Numb
As I grow older, I grow more numb. My twisted psyche seems to think that feeling good is every bit as dangerous as feeling bad. My emotions are kept far from me, and I live my life like an inactive observer. I watch the world from behind my brick walls and very little gets in or out. Not only do I not share it with others, I can’t even seem share it with myself. I just watch the clock tick by awaiting the day it’ll all be over. I see happy people living their lives and I seriously wonder, how is that possible? It just seems so foreign to me. If I were happy I just might go insane from the unfamiliarity of it. I think I might find happiness disgusting. Blech! Its so much safer in the comfort zone.
My own worst enemy
Despite my less than perfect childhood and a horribly abusive ex girlfriend, the reality of my life may be that I am my own worst enemy. Is that irony? I may be my worst abuser. The others are long gone and in the past, but I seem to be relentless and unforgiving when it comes to beating myself up. How can you not resent yourself more for that? Perhaps the hardest part of it all is forgiving and loving yourself.
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?