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.
Filed Under Abuse, Drama, Personality Disorders | 7 Comments
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?
Filed Under Abuse, Childhood, Psychology | 8 Comments
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.
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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.
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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.”
Filed Under Abuse, Depression, Psychology | 4 Comments