life. You weren't there on any level at any time in any meaningful way in my life. You weren't there.
What on EARTH possesses you to assume a fatherly role towards me? Get off that idea right now, cuz it will never hold water, not in real life, or even in your false narcissistic view of life, not even in a court of law. Prodigy? Um, no. When I think of you, I think of another "P" word: Pathetic.
Is it the 12 years of difference between our ages that makes you think you can "parent" me? I laugh in your face at that, if you really think this gives you justification. At 12, you were easily more fucked up than I was at the same age, and hardly qualified to be a "father" figure. The remainder of your life has been a sad testament to your addictions and self-centeredness. You certainly weren't qualified to be a father figure to me then, and you are no more qualified now.
I will tell you what would have given you justification to behave towards me even remotely as a paternal figure; bear in mind none of these would provide even the slightest excuse for you to treat me as you actually have:
• Being a real presence in my childhood or in my life in general
• Understanding we are equals (you are incapable of that)
• NOT blaming me for your fucking drug habit (remember family "Group" dear brother?)
• Protecting me in my childhood from things mom and dad couldn't handle
• Hearing me (really hearing me) when I needed to be heard
• Holding me and comforting me when I needed it (hugging you is like hugging an uncomfortable animal, you do it only because you have to, not because you want to, yeah, I read hugs because I give them a lot and get them a lot)
• Helping through the difficulties that I experienced (oh, raped at 10 every single day? Your heroin needle was more important than your own sister)
• Kicking the ass of people who threatened and beat me up regularly after school (or at least *knowing* that it was happening)
• REMEMBERING our conversations and caring one wit about them
• ACTUALLY (ha) loving me. (You have never once loved me in your life. You say the words and they are empty. And now, as you grow old and mentally brittle all that has gotten much worse, much more evident, even if you can't see it because you blind yourself with your narcissistic self image.)
You did the polar opposite of all these and more.
Did I mention I'm in my 50s and don't want your help? Your help has always come with a price tag, it has never come from your heart. Your "help" is profoundly deficient in the things I consider important (i.e. love, compassion, empathy, kindness, presence). Did I mention that you treating me as though I am your spawn is both a gross psychological illness and deeply inappropriate? Here's my response to your attempts at "parenting" me: you suck. And I mean, not in a small way, you suck the big kahuna. You are a narcissist just like dad was, someone who cannot deal with the REAL emotions of being alive and hurt, someone who cannot sit with that pain but medicates it, first with heroin, now with booze. What a waste that I even ever wanted that in my life. You create a false image of yourself and want everybody to comply with it. You are entitled and cruel. You are judgmental, you are only kind when people do things the way you believe they should be done (and when they kiss your ass appropriately). You are incompetent in my eyes in every imaginable way, and I don't care how much money you make. Money does not equal competent human being. In fact, in reality, the two are not even in the same universe.
You've instead spent most of your time (rarely) with me telling me I've failed on some level. Telling me I'm not as good as you are and I never will be. Implicating to me (as a child) that I was responsible for your unhappiness, and the consequent stupidity that followed it.
You've yelled at me, snarled at me, told me to shut up about my own *important* feelings, dismissed me, minimized me, disrespected me, treated me as an annoyance, discounted me, forgotten important conversations we had and ways I actually helped you in the past, stood me up for your beloved Heroin uncounted times.
You don't even know me. You don't even know who YOU really are (minus the booze now and the heroin then), let alone me.
You don't even remember calling me up between your past job of real estate agent and your current job of money movement to ask me what I thought you should do. You said you were tired of the unreliable nature of real estate and you could see a crash coming. I told you you spent all that time managing a profitable drug business, and that you are good with money. So that might be a career to move towards. You were impressed for a few moments. And guess what? You went into that career I recommended.
But the most appalling of that entire interaction is that you no longer remember it. Because that is how unimportant I have always been in your lousy shitty self-important indulgent life.
I've been angry a long long long time at you. At my fear of you. At my fear of your temper and judgment. You inspire fear in me. You probably even like that you do that.
Haven't you learned one fucking thing from your ridiculous crazy life? Haven't you learned that the ONE thing that matters is love? That love should always triumph over fear, judgment, ridicule, disdain and disgust.
You took your pissed off self and you used the anger you felt as a result of what mom and dad did to you and your inner artist and you ruled with fear over anybody you could make cower. Anybody you felt you could look down upon.
I was a tiny child. Of course you could make me cower, you piece of shit coward. Only the truest assholes fuck with people who are smaller and less powerful than they are.
A, you are an asshole.
I have nothing to say to your wife, who is SO narcissistic (false image of fantastical self, while underneath, she loathes herself in unspeakable ways, so much so, that if you pull down her illusion, she'd break). Her ridiculous presumption that she's better than either my sister or myself is as deluded as the rest of The Family Fantasy that dad and mom worked so hard to build. She doesn't even amount to a mention more than a paragraph here, because she is so mealy, that she blindly follows and assumes your judgments about everything, including me. Fuck you, C. You don't matter. You never have. Chew on that for a while.
You can't build on a lie, brother.
Which is why you are so angry and unhappy almost all of the time, dear brother. But you go right on ahead and keep trying. Your whole life has been built on a lie, the image you crafted so mom and dad couldn't hurt you any more. You attempting to lay any judgment on me is truly a huge joke. One that I no longer will tolerate.
Fuck you, too A. Steer clear of me, unless you want truth. Because Truth is all you'll get from me from here on out. And it ain't gonna be pretty and it's going to make you upset and angry, because you know why? Because you are a coward. Only cowards run from genuine emotional growth. Enjoy your booze like you enjoyed your needles full of Heroin, brother. And stay the hell out of my life with all your dysfunctional abusive addicted denial-filled bullshit.
You can't even remember the basic truths of our interactions together, don't you try to list a bunch of bullshit at me that you really don't remember properly because of your heroin addled brain.
What I'm speaking is truth. Truth is a defense against slander. What you speak about me are falsehoods, which have no defense against slander. Case in point, we did not "lose" our house in El Cerrito as you blathered quite succincly on my Facebook Wall, we SOLD it, yes out of necessity, but that is wholly different from "losing" a house. To boot, we made a $70K profit on it, so you know what? Shove your lies up your ass, A. Attempt to slander me again with non-truths (merely because your brain is a sieve and can't recall things accurately), and I will add names to this entire blog, so that everybody knows exactly who you all are. This blog isn't a lie. And I have a damn sharp memory, Mr. Mud-for-brains.
It's about time, I get to yell back. Now that it's out of my system, and you know what a ludicrous load of shit you've dealt me as a human being (I am not your sister except by blood, you don't deserve anything I have to offer), I can go on with my life. Sans you.
They say anger is a cover for fear. I don't fear you any more, A. I love myself now, not as a narcissist, but genuine self-nurturing, compassionate love, the kind that doesn't need to get pissed off when people speak truths. The kind that finally needed to yell back at you. For ME, not you. I don't need whatever your excuse for love is any longer. I don't think I ever did.
Don't let the door hit you on the way out.
There. Much better now. Thanks if you aren't my brother and you got through this.
* * *
WARNING: Pissed Off Rant Ahead! I have never been allowed to express the 50 years or so of built up fury I feel towards my brother, so I'm letting it out, in a big storm. Perhaps this won't cancel it out, but at least it is providing a much needed and long deserved release. You have been forewarned.
Ever since dad and mom have died, you and your wife have attempted to assume a parental role towards me.
 |
| Source: https://www.facebook.com/pages/After-Narcissistic-Abuse-There-is-Light-Life-Love/114835348601442 |
Dear brother, you weren't there for my childhood. You weren't there for a single special event in my life. You weren't there during hard times for me. You weren't there in terms of the slightest interest in my life. You weren't there on any level at any time in any meaningful way in my life. You weren't there.
What on EARTH possesses you to assume a fatherly role towards me? Get off that idea right now, cuz it will never hold water, not in real life, or even in your false narcissistic view of life, not even in a court of law. Prodigy? Um, no. When I think of you, I think of another "P" word: Pathetic.
Is it the 12 years of difference between our ages that makes you think you can "parent" me? I laugh in your face at that, if you really think this gives you justification. At 12, you were easily more fucked up than I was at the same age, and hardly qualified to be a "father" figure. The remainder of your life has been a sad testament to your addictions and self-centeredness. You certainly weren't qualified to be a father figure to me then, and you are no more qualified now.
I will tell you what would have given you justification to behave towards me even remotely as a paternal figure; bear in mind none of these would provide even the slightest excuse for you to treat me as you actually have:
• Being a real presence in my childhood or in my life in general
• Understanding we are equals (you are incapable of that)
• NOT blaming me for your fucking drug habit (remember family "Group" dear brother?)
• Protecting me in my childhood from things mom and dad couldn't handle
• Hearing me (really hearing me) when I needed to be heard
• Holding me and comforting me when I needed it (hugging you is like hugging an uncomfortable animal, you do it only because you have to, not because you want to, yeah, I read hugs because I give them a lot and get them a lot)
• Helping through the difficulties that I experienced (oh, raped at 10 every single day? Your heroin needle was more important than your own sister)
• Kicking the ass of people who threatened and beat me up regularly after school (or at least *knowing* that it was happening)
• REMEMBERING our conversations and caring one wit about them
• ACTUALLY (ha) loving me. (You have never once loved me in your life. You say the words and they are empty. And now, as you grow old and mentally brittle all that has gotten much worse, much more evident, even if you can't see it because you blind yourself with your narcissistic self image.)
You did the polar opposite of all these and more.
Did I mention I'm in my 50s and don't want your help? Your help has always come with a price tag, it has never come from your heart. Your "help" is profoundly deficient in the things I consider important (i.e. love, compassion, empathy, kindness, presence). Did I mention that you treating me as though I am your spawn is both a gross psychological illness and deeply inappropriate? Here's my response to your attempts at "parenting" me: you suck. And I mean, not in a small way, you suck the big kahuna. You are a narcissist just like dad was, someone who cannot deal with the REAL emotions of being alive and hurt, someone who cannot sit with that pain but medicates it, first with heroin, now with booze. What a waste that I even ever wanted that in my life. You create a false image of yourself and want everybody to comply with it. You are entitled and cruel. You are judgmental, you are only kind when people do things the way you believe they should be done (and when they kiss your ass appropriately). You are incompetent in my eyes in every imaginable way, and I don't care how much money you make. Money does not equal competent human being. In fact, in reality, the two are not even in the same universe.
You've instead spent most of your time (rarely) with me telling me I've failed on some level. Telling me I'm not as good as you are and I never will be. Implicating to me (as a child) that I was responsible for your unhappiness, and the consequent stupidity that followed it.
You've yelled at me, snarled at me, told me to shut up about my own *important* feelings, dismissed me, minimized me, disrespected me, treated me as an annoyance, discounted me, forgotten important conversations we had and ways I actually helped you in the past, stood me up for your beloved Heroin uncounted times.
You don't even know me. You don't even know who YOU really are (minus the booze now and the heroin then), let alone me.
You don't even remember calling me up between your past job of real estate agent and your current job of money movement to ask me what I thought you should do. You said you were tired of the unreliable nature of real estate and you could see a crash coming. I told you you spent all that time managing a profitable drug business, and that you are good with money. So that might be a career to move towards. You were impressed for a few moments. And guess what? You went into that career I recommended.
But the most appalling of that entire interaction is that you no longer remember it. Because that is how unimportant I have always been in your lousy shitty self-important indulgent life.
I've been angry a long long long time at you. At my fear of you. At my fear of your temper and judgment. You inspire fear in me. You probably even like that you do that.
Haven't you learned one fucking thing from your ridiculous crazy life? Haven't you learned that the ONE thing that matters is love? That love should always triumph over fear, judgment, ridicule, disdain and disgust.
You took your pissed off self and you used the anger you felt as a result of what mom and dad did to you and your inner artist and you ruled with fear over anybody you could make cower. Anybody you felt you could look down upon.
I was a tiny child. Of course you could make me cower, you piece of shit coward. Only the truest assholes fuck with people who are smaller and less powerful than they are.
A, you are an asshole.
I have nothing to say to your wife, who is SO narcissistic (false image of fantastical self, while underneath, she loathes herself in unspeakable ways, so much so, that if you pull down her illusion, she'd break). Her ridiculous presumption that she's better than either my sister or myself is as deluded as the rest of The Family Fantasy that dad and mom worked so hard to build. She doesn't even amount to a mention more than a paragraph here, because she is so mealy, that she blindly follows and assumes your judgments about everything, including me. Fuck you, C. You don't matter. You never have. Chew on that for a while.
You can't build on a lie, brother.
Which is why you are so angry and unhappy almost all of the time, dear brother. But you go right on ahead and keep trying. Your whole life has been built on a lie, the image you crafted so mom and dad couldn't hurt you any more. You attempting to lay any judgment on me is truly a huge joke. One that I no longer will tolerate.
Fuck you, too A. Steer clear of me, unless you want truth. Because Truth is all you'll get from me from here on out. And it ain't gonna be pretty and it's going to make you upset and angry, because you know why? Because you are a coward. Only cowards run from genuine emotional growth. Enjoy your booze like you enjoyed your needles full of Heroin, brother. And stay the hell out of my life with all your dysfunctional abusive addicted denial-filled bullshit.
 |
| Source: https://www.facebook.com/pages/After-Narcissistic-Abuse-There-is-Light-Life-Love/114835348601442 |
You can't even remember the basic truths of our interactions together, don't you try to list a bunch of bullshit at me that you really don't remember properly because of your heroin addled brain.
What I'm speaking is truth. Truth is a defense against slander. What you speak about me are falsehoods, which have no defense against slander. Case in point, we did not "lose" our house in El Cerrito as you blathered quite succincly on my Facebook Wall, we SOLD it, yes out of necessity, but that is wholly different from "losing" a house. To boot, we made a $70K profit on it, so you know what? Shove your lies up your ass, A. Attempt to slander me again with non-truths (merely because your brain is a sieve and can't recall things accurately), and I will add names to this entire blog, so that everybody knows exactly who you all are. This blog isn't a lie. And I have a damn sharp memory, Mr. Mud-for-brains.
It's about time, I get to yell back. Now that it's out of my system, and you know what a ludicrous load of shit you've dealt me as a human being (I am not your sister except by blood, you don't deserve anything I have to offer), I can go on with my life. Sans you.
They say anger is a cover for fear. I don't fear you any more, A. I love myself now, not as a narcissist, but genuine self-nurturing, compassionate love, the kind that doesn't need to get pissed off when people speak truths. The kind that finally needed to yell back at you. For ME, not you. I don't need whatever your excuse for love is any longer. I don't think I ever did.
Don't let the door hit you on the way out.
There. Much better now. Thanks if you aren't my brother and you got through this.
* * *
Monday, June 9, 2014
27 - Using Humor to as a Tool for Avoidance
© Miriam A. Mason
I recently had an interesting couple of experiences on Facebook. They weren't abusive, just misguided and lacking an understanding. But it got me to thinking about how my father used to "diffuse" and thereby diminish painful situations by inserting what he considered to be humor into them. Because showing authentic empathy wasn't something that could ever be done in my family for some reason. Because taking a child seriously was something he was utterly incapable of. We had to take him seriously, but we were jokes and the joked upon, and almost always the targets for reduction and belittlement. My dad was your perfect example of a raving double-standard-hypocrite.
My mother was better at offering a bit of sympathy (even though it was apparently only momentarily authentic, until the next time she could find something wrong with me). She held me at times, unless I was too upset, then it upset her. So she let go and experienced her own triggers around it. She yelled and got quietly very very angry instead of using humor as my father had.
But any upset, any thing that I needed to hear validation for, any pain in my body that I felt, all of it was always redirected by my father using his idea of humor. And then if I got upset at the dismissal of my feelings by my father's attempts to change them, he would instantly become upset with me and *I* would suddenly become the problem... that I had no sense of humor. "Screw the pain you feel, if you don't like my joke, something is wrong with you" was the message I got over and over and over again. The couple times I was seriously injured, he kept his distance and spoke to me as though nothing had happened. Until he felt he could joke with me about it.
Yes, I used that graphic before, too, but it fits so well here.
If I had a painful body symptom -- a headache or a stomach ache -- or I was scared at school, it was all a funny ridiculous joke to be made light of. He could not bring himself to face any truly authentic feeling that made him in the slightest bit uncomfortable. He was utterly inept, incapable and impotent in this regard.
This has made my view of humor distorted over the years. I do not appreciate it when people offer up humor to try to "lighten" my mood. Because it is dismissive. It is reductive. It is your own discomfort at my pain or plight that is making you do it. Your wish to "cheer me up" is actually the only thing you know how to do because you can't sit with a real emotion, like pain. So anything you can do to distract from the hardness of those feelings you will jump to do. Empathy and compassion escape you, or you are incapable, or you are afraid, or you think you have a better idea of how I should be feeling. All this is wrong. The wrong way to use humor.
Please believe me. It doesn't help to have anybody's serious feelings made into a joke, even with the best of intentions. That's like telling a terminally ill person to "think positive."
Thankfully, one of the people I admire deeply in many ways, Sandra Dodd, has a beautiful page up called "When Humor Isn't Funny" which contains of examples of ageist humor, humor used against children. Here is a quote from Sandra:
Using humor in an attempt to change someone's authentic painful or strong feelings is never right. It's dismissive at best. To children it's worse. It screams that the problem lies not with the person being joked about, but the person doing the joking. The person deliberately minimizing another person's pain.
Being able to own and sit with the pain of any person is a gift we would do well to give ourselves, all of us. Blaming and shaming are part of the humor equation here, especially when done from an adult to a child, but that goes for any human. Avoidance and dismissing via humor has taken a profound toll on our humanity. Sometimes pain is just pain and it's okay to be in pain. It doesn't require my lips curve upward to improve my situation, except to make you feel better. Ultimately, I will feel worse because you dismissed or avoided my authentic feelings, and clearly, you were way more important and "right" than I was, yeah? You see where this eliminates me from the equation entirely, and makes it all about you and how good you can feel because you made a sad person smile or laugh without ever considering their actual feelings?
Can we say lazy and self-centered here? Yeah, that about sums up how my dad did it. And unfortunately how I see many others doing it to their children now. Our kids aren't jokes, their emotions aren't jokes, their pain isn't a joke. My pain isn't a joke, either, even though it was joked about incessantly for decades.
Let's call it like it is. Let's stop lying to ourselves around this issue and let's work on being able to sit with pain, allow it to exist, to be expressed, to be validated and empathized with. Because in the case of real authentic pain, laughter means little more than discomfort from the person doing the laughing.
Those who use humor or self-deprecation are subtexting pain they have never chosen to deal with. That's fine, as long as it's about yourself and you don't extend that to others. That's your choice. It's not everybody's choice, nor should it have to be.
Most of the comedians I've met over the years are really angry hurt people. For those of us capable of sitting with pain and acknowledging it, efforts at humor (especially the type of humor that provoked laughter at other people) from people who can't come face to face with pain, strikes us as sad and terribly unfunny. And when the jokes include degrading others, those of us able to tolerate authentic pain sit and watch those of you who joke about it with a sickness in the pit of our stomachs.
Humor about another human being, at their expense, I've found, is another flag for clinical narcissism. You want humor?
Like you, dad, the perfect clinical example. You made me sick to the pit of my stomach. And I never called you on it before you died. Of course, if I had called you on it, you'd have made light of it, or minimized my observations, or become angry and told me I didn't have a sense of humor (gaslighting, also clinical). I wasn't deserving of the same seriousness you were, which solidly places you in the land of hypocrite.
This is part of what is wrong with our culture. We run from pain, we assume privilege, which means that 'if it's not my pain and I don't have anything to do with it, then it's not my problem.' That is privilege. And that is something that is an ill in our culture. Insidious and pervasive.
People say they use humor to "diffuse" a difficult or painful situation. Is diffusion of someone's pain really what we need to be doing? How does it help? It doesn't reduce the problem, it doesn't help the person who is hurting, it doesn't resolve the issues that caused the pain. It blocks it. And it elevates the person making the joke above the person being joked about. It shows avoidance and cowardice in the face of difficulty. Dad, if you couldn't joke about my pain or anger or other feelings, then you'd run away with your tail between your legs.
If you want to laugh at your own pain, go right ahead. When you laugh at mine, or attempt to make me laugh at it myself, you are crossing a boundary into an area that speaks more about your own inability to function than mine. And I will know this. And I will tell you to stop crossing this boundary. And if you cannot, my door will shut. It's really that simple.
Obviously far too simple for my father to figure out.
* * *
I recently had an interesting couple of experiences on Facebook. They weren't abusive, just misguided and lacking an understanding. But it got me to thinking about how my father used to "diffuse" and thereby diminish painful situations by inserting what he considered to be humor into them. Because showing authentic empathy wasn't something that could ever be done in my family for some reason. Because taking a child seriously was something he was utterly incapable of. We had to take him seriously, but we were jokes and the joked upon, and almost always the targets for reduction and belittlement. My dad was your perfect example of a raving double-standard-hypocrite.
My mother was better at offering a bit of sympathy (even though it was apparently only momentarily authentic, until the next time she could find something wrong with me). She held me at times, unless I was too upset, then it upset her. So she let go and experienced her own triggers around it. She yelled and got quietly very very angry instead of using humor as my father had.
But any upset, any thing that I needed to hear validation for, any pain in my body that I felt, all of it was always redirected by my father using his idea of humor. And then if I got upset at the dismissal of my feelings by my father's attempts to change them, he would instantly become upset with me and *I* would suddenly become the problem... that I had no sense of humor. "Screw the pain you feel, if you don't like my joke, something is wrong with you" was the message I got over and over and over again. The couple times I was seriously injured, he kept his distance and spoke to me as though nothing had happened. Until he felt he could joke with me about it.
Yes, I used that graphic before, too, but it fits so well here.
If I had a painful body symptom -- a headache or a stomach ache -- or I was scared at school, it was all a funny ridiculous joke to be made light of. He could not bring himself to face any truly authentic feeling that made him in the slightest bit uncomfortable. He was utterly inept, incapable and impotent in this regard.
This has made my view of humor distorted over the years. I do not appreciate it when people offer up humor to try to "lighten" my mood. Because it is dismissive. It is reductive. It is your own discomfort at my pain or plight that is making you do it. Your wish to "cheer me up" is actually the only thing you know how to do because you can't sit with a real emotion, like pain. So anything you can do to distract from the hardness of those feelings you will jump to do. Empathy and compassion escape you, or you are incapable, or you are afraid, or you think you have a better idea of how I should be feeling. All this is wrong. The wrong way to use humor.
"Lack of empathy is a trademark of narcissistic parents. Empathizing with your children is feeling what they are feeling and acknowledging those feelings. It is the art of compassion and sensitivity, as well as the ability to give moral support in whatever they are experiencing. You do not have to agree with them but you are there for them. You put aside your own feelings and thoughts for the moment and tune in to their emotional needs to attempt to understand where they are coming from and why. Instead of citing rules or trying to give advice and direction, try this empathy exercise instead." ~ by Karyl McBride, Ph.D., How Empathetic Parenting is the Antithesis of Narcissism, from "The Legacy of Distorted Love"
Please believe me. It doesn't help to have anybody's serious feelings made into a joke, even with the best of intentions. That's like telling a terminally ill person to "think positive."
Thankfully, one of the people I admire deeply in many ways, Sandra Dodd, has a beautiful page up called "When Humor Isn't Funny" which contains of examples of ageist humor, humor used against children. Here is a quote from Sandra:
"When humor exists at the expense of children's dignity and self esteem, when humor is an indicator of the jokester's true feelings about the wholeness and value and intelligence of chidren, that undermines children's worth and their chances of being seen, heard and respected as the full and important humans they are."
Using humor in an attempt to change someone's authentic painful or strong feelings is never right. It's dismissive at best. To children it's worse. It screams that the problem lies not with the person being joked about, but the person doing the joking. The person deliberately minimizing another person's pain.
Being able to own and sit with the pain of any person is a gift we would do well to give ourselves, all of us. Blaming and shaming are part of the humor equation here, especially when done from an adult to a child, but that goes for any human. Avoidance and dismissing via humor has taken a profound toll on our humanity. Sometimes pain is just pain and it's okay to be in pain. It doesn't require my lips curve upward to improve my situation, except to make you feel better. Ultimately, I will feel worse because you dismissed or avoided my authentic feelings, and clearly, you were way more important and "right" than I was, yeah? You see where this eliminates me from the equation entirely, and makes it all about you and how good you can feel because you made a sad person smile or laugh without ever considering their actual feelings?
Can we say lazy and self-centered here? Yeah, that about sums up how my dad did it. And unfortunately how I see many others doing it to their children now. Our kids aren't jokes, their emotions aren't jokes, their pain isn't a joke. My pain isn't a joke, either, even though it was joked about incessantly for decades.
Let's call it like it is. Let's stop lying to ourselves around this issue and let's work on being able to sit with pain, allow it to exist, to be expressed, to be validated and empathized with. Because in the case of real authentic pain, laughter means little more than discomfort from the person doing the laughing.
Those who use humor or self-deprecation are subtexting pain they have never chosen to deal with. That's fine, as long as it's about yourself and you don't extend that to others. That's your choice. It's not everybody's choice, nor should it have to be.
Most of the comedians I've met over the years are really angry hurt people. For those of us capable of sitting with pain and acknowledging it, efforts at humor (especially the type of humor that provoked laughter at other people) from people who can't come face to face with pain, strikes us as sad and terribly unfunny. And when the jokes include degrading others, those of us able to tolerate authentic pain sit and watch those of you who joke about it with a sickness in the pit of our stomachs.
Humor about another human being, at their expense, I've found, is another flag for clinical narcissism. You want humor?
 |
| From: https://www.facebook.com/SurvivingChronicPain?ref=br_tf |
Like you, dad, the perfect clinical example. You made me sick to the pit of my stomach. And I never called you on it before you died. Of course, if I had called you on it, you'd have made light of it, or minimized my observations, or become angry and told me I didn't have a sense of humor (gaslighting, also clinical). I wasn't deserving of the same seriousness you were, which solidly places you in the land of hypocrite.
This is part of what is wrong with our culture. We run from pain, we assume privilege, which means that 'if it's not my pain and I don't have anything to do with it, then it's not my problem.' That is privilege. And that is something that is an ill in our culture. Insidious and pervasive.
People say they use humor to "diffuse" a difficult or painful situation. Is diffusion of someone's pain really what we need to be doing? How does it help? It doesn't reduce the problem, it doesn't help the person who is hurting, it doesn't resolve the issues that caused the pain. It blocks it. And it elevates the person making the joke above the person being joked about. It shows avoidance and cowardice in the face of difficulty. Dad, if you couldn't joke about my pain or anger or other feelings, then you'd run away with your tail between your legs.
If you want to laugh at your own pain, go right ahead. When you laugh at mine, or attempt to make me laugh at it myself, you are crossing a boundary into an area that speaks more about your own inability to function than mine. And I will know this. And I will tell you to stop crossing this boundary. And if you cannot, my door will shut. It's really that simple.
Obviously far too simple for my father to figure out.
* * *
Tuesday, May 13, 2014
26 - Time to Turn the Tables and Take Control
© Miriam A. Mason
Okay, I think I have mostly finished. There might be a story or two, or a discussion or two (or three or four, whatever) left in me. But now it's time to take a-hold of the reigns of my life and steer where I want to instead of where everybody else did.
I have been skipping meditation to let this all work through. No more. Time to begin meditating again. Time to call upon myself all the goodness I deserve through Radical Self Love.
Time to awaken the sleeping child, who cowers in fear because she thinks she doesn't deserve success or safety or comfort.
I need to convince that little girl, that small me, more than anyone else. So that I can stop the panic and fear from ruling and call upon wisdom and joy.
I want to break the pattern. Not just break it, but shatter it into tiny unrecognizable pieces that I can rebuild from scratch into something beautiful, something new, something alive and authentic in this world.
I can always find ways to hate myself. But finding ways to love myself, now that is radical. That is forward thinking. That will work, as long as I can convince that small girl, who still hides under the table so much of the time.
Note to self: Loving myself, does not mean hating on others (although sometimes it feels that way, when I have conversation with my parents in my head). Loving myself means speaking to that hiding child with utter respect and love. To reach my adult hand, even knowing the world is an uncertain place, under that table and to gently coax that girl out.
Because that girl is not only hiding from all the abuse she struggled with, all the ridicule and reduction and analysis and lecturing, but she is the one who knows Who I Really Am.
She's the one who I need to love first, before I love all the other parts of me. That frightened girl, hiding under the table, hoping that nobody sees her.
I see her. I see myself. I invite her into my arms to hold her tightly. Because, even in an uncertain world, unconditional love can work miracles.
I have to love her, and then I also have to forgive her, for she was only doing the best she knew how, and it wasn't her fault the adults around her were mentally sick and that what they subjected her to wasn't her fault, either.
I embrace her tightly in my arms and cling to her, for she will also give me the answers I am looking for and cannot find.
She is Me. Okay beautiful brilliant brain cells that make my subconscious, do your thing. I want to hold that little girl, rock her gently, listen to her tears, be that emotional rock she never experienced. And I want to let her do and be exactly what she is supposed to do and be. And tell me what that is.
Meditation begins in every now. I need to look for it there.
Okay, I think I have mostly finished. There might be a story or two, or a discussion or two (or three or four, whatever) left in me. But now it's time to take a-hold of the reigns of my life and steer where I want to instead of where everybody else did.
I have been skipping meditation to let this all work through. No more. Time to begin meditating again. Time to call upon myself all the goodness I deserve through Radical Self Love.
Time to awaken the sleeping child, who cowers in fear because she thinks she doesn't deserve success or safety or comfort.
I need to convince that little girl, that small me, more than anyone else. So that I can stop the panic and fear from ruling and call upon wisdom and joy.
I want to break the pattern. Not just break it, but shatter it into tiny unrecognizable pieces that I can rebuild from scratch into something beautiful, something new, something alive and authentic in this world.
I can always find ways to hate myself. But finding ways to love myself, now that is radical. That is forward thinking. That will work, as long as I can convince that small girl, who still hides under the table so much of the time.
Note to self: Loving myself, does not mean hating on others (although sometimes it feels that way, when I have conversation with my parents in my head). Loving myself means speaking to that hiding child with utter respect and love. To reach my adult hand, even knowing the world is an uncertain place, under that table and to gently coax that girl out.
Because that girl is not only hiding from all the abuse she struggled with, all the ridicule and reduction and analysis and lecturing, but she is the one who knows Who I Really Am.
She's the one who I need to love first, before I love all the other parts of me. That frightened girl, hiding under the table, hoping that nobody sees her.
I see her. I see myself. I invite her into my arms to hold her tightly. Because, even in an uncertain world, unconditional love can work miracles.
I have to love her, and then I also have to forgive her, for she was only doing the best she knew how, and it wasn't her fault the adults around her were mentally sick and that what they subjected her to wasn't her fault, either.
I embrace her tightly in my arms and cling to her, for she will also give me the answers I am looking for and cannot find.
She is Me. Okay beautiful brilliant brain cells that make my subconscious, do your thing. I want to hold that little girl, rock her gently, listen to her tears, be that emotional rock she never experienced. And I want to let her do and be exactly what she is supposed to do and be. And tell me what that is.
Meditation begins in every now. I need to look for it there.
Wednesday, May 7, 2014
25 - The Dream, Strange Processing
©Miriam A. Mason
I was walking with my soul sister (a friend since high school), K___ home to my parents' house in the hills of Kensington, California. The steep incline up the first hill was always a lot of work. I was always sweating and tired by the top. That fact that there were more hills made the walk always seem longer. It was about a 10 long block walk home, more than half off it up quite steep hills.
K and I were talking, not sure about what, but whenever we talk, we get lost in a wonderful world of ideas and concepts. We reached the top of the first big hill and stopped for a moment to catch our breath.
As dreams do, suddenly we had my current day dogs with us, Annie and Beep. No longer were we on the hill, suddenly we were walking a long path downwards that lead to a house I've never seem before. I unlocked the door and let us in.
It was my parents' house, as I'd never known it. Not the house I was walking to before. It was a split level large condo unit, and all my parents' chachkies were on display. Suddenly they had passed away instantaneously in my dream, I was the age I am now, and it was K's and my job to go through all their stuff. The dogs had disappeared again, until we heard a whining and scratching at the door. I opened the door and there were Annie and Beep and trotted in like they knew this place that I had never seen before. I was deeply grateful for K and the dogs. Safety and love.
K and I talked a lot about the chachkies, I relayed the histories of each item I picked up and handled. Some from Mexico. Some from India. (Of course in reality, my brother kept all the truly valuable items that belonged to my parents, mainly the beautiful painted ceramic dog, which I spent more time than anybody playing with as a child, and I lived with it longer than anybody else, but because I am youngest, I get lower-ranked picks, typically. Just as my sister took the puppets that I had played with equally as she did. I got little of meaningful value from what was left over after my brother and sister picked over items, each at different times.)
I was remembering how each item came into my life. Telling the stories. K was asking questions and touching the objects with respect and honor. When suddenly I heard a key at the back door upstairs. And in came my parents. My mother wasn't really a presence even though I knew she had come in with my father. She disappeared somewhere. My father? Total presence.
He wasn't sick yet, he was young and still strong physically and mentally, and still wielding his powerful voice and presence. He was my dad, as my dad had been when I was a child. A child, playing with those chachkies, with that ceramic dog. His presence filled me up in that instant.
What confuses me is how incredibly happy and joyful I was to see him again. To have his presence fill me up like that.
Even though, moments like that were only brief in my actual childhood, it was filling when it happened.
The fact is, I do not have a lot of "good" "whole" memories of being with my father. I was with my parents longer than either my brother or sister were, yet I have the least claim, apparently, because they are older (and wealthier, money always defined importance and relevance in my family, despite their protestations to the contrary).
And yet, watching my dad walk in with his commanding presence brought up in me such a love, I wanted to throw my arms around him. I was so incredibly happy he was alive and walking into a room with me, talking, completely unaware that K and I are both now in our 50s and are a great deal more world-worn.
I think I said "Dad!" in surprise.
And then... I woke up. Feeling sadder than I have in a long long time. Tears came rolling down my cheeks as I lay in bed realizing he was really dead, all their chachkies that I had treasured are lost in the home of an unkind judgmental narcissistic brother who expects my obedience or silence... and I will never see that painted ceramic dog again. Nor the puppets. Nor my father.
Why so sad? Why the tears? And why the surprising gush of love and relief and happiness for the moment he walked into the dream?
Is this the last dregs of me mourning the loss of an unconditional love that I never experienced with either parent?
Is it that I love him unconditionally even though his love was steeply conditional? Is it that I am upset with myself for still wanting that love? Is it that I wanted the chance to tell him how much he screwed up? And that I still love him, despite what a hypocritical ivory tower bastard he was?
I know the answers to none of these questions.
I can say without a shadow of a doubt that I couldn't have picked a better person to be in the dream with me. Whatever happened in the dream, I knew that K (and my dogs) would love me, that she was capable of unconditional love, even though none of our parents were.
I am deeply confused and feeling out-of-sorts today. I guess this is one of those things I'll just have to work out over time.
But today is hurting and I am still in a state of semi shock from coming out of this vivid visual, tactile and emotional experience.
It's at times like these I wish I knew how to be a lucid dreamer.
Trusting the process, nonetheless, even while feeling incredibly uncomfortable with it at the moment.
No pictures in this blog. None would do the dream justice.
* * *
I was walking with my soul sister (a friend since high school), K___ home to my parents' house in the hills of Kensington, California. The steep incline up the first hill was always a lot of work. I was always sweating and tired by the top. That fact that there were more hills made the walk always seem longer. It was about a 10 long block walk home, more than half off it up quite steep hills.
K and I were talking, not sure about what, but whenever we talk, we get lost in a wonderful world of ideas and concepts. We reached the top of the first big hill and stopped for a moment to catch our breath.
As dreams do, suddenly we had my current day dogs with us, Annie and Beep. No longer were we on the hill, suddenly we were walking a long path downwards that lead to a house I've never seem before. I unlocked the door and let us in.
It was my parents' house, as I'd never known it. Not the house I was walking to before. It was a split level large condo unit, and all my parents' chachkies were on display. Suddenly they had passed away instantaneously in my dream, I was the age I am now, and it was K's and my job to go through all their stuff. The dogs had disappeared again, until we heard a whining and scratching at the door. I opened the door and there were Annie and Beep and trotted in like they knew this place that I had never seen before. I was deeply grateful for K and the dogs. Safety and love.
K and I talked a lot about the chachkies, I relayed the histories of each item I picked up and handled. Some from Mexico. Some from India. (Of course in reality, my brother kept all the truly valuable items that belonged to my parents, mainly the beautiful painted ceramic dog, which I spent more time than anybody playing with as a child, and I lived with it longer than anybody else, but because I am youngest, I get lower-ranked picks, typically. Just as my sister took the puppets that I had played with equally as she did. I got little of meaningful value from what was left over after my brother and sister picked over items, each at different times.)
I was remembering how each item came into my life. Telling the stories. K was asking questions and touching the objects with respect and honor. When suddenly I heard a key at the back door upstairs. And in came my parents. My mother wasn't really a presence even though I knew she had come in with my father. She disappeared somewhere. My father? Total presence.
He wasn't sick yet, he was young and still strong physically and mentally, and still wielding his powerful voice and presence. He was my dad, as my dad had been when I was a child. A child, playing with those chachkies, with that ceramic dog. His presence filled me up in that instant.
What confuses me is how incredibly happy and joyful I was to see him again. To have his presence fill me up like that.
Even though, moments like that were only brief in my actual childhood, it was filling when it happened.
The fact is, I do not have a lot of "good" "whole" memories of being with my father. I was with my parents longer than either my brother or sister were, yet I have the least claim, apparently, because they are older (and wealthier, money always defined importance and relevance in my family, despite their protestations to the contrary).
And yet, watching my dad walk in with his commanding presence brought up in me such a love, I wanted to throw my arms around him. I was so incredibly happy he was alive and walking into a room with me, talking, completely unaware that K and I are both now in our 50s and are a great deal more world-worn.
I think I said "Dad!" in surprise.
And then... I woke up. Feeling sadder than I have in a long long time. Tears came rolling down my cheeks as I lay in bed realizing he was really dead, all their chachkies that I had treasured are lost in the home of an unkind judgmental narcissistic brother who expects my obedience or silence... and I will never see that painted ceramic dog again. Nor the puppets. Nor my father.
Why so sad? Why the tears? And why the surprising gush of love and relief and happiness for the moment he walked into the dream?
Is this the last dregs of me mourning the loss of an unconditional love that I never experienced with either parent?
Is it that I love him unconditionally even though his love was steeply conditional? Is it that I am upset with myself for still wanting that love? Is it that I wanted the chance to tell him how much he screwed up? And that I still love him, despite what a hypocritical ivory tower bastard he was?
I know the answers to none of these questions.
I can say without a shadow of a doubt that I couldn't have picked a better person to be in the dream with me. Whatever happened in the dream, I knew that K (and my dogs) would love me, that she was capable of unconditional love, even though none of our parents were.
I am deeply confused and feeling out-of-sorts today. I guess this is one of those things I'll just have to work out over time.
But today is hurting and I am still in a state of semi shock from coming out of this vivid visual, tactile and emotional experience.
It's at times like these I wish I knew how to be a lucid dreamer.
Trusting the process, nonetheless, even while feeling incredibly uncomfortable with it at the moment.
No pictures in this blog. None would do the dream justice.
* * *
Tuesday, March 25, 2014
24 - The Expectation of Forgiveness
©Miriam A. Mason
[You are hereby forewarned. RANT ahead. And yes, I get to be angry if I need to be.]
I find myself being upset and frustrated with the implication of forgiveness somehow being the ultimate goal of anybody who was abused. People say it's "important to forgive" for all kinds of reasons:
To me, forgiveness and all its apparent "reasons" are but excuses to be an apologist for really bad behavior of people who should know so much better. Forgiving and forgetting is one of the biggest reasons abuse keeps on happening, and we keep finding excuses to allow it to continue. Forgiving allows us to stop dealing with the problem of the abuser in our society and what continues to produce so many of them. It makes denial very easy and has an extremely unhealthy subtext in a majority of the cases.
Forgiveness means we don't have to talk about uncomfortable things any more. Are we really that cowardly as a culture? Apparently so.
To me personally, some things are not forgivable, these are my judgments on my terms, not on yours or anybody else's. Sexual abuse from an adult to a child. This is not ever forgivable, and should not be forgivable. The onus should NEVER be on the victim to come to a place of forgiveness. Ever. An adult manipulating a child in order to fulfill his own needs, this is unforgivable. It should not be forgiven. One adult excusing, being an apologist, ignoring, or denying another adult's abuse of a child, this cannot and should NEVER be forgiven. That adult is as guilty as the abuser himself.
I can accept that my abusers were human beings who were fallible and imperfect. I can accept that my abusers were too stupid and emotionally stunted to really be aware of the damage they did. I can accept that they made mistakes. I will never forgive them for those mistakes. Because what they did was a choice on their part. A bad horrible choice. They need to own it. They never did, therefore, they will never for one second be entitled to any real forgiveness. They lived and died cowards.
This promotes continued abuse.
No way, José.
Abusers don't need apologists, excusers and acceptance for victimizing another human being. This also is backwards in our culture. Forgiveness puts the onus on the person who was attacked, on the innocent, to do all the hard work of owning their pain and then on top of that, forgiving the person who has done ZERO work to change their abuser issues. Why?
That's just more rape culture for you. Let's make all the work go onto the victim and then let's push them to forgive the sick fucks who abuse and who do nothing to change it, so our culture can feel nice and comfy, like everything is fine.
It is not fine.
And, no. I do not. I do not forgive. I will not. And I am mentally healthier, stronger and more powerful that I do not forgive, or find excuses to permit such terrible behavior, especially so that people around me can feel comfortable. I was subjected to inhuman treatment but I have forgiven them, so all is well. No, forgiveness just makes us sicker in many cases.
I am powerful in that I remember and I do not forgive the abuse. For me, forgiveness means playing right back into my abusers' hands. There were NO excuses for it. I speak it out. I tell the truth of what happened to me. There is no need to forgive what my family has done (or continues to try to do). When they own their abuses (hahahaa, that's funny), I'll consider forgiveness then. But not one nanosecond before they take ownership for their sick and abusive behaviors.
Without demanding that abusers take ownership of their abuses, the abusers just keep on abusing, because all the emphasis for the "work" that must be done post-abuse is on the abused.
What about the next person who the abuser fucks up? They have to do all the work of owning their pain and then they're also supposed to forgive the sick fuck who abused them, all the while, the abuser never owns one thing he or she did?
To forgive abuse is to excuse it on some level. There is no need to forgive abuse.
I have a friend who has suffered the most horrific kinds of abuses as a child from the two people she was supposed to be able to trust the most. She has recently discussed it with close friends. I have noticed among some of those friends that they are saying to her "you have every right not to forgive or forget."
WHAT?!?
Whose right what?
Lack of forgiveness has to be a "right?"
You know what that really means? It means, "I have judged what happened to you and have decided that you have a right to feel angry and not forgive."
Excuse me, but remove yourself from the picture, please, you were NOT there.
"You have every right not to forgive" is a lovely play on language and logic that people who say it in this way have apparently no clue they are actually saying. They are adding *their* judgment, *their* assessment on top of the person who has already been victimized. Saying such things only adds to the victim's burden; it adds in a judgment they don't need to hear. Adding your own judgment to the mix in an abusee's mind complicates and puts YOUR footprints over their efforts to recover, over their thoughts.
Witnessing does NOT equal judgment. And stating that they have rights to not forgive is judgment NOT validation. That's a profound error. You are there to witness for the abused, to validate the abused, not to add your judgment about whether or not they should forgive their abuser.
Insult to injury. Wake up and smell the shit, people. That is not cool. Take great care in how you say things to someone who has been badly abused. Many times they are so in the middle of it, they can't tell that you are throwing in your judgment, but you are NOT in the middle of it, and you should be able to tell you are throwing in your judgment about forgiveness. Keep the forgiveness word (f-word) to yourselves, eh? If that's YOUR thing, keep it that way.
There is something *profoundly* anti-victim and pro-abuser about the very phrasing of that terminology and language usage. As I said, and will say again and again, until it sinks in somewhere, the impetus becomes even more on the victim to not merely struggle through the effort to heal themselves, but then they are also expected to eventually forgive the person who made them go through it all. As though that is the end result every single time.
Bullshit. Bullshit bullshit bullshit bullshit.
No. Nobody should HAVE to have a "right" not to forgive. And nobody gets to tell the victim 1) HOW they should feel and 2) what rights YOU think they have to feel or don't have to feel.
Two of the most twisted language examples are this one, and the one that says "I don't blame you for x, y, z." Another addition of one's judgments into another's perceptions. These are expressions we should be very aware of and mindful about not employing.
Adding the words and concepts of "blame" and "the right to not forgive" sound weak and mealy mouthed and not authentic and real to me. That's not empathy, that's sympathy. These words add in extraneous judgments to an already difficult or impossible situation. Take yourself OUT of the equation and think about the abuser NOT in relation to your set of parameters. Open up to what's there, don't add more of your psychological garbage on top of it. It really isn't that hard to keep your judgments out of it. Work a little to do that. The abused are worth it a thousand fold.
Dear world, I puke forgiveness up upon you, so that you may see it for what it really is, more times than not, painful verbal barf - primarily an excuse to let abusers off the hook and put even more responsibility on the abused.
And.
Dear abusers, I will not forgive you. When you own what you did; when you speak it out loud and take *full* responsibility for doing or allowing it. When you admit it in front of everybody and you accept all the consequences that come with owning responsibility for harming another person. Then we'll discuss the possibility of forgiveness. Until then, you can get bent. I'm not helping continue your grand self-illusion so that you can abuse again and again.
And, I really wish people would stop using the phrase "you have every right not to x, y and z" for it is a loaded, unthinking, judgmental statement, regardless of any good underlying intentions, and from those who weren't even there.
You, as a witness for the abused, don't get to make those judgments. They've never been yours to make. They belong to the abused and no one else.
Examine what you say to people, really look at it, before opening your mouth. When validation and witnessing means including the word "forgive," (whether affirmatively or negatively) you are out of line. Use of that word implies expectation of that word, and all the twisted implications that go along with it. Forgiveness should only be brought up by the abused person themselves, should they choose to, and they should never be pushed by anyone to forgive their abuser. Ever
When you look up on the internet "how forgiveness hurts" you find nothing but articles on how to forgive. There is something wrong with this picture.
And something is wrong with the implied underlying meaning of "to forgive." Forgiveness is earned. If it's not you suffering the abuse, drop the forgiveness concept. You are only adding insult to injury over the long term.
* * *
[You are hereby forewarned. RANT ahead. And yes, I get to be angry if I need to be.]
I find myself being upset and frustrated with the implication of forgiveness somehow being the ultimate goal of anybody who was abused. People say it's "important to forgive" for all kinds of reasons:
- Forgiveness means "letting go."
- Forgiveness is for you, not the other person
- Forgiveness is the end result of "healing"
- Forgive and forget is healthy
- Forgiving makes everyone else feel comfortable (not spoken, but certainly true in action)
- Forgiveness brings "closure"
- Forgiveness is "Godly"
- etc. etc. etc, blah, blah, blah, spew spew spew...
"In my family, the very act of unforgiveness is an extortion of my soul," declares Sandy Katz, a psychotherapist. "It endorses what they did, which was to deny the truth and pressure me to sacrifice myself. For me not to forgive my brother at my parents' behest is my self-affirmation."
Sandy's parents had looked the other way when her violent bully of an older brother thrust a screwdriver up her rectum--even when he set her on fire.
"Afterward they didn't leave tools or matches lying around, but they never acknowledged what he did to me. He continued to behave this way and they continued to insist that I submit; my mother would say, 'He's just trying to get close to you because he doesn't know how to be friends.' She'd confuse me by saying it was all out of love, and I had no recourse."
~ From "Must You Forgive? Sometimes it's Healthier Not to Forgive," by Jeanne Shafer, June, 2012
To me, forgiveness and all its apparent "reasons" are but excuses to be an apologist for really bad behavior of people who should know so much better. Forgiving and forgetting is one of the biggest reasons abuse keeps on happening, and we keep finding excuses to allow it to continue. Forgiving allows us to stop dealing with the problem of the abuser in our society and what continues to produce so many of them. It makes denial very easy and has an extremely unhealthy subtext in a majority of the cases.
Forgiveness means we don't have to talk about uncomfortable things any more. Are we really that cowardly as a culture? Apparently so.
 |
| Source: https://www.facebook.com/ |
To me personally, some things are not forgivable, these are my judgments on my terms, not on yours or anybody else's. Sexual abuse from an adult to a child. This is not ever forgivable, and should not be forgivable. The onus should NEVER be on the victim to come to a place of forgiveness. Ever. An adult manipulating a child in order to fulfill his own needs, this is unforgivable. It should not be forgiven. One adult excusing, being an apologist, ignoring, or denying another adult's abuse of a child, this cannot and should NEVER be forgiven. That adult is as guilty as the abuser himself.
 |
| Source: https://www.facebook.com/emergingfrombroken/photos_stream |
The Bottom Line
Forgiveness has to be earned and it’s totally OK not to forgive someone.
There is no ‘should’ – you can choose to forgive or not, whoever is concerned.
There is such a thing as unforgiveable.
Pretending there isn’t is doing ourselves a disservice.
~From "Why Forgiveness is Overrated," by Hannah, Becoming Who You Are, June 2010
I can accept that my abusers were human beings who were fallible and imperfect. I can accept that my abusers were too stupid and emotionally stunted to really be aware of the damage they did. I can accept that they made mistakes. I will never forgive them for those mistakes. Because what they did was a choice on their part. A bad horrible choice. They need to own it. They never did, therefore, they will never for one second be entitled to any real forgiveness. They lived and died cowards.
'From what I have gleaned over 56 years of life – and a little less than half of them on radio – it is one of the most overused concepts in dealing with so-called “wrongdoers” or folks who perpetrate outright evil. It depowers the innocent and empowers the not-so-innocent. The basic premise of “forgiveness” is always explained by a listener as a means of “letting go” of the pain and rage so that one can have a serene life. Well, my friends, I have a real problem playing with fire just because it makes one “feel better."Forgiving abusers lets them off the hook (and makes everyone else feel comfortable). Forgetting makes it even more possible for people just like them to justify abusing again ("oh look, she forgave them, so we must be okay, and we can just go on doing it again").
[...]
'She’d spent so many years trying to follow the mantra that you should forgive and will attain peace. To do that she had to deny the reality of the truth, of the damage to her, of the loss of her childhood, of the work she was still doing to recover and survive as a normal person with a life she could enjoy and make meaningful.' ~ "Don't Be So Quick To Forgive," WNT Commentary, 10/14/2003
This promotes continued abuse.
No way, José.
Abusers don't need apologists, excusers and acceptance for victimizing another human being. This also is backwards in our culture. Forgiveness puts the onus on the person who was attacked, on the innocent, to do all the hard work of owning their pain and then on top of that, forgiving the person who has done ZERO work to change their abuser issues. Why?
That's just more rape culture for you. Let's make all the work go onto the victim and then let's push them to forgive the sick fucks who abuse and who do nothing to change it, so our culture can feel nice and comfy, like everything is fine.
It is not fine.
"But before you can forgive somebody, there has to be an acknowledgement of transgression. They have to be able to say to you, you know what? I really screwed up. I did a terrible thing, and I'm so sorry. I don't even know how I can repair it. I mean, at least that's a starting point. But to ask somebody who is the victim of abuse to simply give a carte blanche forgiveness, is a psychologically meaningless and potentially, really harmful task to set them."
~Dr. Richard Friedman, From "Forgiveness Isn't All It's Cracked Up To Be," interview by Michel Martin, 2013
And, no. I do not. I do not forgive. I will not. And I am mentally healthier, stronger and more powerful that I do not forgive, or find excuses to permit such terrible behavior, especially so that people around me can feel comfortable. I was subjected to inhuman treatment but I have forgiven them, so all is well. No, forgiveness just makes us sicker in many cases.
I am powerful in that I remember and I do not forgive the abuse. For me, forgiveness means playing right back into my abusers' hands. There were NO excuses for it. I speak it out. I tell the truth of what happened to me. There is no need to forgive what my family has done (or continues to try to do). When they own their abuses (hahahaa, that's funny), I'll consider forgiveness then. But not one nanosecond before they take ownership for their sick and abusive behaviors.
Without demanding that abusers take ownership of their abuses, the abusers just keep on abusing, because all the emphasis for the "work" that must be done post-abuse is on the abused.
What about the next person who the abuser fucks up? They have to do all the work of owning their pain and then they're also supposed to forgive the sick fuck who abused them, all the while, the abuser never owns one thing he or she did?
To forgive abuse is to excuse it on some level. There is no need to forgive abuse.
I have a friend who has suffered the most horrific kinds of abuses as a child from the two people she was supposed to be able to trust the most. She has recently discussed it with close friends. I have noticed among some of those friends that they are saying to her "you have every right not to forgive or forget."
WHAT?!?
Whose right what?
Lack of forgiveness has to be a "right?"
You know what that really means? It means, "I have judged what happened to you and have decided that you have a right to feel angry and not forgive."
Excuse me, but remove yourself from the picture, please, you were NOT there.
"You have every right not to forgive" is a lovely play on language and logic that people who say it in this way have apparently no clue they are actually saying. They are adding *their* judgment, *their* assessment on top of the person who has already been victimized. Saying such things only adds to the victim's burden; it adds in a judgment they don't need to hear. Adding your own judgment to the mix in an abusee's mind complicates and puts YOUR footprints over their efforts to recover, over their thoughts.
'Automatic forgiveness, false forgiveness and forgiveness lite, and their counterpart pseudo-contrition, are currently fashionable, and are often mistaken for the real thing. A form of marital counseling its founders have labelled “Forgiveness Therapy” starts with a full (detailed!) confession by the adulterous spouse and immediate assurances of absolution by the cuckolded one.'
~ "Sometimes It's Perfectly OK Not To Forgive," by Jeanne Safer, PhD, The Punch, Australia
Witnessing does NOT equal judgment. And stating that they have rights to not forgive is judgment NOT validation. That's a profound error. You are there to witness for the abused, to validate the abused, not to add your judgment about whether or not they should forgive their abuser.
Insult to injury. Wake up and smell the shit, people. That is not cool. Take great care in how you say things to someone who has been badly abused. Many times they are so in the middle of it, they can't tell that you are throwing in your judgment, but you are NOT in the middle of it, and you should be able to tell you are throwing in your judgment about forgiveness. Keep the forgiveness word (f-word) to yourselves, eh? If that's YOUR thing, keep it that way.
 |
| Source: https://www.facebook.com/emergingfrombroken/photos_stream |
There is something *profoundly* anti-victim and pro-abuser about the very phrasing of that terminology and language usage. As I said, and will say again and again, until it sinks in somewhere, the impetus becomes even more on the victim to not merely struggle through the effort to heal themselves, but then they are also expected to eventually forgive the person who made them go through it all. As though that is the end result every single time.
Bullshit. Bullshit bullshit bullshit bullshit.
 |
| Source: https://www.facebook.com/emergingfrombroken/photos_stream |
No. Nobody should HAVE to have a "right" not to forgive. And nobody gets to tell the victim 1) HOW they should feel and 2) what rights YOU think they have to feel or don't have to feel.
Two of the most twisted language examples are this one, and the one that says "I don't blame you for x, y, z." Another addition of one's judgments into another's perceptions. These are expressions we should be very aware of and mindful about not employing.
Adding the words and concepts of "blame" and "the right to not forgive" sound weak and mealy mouthed and not authentic and real to me. That's not empathy, that's sympathy. These words add in extraneous judgments to an already difficult or impossible situation. Take yourself OUT of the equation and think about the abuser NOT in relation to your set of parameters. Open up to what's there, don't add more of your psychological garbage on top of it. It really isn't that hard to keep your judgments out of it. Work a little to do that. The abused are worth it a thousand fold.
Dear world, I puke forgiveness up upon you, so that you may see it for what it really is, more times than not, painful verbal barf - primarily an excuse to let abusers off the hook and put even more responsibility on the abused.
And.
Dear abusers, I will not forgive you. When you own what you did; when you speak it out loud and take *full* responsibility for doing or allowing it. When you admit it in front of everybody and you accept all the consequences that come with owning responsibility for harming another person. Then we'll discuss the possibility of forgiveness. Until then, you can get bent. I'm not helping continue your grand self-illusion so that you can abuse again and again.
And, I really wish people would stop using the phrase "you have every right not to x, y and z" for it is a loaded, unthinking, judgmental statement, regardless of any good underlying intentions, and from those who weren't even there.
You, as a witness for the abused, don't get to make those judgments. They've never been yours to make. They belong to the abused and no one else.
Examine what you say to people, really look at it, before opening your mouth. When validation and witnessing means including the word "forgive," (whether affirmatively or negatively) you are out of line. Use of that word implies expectation of that word, and all the twisted implications that go along with it. Forgiveness should only be brought up by the abused person themselves, should they choose to, and they should never be pushed by anyone to forgive their abuser. Ever
When you look up on the internet "how forgiveness hurts" you find nothing but articles on how to forgive. There is something wrong with this picture.
And something is wrong with the implied underlying meaning of "to forgive." Forgiveness is earned. If it's not you suffering the abuse, drop the forgiveness concept. You are only adding insult to injury over the long term.
* * *
Monday, March 10, 2014
23 - How Much Is Enough?
©Miriam A. Mason
I find myself asking that a lot these days. I was talking with a close friend who also suffered from terrible abuse as a child and she asked this question as well. When she said it, it just rang bells. Neither of us knew an answer. But at least we shared the feeling. Because it just isn't feeling like whatever it is, talking, reading, processing, writing, sharing, pushing oneself out of the comfort zone, is ever going to finally be enough to put this thing down.
But how do you put down your life? Your past experiences? How do you release them into the ether in order to set yourself completely free? Is there such a thing as completely free?
I have noticed many people fill their minds with "good" and "positive" things, try to notice all the goodness in the world and I find I truly enjoy that at times, too. But there are times when the pain is too great, and I'm unable to fill myself with good things. The angry hurt child inside is still feeling out of control and very upset.
I don't think she wants revenge, but I do think she is wanting me to keep speaking the Truth, her Truth. Her Story. My Story. I don't think she's ready yet to let it go. It is part of the fabric of her life, woven into her experiences and she wears those threads even though they hurt her still. How can one wear the threads of their experiences and not feel them keenly any more? Can they be shed at all?
What can I do that is more than I am already doing to help this child, who got pounded by the waves of an ocean of narcissism she was powerless to prevent?
Sometimes, I feel we fill ourselves with the beautiful things so we don't have to look at and examine the pain. And deep inside I feel upset and angry and minimized when the pain is ignored, or supposed to be suppressed so everybody else can feel comfortable. I was never comfortable as a child, my comfort was not a variable in the equation. Why ever should everybody else's comfort be more important than my own?
Pain feels like part of the tapestry of the whole being and to be honest and authentic and vulnerable, the pain must be worn along with the joy. That feels more authentic to me. Or... is that my father's-I'm-a-suffering-poet speaking? I don't think so. I think that to deny either side of ourselves is an error -- my father denied his joy, and coveted his pain. To covet only the joy and not speak of the pain feels equally unbalanced to me. To love ourselves in our pain is at least as important as it is to love ourselves in our joy. And it is much much harder.
And then there is the question of validation. How much validation will be needed to fill a cup that feels it will continually find ways to spill itself over, knock itself down, or run out from neglect?
How much will be enough? And from whom? I'd prefer to be able to look to myself for validation, but it is not how my brain has been trained to function.
So, I need to start validating myself as much as possible, and then some little part of my brain says, "but oh, Miriam, watch out, because that can be narcissistic, when you have TOO much faith in yourself." And that little voice, that bit of self doubt, is two sided, it is. One side is convinced the voice keeps me mindful and reminds me that I'm neither more important or more deserving of respect than those smaller and weaker than myself. The other part of it pokes at me like my father would, saying, "don't be too sure of yourself, beware hubris, watch out for too much self-assurance, it's a bad thing."
I want to scream when these inner voices start having these conversations in my head without my permission; and tell them all to just shut the hell up for once. Let me listen to my heart. What does my heart say to me?
It says be kind, especially to those who are weaker than you are (see, dad, I could figure this out without having to constantly second guess myself, fancy that you old fart). It says remember, and honor all of you, including the angry little girl who sits in the corner of my brain feeling bad so much of the time. It says love her. Love her as much as you love your own children. She is as deserving as they are.
So, the voice telling me not to be too self-assured, that's the bullshit one. That's the father voice, the one that makes me second guess myself all the time. The one that assumed I would be too stupid on my own to figure out how to treat people properly if I was self-assured. (Pardon the French, but fuck off, Dad's voice.)
There are people who genuinely believe it is noble to suffer in silence, not to speak about their physical and/or mental issues. This is what my dad did. It didn't help him at all. I don't buy into that position even a little bit. Silence in my life only further deepened the wounds I felt, and made worse my experiences of growing up. Because a person speaks out about their illness or their personal experiences, this is not ignoble. Quite the contrary. It is very noble and courageous and scary and demands of others to discard their discomfort and look at real life. Whether or not they are able to do that is a reflection of them, fully. There will always be those who suffer in silence. I am no longer one of them. I will try very hard to no longer feel that bit of self-doubt around speaking Truths and being authentic just to make someone else feel more comfortable.
Some people even define anger as an un-useful emotion. In my mind, there are no un-useful emotions. If we deny some part of our emotional selves, it will come out of us in other ways. We will act out in ways we cannot explain. Anger truly is a cover for fear. Fear is a lot more scary to feel. To admit to feeling. But it is almost always the deeper emotional force behind anger. Once you realize that, then anger can be a sign to seek out what is making you afraid. This is empowering, and it means you are listening to your authentic inner self, rather than holding up a flimsy and unrealistic image for the world to be agog about ("I never feel anger" is untruthful at best from any human being).
There are no un-useful emotions. Only un-useful ways in which to cope with them. And, to me, anyway, defining something as un-useful is another sign of some sort of denial and dysfunction.
Yes, when we focus on joy, we can experience more joy! There is no denying this and that is a lovely and wonderful thing, but when we deny the full range of our human emotions, we are denying a part of our authentic selves. And to heal, one must stop the denial.
My friends (and some intuitive strangers) know that they can tell me the really awful stuff that happened to them and I will be okay with them and with what they tell me. I think maybe we need some more people who can hear and validate the awful stuff in this world.
So... maybe I *am* making progress here. Even if I can't see it directly, or don't feel it in more than tiny shifts. I'm actually feeling here and now that I have valid and important observations. And that feels pretty damn good.
* * *
I find myself asking that a lot these days. I was talking with a close friend who also suffered from terrible abuse as a child and she asked this question as well. When she said it, it just rang bells. Neither of us knew an answer. But at least we shared the feeling. Because it just isn't feeling like whatever it is, talking, reading, processing, writing, sharing, pushing oneself out of the comfort zone, is ever going to finally be enough to put this thing down.
But how do you put down your life? Your past experiences? How do you release them into the ether in order to set yourself completely free? Is there such a thing as completely free?
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| Source: The Organic Sister |
I have noticed many people fill their minds with "good" and "positive" things, try to notice all the goodness in the world and I find I truly enjoy that at times, too. But there are times when the pain is too great, and I'm unable to fill myself with good things. The angry hurt child inside is still feeling out of control and very upset.
I don't think she wants revenge, but I do think she is wanting me to keep speaking the Truth, her Truth. Her Story. My Story. I don't think she's ready yet to let it go. It is part of the fabric of her life, woven into her experiences and she wears those threads even though they hurt her still. How can one wear the threads of their experiences and not feel them keenly any more? Can they be shed at all?
What can I do that is more than I am already doing to help this child, who got pounded by the waves of an ocean of narcissism she was powerless to prevent?
Sometimes, I feel we fill ourselves with the beautiful things so we don't have to look at and examine the pain. And deep inside I feel upset and angry and minimized when the pain is ignored, or supposed to be suppressed so everybody else can feel comfortable. I was never comfortable as a child, my comfort was not a variable in the equation. Why ever should everybody else's comfort be more important than my own?
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| Source: Emerging From Broken |
And then there is the question of validation. How much validation will be needed to fill a cup that feels it will continually find ways to spill itself over, knock itself down, or run out from neglect?
How much will be enough? And from whom? I'd prefer to be able to look to myself for validation, but it is not how my brain has been trained to function.
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| Source: https://www.facebook.com/pages/After-Narcissistic-Abuse-There-is-Light-Life-Love/114835348601442 |
So, I need to start validating myself as much as possible, and then some little part of my brain says, "but oh, Miriam, watch out, because that can be narcissistic, when you have TOO much faith in yourself." And that little voice, that bit of self doubt, is two sided, it is. One side is convinced the voice keeps me mindful and reminds me that I'm neither more important or more deserving of respect than those smaller and weaker than myself. The other part of it pokes at me like my father would, saying, "don't be too sure of yourself, beware hubris, watch out for too much self-assurance, it's a bad thing."
I want to scream when these inner voices start having these conversations in my head without my permission; and tell them all to just shut the hell up for once. Let me listen to my heart. What does my heart say to me?
It says be kind, especially to those who are weaker than you are (see, dad, I could figure this out without having to constantly second guess myself, fancy that you old fart). It says remember, and honor all of you, including the angry little girl who sits in the corner of my brain feeling bad so much of the time. It says love her. Love her as much as you love your own children. She is as deserving as they are.
 |
| Source: https://www.facebook.com/pages/After-Narcissistic-Abuse-There-is-Light-Life-Love/114835348601442 |
There are people who genuinely believe it is noble to suffer in silence, not to speak about their physical and/or mental issues. This is what my dad did. It didn't help him at all. I don't buy into that position even a little bit. Silence in my life only further deepened the wounds I felt, and made worse my experiences of growing up. Because a person speaks out about their illness or their personal experiences, this is not ignoble. Quite the contrary. It is very noble and courageous and scary and demands of others to discard their discomfort and look at real life. Whether or not they are able to do that is a reflection of them, fully. There will always be those who suffer in silence. I am no longer one of them. I will try very hard to no longer feel that bit of self-doubt around speaking Truths and being authentic just to make someone else feel more comfortable.
 |
| Source: https://www.facebook.com/pages/After-Narcissistic-Abuse-There-is-Light-Life-Love/114835348601442 |
Some people even define anger as an un-useful emotion. In my mind, there are no un-useful emotions. If we deny some part of our emotional selves, it will come out of us in other ways. We will act out in ways we cannot explain. Anger truly is a cover for fear. Fear is a lot more scary to feel. To admit to feeling. But it is almost always the deeper emotional force behind anger. Once you realize that, then anger can be a sign to seek out what is making you afraid. This is empowering, and it means you are listening to your authentic inner self, rather than holding up a flimsy and unrealistic image for the world to be agog about ("I never feel anger" is untruthful at best from any human being).
There are no un-useful emotions. Only un-useful ways in which to cope with them. And, to me, anyway, defining something as un-useful is another sign of some sort of denial and dysfunction.
Yes, when we focus on joy, we can experience more joy! There is no denying this and that is a lovely and wonderful thing, but when we deny the full range of our human emotions, we are denying a part of our authentic selves. And to heal, one must stop the denial.
 |
| Source: https://www.facebook.com/pages/After-Narcissistic-Abuse-There-is-Light-Life-Love/114835348601442 |
My friends (and some intuitive strangers) know that they can tell me the really awful stuff that happened to them and I will be okay with them and with what they tell me. I think maybe we need some more people who can hear and validate the awful stuff in this world.
So... maybe I *am* making progress here. Even if I can't see it directly, or don't feel it in more than tiny shifts. I'm actually feeling here and now that I have valid and important observations. And that feels pretty damn good.
* * *
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