My blog is too colorful
I was sitting here playing with my blog and rewriting the code and whatnot for who knows what reason. Its not like I have information to hand out, or things to download. Although, I could probably make up an excuse or two to use my new shiny red boxes. The point is, I’m proud to have integrated colored text boxes that serve absolutely no purpose.
Note: If I were to feel the need to note something, I would note it here. Note to self: Begin noting things.
Info: Information boxes contain information, but I can’t guarantee informative information.
Alert: Alert boxes contain alerts that would hopefully alert you to something alerting.
Green Boxes: Green boxes are green. I don’t know what to do with the green boxes. Perhaps I’ll offer gardening tips. I’ve killed many a plant through neglect in my time.
But after all my hard work, I couldn’t help but realize it makes my blog a bit too colorful. It’s already at the limit as it is. Even the gray is bugging me, and I’m contemplating just how I might go about removing some of the color out of it. If I were to follow my thoughts through to the end, I predict I might end up with a black screen.
Anyways, I don’t know much about Rainbow Brite, but I know she shits rainbows and apparently spends her time fighting Muppets who want to suck the color out of the world. What I didn’t know was, that if she existed, I’d be her mortal enemy.
Wolves among sheep
Alert: If you have a personality disorder or mental illness of your own you may not want to read on. This an account of my relationship with a mentally disordered person and isn’t very pretty.
By far the abuse that affected me the most in my life came from one the most unsuspecting of places. It was an unfulfilled promise of love, compassion, and companionship from a long time friend. Apart form sending me into a deep depression and adding symptoms of post traumatic stress to my abundant issues, it also damaged my innocence and faith in humanity. I’d always assumed that compassion was a trait of all mankind. I assumed people were around for support, to protect, and to lift you up when you are down. I couldn’t have been more wrong. Some prefer to keep you down.
I got involved with my ex girlfriend, like many others, because the environment she is in often creates the illusion that she needs to be rescued. Indeed she does need help, but most of her conflicts are of her own doing. The first red flag that something was seriously wrong was the pathological lying. She lied about anything and everything even if it defied all logic. The second red flag was that she made a habit of sexually harassing men and setting them up to be hurt. She strategically and purposefully set men against each other and would sit back to watch the chaos ensue. She lied to and about those she proclaimed friends and abused them. I watched her repeatedly berate and belittle one of them in public, telling everyone he was a liar and that he was ugly, and that she “hated his face.” She often told others that I abused her and that I was paranoid. She called all her friends liars behind their backs. The biggest red flag of all was that not once in five years did I ever see her experience guilt or compassion for another human being. There was none.
It went against my better judgment, but I thought I could help her break this never ending cycle. At the surface it appeared that I did. She got new employment and earned a degree. For the most part she toned down the behavior of manipulating men, and she started treating her mother with respect and had a relationship with her family. She didn’t, however, stop looking for new ways to cause people discomfort and pain or new ways to manipulate me. She never stopped lying, she never stopped being abusive, and she never developed a conscience. She just took it from being public and directed it at me privately and covertly. The psychological warfare she used seemed endless and it kept me down, powerless, and isolated. She’d smear my reputation, endanger my job, and constantly violate my rights and privacy. I was literally held hostage on many occasions and not allowed to leave, with a fear that calling the cops would result in false accusations of a beating. She’d block the door, or my car, or lay in the street or cling to my hood. Leaving wasn’t an option, especially with my own guilt involved and used as a weapon.
She intentionally lied to cause pain, and was certain to make sure that I never trusted her and that I’d always be worried about infidelity. What I initially thought was a bad liar was a person who actually wanted to make me think she was cheating. Sexual frustration was one of her favorite tools. She’d been known to seduce men, even me, with a promise for more and then refuse. She’d use it as an excuse to make men think they only thought of sex and that they were pushing or forcing sex on her, but it was deliberate act meant to confuse and confound people. She had no qualms about promising marriage or proclaiming love if it would allow her to get something she wanted. She was a bully who never compromised, and made her way through life with threats and intimidation. When I finally told her how I saw it, she admitted that she didn’t enjoy herself unless she was screwing somebody over. She creates problems, and projects the blame.
Eventually I came to the conclusion that someone with such severe mental problems can only help themselves and moved on. Nobody’s going to change if they are happy the way they are and see nothing wrong with what they are doing. Besides, there comes a time when you’ve exhausted all resources and you have to start taking care of yourself. I started doing research and eventually found some support groups for people like me. Before I reached that place I just found her behavior bizarre and unexplainable, but afterwards I found a plethora of people who had experienced the exact same things. The lying, the chaos, the manipulation, were all forms of narcissistic abuse and was more common than I had ever realized. I was not crazy or paranoid, and I was no longer alone. Despite what others may say, being mentally ill shouldn’t give you a free pass to wreak havoc on those around you and be abusive. Its okay to feel bad.
I was disappointed she made so little progress in our relationship, but even more distressed to see the turn her life took after we went our separate ways. Her new partner encouraged self harm like it was a sexual game. She became pregnant not long after and touted on the internet that it was experiment and that she hated children and intended to use it as a slave. She never found employment, and had the baby in a bathtub alone with no medical supervision. She gave the baby seven ridiculous names, and touts that she will never be allowed to call her “mother.” Despite the outrageous outbursts she garnered much support from the internet and those around her who seemed not to question the bizarre behavior, or the complete lack of concern for anybody involved but herself. They tend to make excuses instead, denying and rationalizing, until things get completely out of control.
Not long after, she was temporarily placed in a mental institution after her ego got a little out of hand. She decided all the medical needs of the family would be taken on by her, including performing surgeries. Her fiancé high tailed it with the baby after she decided she was going to perform a vasectomy on him against his will. Soon after CPS swooped in and took the baby and thats about where the story ends. I have no doubts that shes more interested in going out and partying and clubbing and proud of herself that she is still able to cause so much difficulty in others peoples lives. Rumor has it they are going to give it another go. I hope they learn to set limits and boundaries for everybody’s sake, because despite her sadistic urges, she could certainly use a stable force in her life. She wasn’t that delusional before. Regardless, it is not possible to form a healthy relationship with a person when love is not involved. Anything else is a lie.
Eventually, I found my peace and forgave her despite her not being sorry. I’m reluctant to talk about the pain it caused because I know somewhere inside she’d delight in knowing that she damaged me, and I remember how angry forgiveness made her. She doesn’t want you to get over it, after all. Love and compassion just seem to bring out the worst of the defenses of whatever disorder she may have. She wears the mask of sanity, and any attempt to remove it results in another enemy thats deserving of much punishment. I do not regret trying, though. As futile as it was, I did my best and I hope she finds peace as I did.
Wild Turkeys
I might as well write about my father as long as I’m on a roll of reliving my childhood and triggering myself with unhappy memories. I wish I could write about something positive and uplifting, but I might might have to wade through a lifetime of negativity before I can reach those parts of me. I think once I work my way backwards through an awkward life I might do a better job at being able to move forward.
I remember my father as an alcoholic who passed out on the couch in front of the TV and did little more than make people misrable. I don’t even understand myself why the man filled me with such angst and hatred. He didn’t yell or beat us, but being in his presence made us all feel unworthy and devalued. He was narcissistic and controlling, and he used his authority as a father to manipulate us and not love us. The toxicity he created made me fear leaving my room to even go to the restroom or visit the fridge. My mother used to sit outside in her car and drive in circles just waiting for him to fall asleep so she could come home. He was angry and bitter, and we were constantly being punished for every perceived slight. We weren’t deserving of love and support or privacy; we needed to be taught a lesson.
To add to the disorders running through my family tree, he also had an obsessive compulsive hoarding disorder. He visited garage sales frequently and collected garbage like it was treasure. Junk filled every room of the house and the school kids used to refer to us as Sanford and Son. There were heaps of boxes from floor to ceiling full of old jars and pots and pans and discarded shoes. Entire rooms and garages were dedicated to junk, and it lined the hallways and tables from the floor to the ceiling. My mother used to smuggle out boxes to the trash in revenge, but my father was so obsessed with it all he’d notice if it had been touched. It spilled out into his truck and the yard. We were embarrassed, and the neighbors complained. I would not dare invite people over to my house. My father loved his porn and his horde more than his family, and I often feel that we were just a nuisance keeping him from his true interests: Junk, porn, and prostitutes.
He eventually died from heart complications at a very young age, but we all know he drank himself to death. He managed to do it on my birthday of all days, and if I thought about it I wouldn’t doubt he did it on purpose; but I don’t think about it. Another bizarre reaction from me, but I didn’t cry. His passing was a giant weight lifted off my shoulders and a big relief. Afterwards I was haunted by dreams that he was still alive and bothering me, and I’d awake full of anxiety and very thankful that it was just a dream and I didn’t have to deal with it anymore. I wonder if that makes me cold and heartless?
A day in the life
My brother had issues all his own. I witnessed many an angry outburst. He was kicked out numerous times after the age of sixteen, but he’d eventually be allowed back in to stay. My brother dabbled with marijuana, alcohol, and eventually started smoking crack. If my family left the house there was a good chance one of my fathers guns or VCR’s would find its way into a pawn shop.
Despite my brothers bad behavior, which he is solely responsible for, I couldn’t help but notice my parents behavior went beyond normal discipline. My mother would go off on one of her rages and nag and my brother would yell back until he eventually lost all control. The yelling and screaming between my mother and brother would often erupt in violence. My brother would come storming out of his room and start flinging his body against the wall or fall down on the floor. He’d start punching holes in the wall, breaking pictures and vases, and would hurl anything that wasn’t tied down across the room. He’d leave after the cops were called, only to return in the middle of the night to steal something for a drug binge or worse. There was a time he gathered up a friend and came back to hurl bricks and rocks through all the windows. He’d often spend some time in jail until my parents would drop the charges.
The defining moment was the morning my brother and mother fought over the cat. It resulted in my brother threatening my mother and eventually trying to choke my father. My father got a loaded pistol and told my brother he needed to leave, but that ended with my brother taking a bullet in the gut. My mother grabbed me by the arm and dragged me down the street while my father called an ambulance. My brother survived without much damage, but I’m not so sure I did.
Despite the serious dysfunction in my childhood home, I’m starting to notice something odd about my own behavior while witnessing it all. It was just another day in the family, and I didn’t seemed phased by it. My goal that morning was to get my clothes washed and dried before I had to go to school. I wasn’t struck with fear. I wasn’t in a panic. I didn’t cry. I was just going about my life, carrying loads of laundry from my room and weaving in and out past a bunch of angry people while ducking flying phones and lamps. I just thought I was tough kid, but somebody mentioned to me that its a very strange reaction that I ought to examine the events closer. I had gained an interesting story to tell, and most of all I had an excuse not to go to school that day.
Some relatives told me to be strong for my father because he needed me to be and needed my support. I don’t remember anyone being all that concerned about me. My school counselor called me into his office to mention it, but we didn’t talk much about it. I told him I was used to it, and didn’t really care all that much. I didn’t. Everybody seemed to think I had no bad feelings about it and sent me on my way, but I think it was the lack of emotions I expressed that may have been a significant indicator that something about me wasn’t right. I was woudned, and my disorders were hard at work protecting me from the chaos and trying to let me lead a stress free happy life. They served me well, or so I thought. I didn’t realize how disconnected and withdrawn I had always been. I didn’t know how alone I was through it all. I didn’t know there was anything different about me at all.
My mother’s rage
The following posts contains memories of verbal and emotional abuse. If you are triggered by reading about abuse, you might not want to continue on.
The roots of my disorders most likely come from my childhood, which might explain why I rarely think about it. My earliest memories seem to revolve around an intense need to be alone because it was the only time I felt safe. It was a time to dream and play, and I’d gather up my stuffed animals and enact strange scenarios for a child. There’d be a forest fire and I’d sacrifice my life to save them all. After all, people have to love and recognize you after you’re dead. Thats the lesson my childhood taught me.
My time alone would be interrupted often. It might be a distant sound of a neighbor’s car pulling into the driveway, or a slamming car door, or the sound of keys jingling and unlocking the front door. Make believe was over and it was time to deal with fear. I’d jolt from my room to the front window blinds and peek out to assess the situation. If I was lucky it was a neighbor or my brother or father coming home. I could continue to dream. My day was spent playing and checking the blinds after every sound, of which there were many. But eventually, every single day, I’d look out that window and see what I dreaded most. I’d see my mothers car parked outside.
I’d hide in the bathroom and lock the door, or I’d run to my room and pretend I was asleep. I’d do anything to delay the inevitable rage of my mother, but day after day I learned that eventually I would piss my mother off. I might have told a lie, or I might have made a mess with my toys. I’d even get in trouble for things she did herself. As an adult looking back, I think I can see that it didn’t matter what I did. There was no escape.
My mother would yell at me for hours on end every day. I remember her face would turn bright red and contort in anger and spit would fly out of her mouth as she leaned in and screamed in my face. She’d slam the cabinets and she’d slam the doors. She flung my toys around the room and at me. Eventually she’d calm down and go to her room. She might get on the phone, or she might go to sleep. Often though, she would come storming out five minutes later and do it all over again. I don’t even remember what it was she yelled about, or why. I just remember it made me wonder why nobody loved or cared about me. I remember going to bed every night in tears.
It usually ended when another family member came home, though she sometimes stopped on her own. She’d call me into her room and maybe apologize for yelling so much. She’d hug me and tell me she loved me, and explain to me why something I did caused her to act the way she did. Even as a child I recognized the fallacy in her logic. She was going to get angry and yell at me even if I followed the instructions that she laid out.
I imagine that like everybody else I thought it was a normal way of life. I didn’t know I was abused, but looking back on it with adult eyes I can now see the verbal and emotional abuse. My mother was out of control and there was something very disturbing about her behavior. Growing up to bigger and louder than her was the only thing to put an end to it. They say a temper runs through my family line, but I don’t buy it. As far as abuse goes, it ends with me.
Isolation
My heart dreams of being far from society. I dream about being far away from stress, worries, responsibilities, bills, landlords, and neighbors. I’d trade my last dime, my computer, and even my Playstation 3 to be far away from this rat race that everyone else participates in. There is little I’d miss about society, and thats an extreme understatement. I suppose this attests to a narcissistic nature about me, but I’d have no reservations about leaving life or family behind. Its always been my desire to escape it all. I don’t see starving to death in a freezing cabin out the woods any less desirable to the world I live in now.
Subconsciously, I think it goes even deeper. It’s most likely my emotions that I seek to escape. I resent the world around me for constantly putting me in a position where I have to face those feelings, when what I desire is to feel nothing at all. Emotions feel like death, which is why my mind has mastered the art of rarely feeling anything at all. If I’m a schizoid, then that is the sole purpose of my disorder. Most of all its myself that I wish to escape, but as the saying goes; Wherever you go, there you are.
So is healing possible? How do you overcome something when your entire character has been designed to prevent it? Everything required to get better is everything I seek strongly to avoid. All I have is the insight to recognize the damage and a desire to not be outsmarted by my own mind. Other than that, I’m basically fighting a battle to gain something I don’t really want at all. What I want is to just fade away. What I don’t want it to open up and let people in. I don’t even know what is that keeps me going, but I’m glad its there nonetheless.
So am I on the path of healing, or trapped in a swamp of self pity? I can never tell the difference.
Fun with Labels
I’ve always known I was different, but I never knew how or why until a year or so ago. It’s quite a tale how I got to that point and it would almost require writing a novel to explain it. I met a girl, and fell for said girl, and it turned into a disastrous five year involuntary lesson in personality disorders, psychopathic tendencies, and abnormal psychology. Does she have a histrionic disorder, the narcissistic one, or a borderline personality disorder? She might have them all, or she may have simply been a sociopath. Trying to bring her back to reality resulted in me sinking deeper and deeper until I found myself questioning my own sanity. It sucked.
Its amazing what the mind is capable of when it feels the need to keep events from your awareness. It’s amazing how hitting rock bottom can interfere with that. I started recognizing that maybe my childhood wasn’t quite normal and that maybe I didn’t grow up being tougher and smarter for it. In fact I may have been damaged. I didn’t go to the psychiatrist for my own benefit, as it usually goes with personality disorders, but I couldn’t help but ask what might be going on with me. After he described it as being consistent with depression I began filling him in with everything odd about me. Its ironic that I had obsessively invested so many years studying personality disorders and skipped over the one that might apply to me. He started giving me the standard clinical interview from the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders for a Schizoid personality disorder and I’m fairly certain I didn’t do well on it. Thinking back I can see my childhood dream was to just get away from everybody and apparantly I’ve done a fine job of taking that to an extreme. I think my inner child and I are about to go to war.
Black dogs and thick fogs
The trauma of my last relationship landed me in a psychiatrist’s office looking for answers to my ex-girlfriends bizarre behavior, but it also led me to answers about myself I wasn’t exactly looking or asking for. He emphasized the word “major” and somewhere else in the sentence he said depression. That’s the point I began arguing with him. “But I’m not sad,” I exclaimed!
It turns out depression isn’t always about being sad. It explains isolation and a lack of energy. It explains the inability to find enjoyment in things you once found enjoyable. It explains the lack of desire to socialize and make new friends. It explains a lot of things, but does it explain me? I wasn’t so sure and after the argument he wasn’t either. Is it possible to be depressed the majority of your life and not even know it? He offered me pills and I offered more arguments. Is that a label, or is it a symptom of something more?
I guess I don’t know a thing about depression, but I do know a thing or two about anhedonia. Anhedonia is the inability to experience pleasure from otherwise pleasurable life events, and I seem to have a severe case that I’ve been carrying around for a very long time. Its feels a bit like living in an empty shell watching the world pass you by. Its a key symptom of depression along with a myriad of other mood and schizophrenic disorders, and even some of the personality disorders.
Nothing irks me more than the people who cross my path and tell me to smile or mention that I should be happy and tell me to cheer up. If only I had known it was so simple. If only I had known that mental disorders are a thing that you can simply will yourself out of if only you’d try. To think I could wake from this dream if only I thought to do so. No, overcoming things is neither simple or fast, but I wont let it stop me from finding a way out. Not a day goes by that I don’t remember that on the other side of where I’m at I’ve been promised moonbeams and rainbows. Not a day goes by that I don’t wish I was different or normal. I’m never not thinking about how I got here or why I remain.
A lot of people think its the rainbows I fear, but its not. Its the trail of dark shadows that block my path and stand between me and what I desire. Not many people understand that, and I wouldn’t bother explaining it to them. I’d rather offer cryptic tidbits. I don’t need their judgments or the stigma that comes along with the explanation. Like my ex, I don’t want people turning their heads sideways and looking at me like I’m some kind of psychopath.
Harm’s Way
I have reluctantly been sucked back into the the psychodrama of my ex-girlfriend’s life. Several years ago I made the decision that I couldn’t help her and I chose to remove myself from her life so that I could take better care of myself. Turning your back on somebody who needs help so badly isn’t easy, but for my own sanity I had to remove all the unhealthy relationships from my life and focus on more rewarding friendships. I’m not a doctor so I’m not qualified to diagnose my ex-girlfriend, but it often seemed as though she had a conglomeration of many traits of many personality disorders. On my more angry days I often think of her as a psychopath that is devoid of empathy and compassion. The relationship was a five year hell in which I gave my all to fight for her recovery and received not one single drop of love in return. I was abused, deceived, manipulated, bullied, and had my reputation tarnished by an onslaught of false accusations.
When people bought into her lies I found it hurtful, and its been haunting me for a long time. It looks like I may finally have a chance for some closure. Her madness didn’t end with me and history is repeating itself. People are now recognizing what I knew to be true long ago and some apologies have come my way. She’s very ill, and its not because I didn’t love her enough. I gave it everything I had.
“No Contact” has served me well, but I’ve taken steps that have brought me once again closer to the chaos. It starts with a statement, but who knows how far I might get pulled in. Its for a good cause, and hopefully to the benefit of those in her life who are the new targets of her grandiose self such as her newborn daughter. It’d be nice to participate in any events that might break one of those cycles of abuse passed on from generation to generation, but I could live without the thought I might be putting myself back in harms way.
Folie à Deux
Folie à Deux means “a madness shared by two,” and Folie à plusieurs means “a madness of many.” It is more commonly known in psychological circles as shared psychotic disorder or induced delusional disorder. These disorders occur when a person has been exposed to the paranoid thoughts, delusional beliefs, or magical thinking of a disordered individual, and begin to accept them into their own belief system. Typically, those involved tend to be isolated with little interaction with the outside world, and spend a great deal of time with the originator of the magical beliefs. After years of narcissistic abuse, I could almost say I was certain that I suffered with a bout of it myself, but I’d prefer to call that by it’s proper term, “brainwashing.” Everyone else calls it “gaslighting.”