And for Best Performance in the Category for Scapegoat . . .

I am a daughter of a covert narcissistic.

I am the only daughter in my family.

I am the oldest child in my family.

And I have been replaced.

Or my role has . . .

Let’s go back a bit, shall we?

In defining covert or shy narcissism, we have to go find a clinical or medical, true definition.

“The shy/covert narcissist is characterized by vulnerability and sensitivity which manifests itself in defensiveness and hostility. Like the arrogant/covert narcissist, the shy/covert narcissist has grandiose fantasies, feels a sense of entitlement, and is exploitative. However, the shy/covert narcissist personality is characterized by worry, ineffective functioning, unfulfilled expectations, and vulnerability to stress” (http://www1.appstate.edu/~hillrw/Narcissism/shycovertnarcissist.html).

So, we have a definition and I’ll post a link that identifies traits of a covert narcissist here:  http://bit.ly/1NX8rIV for your extended learning and interest.

As I am studying and reading and researching and learning, I am becoming quite the dutiful little student of narcissism and how my life has been affected by this personality disorder in someone I love from my family of origin. As I study, I buy into the material. I own much of the material as truth and truth from my own experience. Yet, at other times, I can’t help but think, “My mother is not a maniacal, diabolical demon who shrieks off her sadistic laugh as she rubs her hands together with a sinister grin in attempt to manipulate me, right?”

It’s a tough pill to swallow.

Until I read more about the terms associated with narcissism and how they connect to me.

Being the only daughter, being the first child, being everything my mother ever wanted earned me a rightful place for the award for “golden child.”

But as I’ve said before, I’ve been replaced.

I now get to be the lowly scapegoat in this made-for-real-life drama.

As I studied, I began to wonder if it was possible to move or shift from one role to another. I even asked both my therapist and my life coach this very question. At first, both didn’t think so, but after hearing my background, I believe both agree it’s exactly what has happened.  Here’s my story:

My mother’s oldest brother is a true-blue overt narcissist. Anyone who knows him or speaks to him for more than ten minutes can tell without question his love for himself and his need for everyone to applaud his accomplishments and achievements and “gifts” of generosity (always with a lifetime expectancy of gratitude if you are on the receiving end of that gift). All our lives, we’ve been told by our mother how much praise and recognition her older brother got for his athletics, his musical talent, his drive, etc. while she was the wallflower of sorts, just quietly in the background waiting for someone to take notice of her achievements and place in the family.

And then she got married to my dad, and they had me–the first grandchild on both sides of the family, the first daughter for my parents–

And an extension of my mother . . . a mini me of sorts.

The “golden child.” According to the website “daughters of narcissistic mothers,” a “golden child” is defined as follows:

“The Golden Child, as the name suggests, is the best and most wonderful child – at least in the eyes of the Narcissistic Mother. It seems to be that the Narcissistic Mother picks the Golden Child to be an extension of herself, onto whom she projects all her own supposed wonderfulness.”

And for many years, this was my role. I was the extension of my mother. Until I got a voice. Until I got an opinion that differed. Until I decided to do things and experience life in a way that went against my mother (and my father) and their views of my perfect little life and future.

I changed my major from what they had hoped for from an early age. (That was actually very difficult to share with them–even though they accept it now and see the success).

I began to drink on occasion (from a family of very conservative Christians, that was just looking for sin).

I began to have differing views on the way we as Christians handle issues around the LGBTQ community (I struggle with my own bisexuality, even though I have chosen to stay committed to my husband and to my marriage).

I began to speak my truth in the face of defiance (regardless if they see my side or are able to extend empathy toward me).

I now have two tattoos, looking for a third. (I defiled my body and ruined my beautiful skin).

“The Scapegoat on the other hand is, also as the name suggests, the person on whom all the ills of the family are projected.”

So, my “golden child” role was being taken away from me as I was quickly releasing my grip on it. From time to time, she still tries to hand it back me to fill her narcissistic supply–what she feeds off to survive. But, it’s ok now. I don’t want the responsibility or that trophy. However, I’ve been handed the “scapegoat award”. ‘Tis my lot in life now.

But my middle brother, who had somewhat been a rebel in high school and college, found his calling to the ministry and has been given that award to hold and treasure. He has become the “golden child” who can do no wrong. As I continue to speak my truth and go “grey rock” (meaning, to become completely boring with my life’s details and interactions with my mother) with my little contact with my mother, I am finding it difficult to swallow, but I am becoming healthier in my own life and in my own thinking in my healing journey.

Even the other day, my mother told my youngest brother that she wonders if I blame her for the childhood sexual abuse I survived from almost 30 years ago. She claims she did not know a thing about it until I shared this last year, so I have to believe her. But here’s the kicker:

My abuse and my healing are about me. They are not about her. Nothing that happened to me then is about anyone except the abuser and his sick, depraved idea of fun and control over a little girl too scared to say no and too scared to tell anyone what was happening. It’s not about her. My journey is about me getting ME better and healthier.

I’d prefer neither the golden child nor the scapegoat, but those roles are given out by the personality disordered person. I just choose to be better than any role. I choose a healthy me.

I hope just to be me.

And that’s good enough.

Because I am good enough.

 

Packing Up and Moving Out of the Subdivision of “Should”

Today is my birthday. Yep. 44 years old.

A day of relaxation.

A day of celebration.

A day of gratitude.

A day of reflection.

And as I reflect on this last year, I can’t help but reflect on the last 44 years and where I’ve come from and where I’m going in this journey we call “life.”

I have been reading a lot this last year. Works of fiction, yes, but also a lot of self-help and self-reflection books as well. Books to help me in my recovery journey and books to help increase my faith in Jesus. Books to validate my feelings and books to inspire His vision upon my life.

But I’m concerned as I read. See, we live in a world of “shoulds.” As a wife, a mom, a daughter, a teacher, a writer, a friend . . . I live in the world of shoulds. One of the shoulds I’ve been battling this last year or so is from a memory of a former “girlfriend” of mine in regards to my writing from several years ago. Here is what she said to me:

“You should just stop writing. No one gives a shit about what you have to say.”

Yeah, some support, huh? At the time, not only was I working on my first blog pages, but also a fiction book on PTSD and childhood sexual abuse. She didn’t care to read my blogs because they were inspirational and sometimes hit too close to home for her living in her misery and depression.

So I stopped writing.

I BELIEVED the lie! Can you believe I gave in to her “should” demand so easily? Yep, I was duped. She had so much control over me that I gave in to what I thought was best based on HER miserable life. Talk about toxicity.

Well, she’s no longer in my life, so I am going to write whether anyone thinks I should or not. But what other “shoulds” have I lived with? Here is a list of shoulds I have heard from others and from my inner voice:

• You should quit your job as a teacher and just write.
• You should not quit your job and just write on the side.
• You should parent your kids like _____________.
• You should dress like _____________.
• You should wear your hair like ________________.
• You should teach that concept this way.
• You should lose weight.
• You should lose weight by _______________.
• You should stop eating/drinking _____________.
• You should write every day.
• You should write a devotional book.
• You should write a book about your son (with special needs).
• You should write 1000 words every day.
• You should write whether you feel like it or not.
• You should run a 5K.
• You should develop that plan (for all of us involved).
• You should stop _______________.
• You should begin ________________.
• You should spend more time __________.
• You should spend less time _____________.
• You should see ________________.
• You should listen to ___________.

Listen, I am done living in the shoulds.

Living in the shoulds only leads to a life of spinning in the shame cycle. Brene Brown defines shame as follows: “Shame is the intensely painful feeling or experience of believing we are flawed and therefore unworthy of acceptance and belonging” (I Thought It was Just Me . . . But It Isn’t).

I no longer want to live in shoulds and shame. I won’t live up to your expectations of what a “perfect” life should look like. I will fail you and I will fail myself if I try to live like that. I am flawed BUT I am incredibly worthy of being accepted and belonging. As Richard Grannon, Spartan Life Coach says, “People pleasing is an ADDICTION!”

No more.

If I want to write, I will write.

If I only write a piece of 400 words instead of my “goal” of 1000, so be it.

If I write what scares me, awesome. (Sometimes you just gotta do it to find freedom, friends).

If I write something that scares you, I’m sorry you’re uncomfortable, but it’s My Journey.

If I choose NOT to write, that’s ok.

If I just want “to be”, I’m ok with that.

If I parent my children differently than you think is “acceptable,” guess what? They’re not your children to raise. You “should” be thankful you don’t have to take on more responsibility.

If I spend 5 minutes in prayer time at 4:30 in the afternoon and not 45 minutes as soon as my feet hit the floor, God gets it.

If I decide to take a nap, my body must have needed it.

Bottom line: This is the year of intentional living. And the only standard I have to live by is in my bible I try to read every day (again, if I don’t read every day, I will survive and God still loves me just the same).

And my writing–yes, I will consider the audience, but I can’t think, “I should be writing ___________ for this audience or that.” I will write for myself, in the hopes that someone is inspired or can feel a sense that they are not alone in this journey of life. As Brene Brown, in her book, The Gifts of Imperfection writes of the importance of creativity, “The only unique contribution that we will ever make in this world will be born of our creativity.” So, I will continue to write. I will write as I feel so inclined. It is out of that inclination or desire within me that creativity is born and meaning takes root.

Intentional living. I want to live on purpose, with purpose. And with a heart of gratitude and joy. I can’t live like that when I allow myself to reside in the community of “should”.

 

 

Confessions of a Paper Doll from Her Paper Town

“A paper town for a paper girl . . . . I looked down and thought about how I was made of paper. I was the flimsy-foldable person, not everyone else. And here’s the thing about it. People love the idea of a paper girl. They always have. And the worst thing is that I loved it, too. I cultivated it, you know? Because it’s kind of a great, being an idea that everybody likes. But I could never be the idea to myself, not all the way.”

John Green Paper Towns

I’m not quite old enough to remember playing with paper dolls a lot. I think I had a few growing up, but Barbie and Ken took over my life rather quickly. But the paper dolls I do recall having were just that–paper. And pretty. And posed. And fake. And perfectly smiling.

And breakable.

And–well, let’s face it. Two-dimensional.

I’ve lived much of my life like those paper dolls. Oh, I’m far from perfect and I’m far from being the image of societal acceptance of size and beauty, but I have put on my paper smile. I have posed perfectly for the cameras–the watchful eyes of my friends, my family, my co-workers, and general population.

But I am broken.

I’m torn.

I’m real.

And I have real feelings.

It’s time to show a side of myself that not everyone gets to see.

I want to be the real me.

Can I do that with you?

After reading John Green’s Paper Towns and as I’m reading Brene Brown’s I Thought It Was Just Me (But It Isn’t), I’m faced with the fact that I’m just going to have to accept that I’m horribly flawed. I’m human and I’ve made mistakes along the way. No matter how you wrap that pretty little package into a paper doll, it still will rip. No matter how careful you are with it. And my life has been less than perfect–my striving for perfectionism has not been successful and I’ll go crazy trying any harder. So, I’m coming out and revealing some truths about myself–Revealing My Truth. Because at the end of the day, my truth is all I know.

Let me preface my thoughts by saying, I have NOT read all research done on these topics, nor do I claim to have all the answers. I am simply being me, revealing my truth and what I know about me.

I was sexually abused between the ages of 8-10 by my mother’s best friend’s son. There’s no need to go into details here, but this factors into who I am today. I’m not defined by my abuse and I don’t pretend to play victim. I am a survivor. I win. You know how I win? You know why I win? Because I DID NOTHING wrong. I win. I am the victor. The survivor. The warrior. And my voice and my truth is all that matters in this narrative.

I just told my family about the abuse this year. I have held that secret in for over 30 years. Now, I can talk about their reactions and their “support” since the revelation, but that’s for another time. Today, I am being open and real, without judgment or shame. I think they look at me through one of two lenses: 1) it never happened and we never have to talk about it again or 2) it happened and we must be overly sensitive around her now. Neither are what I need at this time in my life. Tip-toeing behind my back to make assumptions about how I feel about the abuse is degrading and patronizing. Pretending it never happened and smoothing over the reality is minimizing. I don’t say I have all the answers on how they should approach me or interact with me but I know this:

Once I told them, it was their story and their journey how to process–NOT mine.

The next fact to reveal is difficult for me to share. I guess it’s hard because again, I don’t have all the answers and don’t pretend to know all the research. But I do know this: the abuse I survived did not cause this revelation in me, but it had an effect on me that I can’t change.

I share here so I can come without judgment or shame.

Brene Brown defines shame as, “Shame is the intensely painful feeling or experience of believing we are flawed and therefore unworthy of acceptance and belonging. Women often experience shame when they are entangled in a web of layered, conflicting and competing social-community expectations. Shame creates feelings of fear, blame, and disconnection.”

So, with the veil of shame lifted so I can find myself worthy of acceptance and belonging, I share that while I don’t understand it all, I am coming out to share my truth as a bisexual woman. I know my brain from childhood abuse was a setting for toxicity with the confusion of what was happening to me physically and biologically and mentally. I also know that I lived with a covert narcissist for a mother who overprotected me to no end, not allowing me to take risks growing up. So, once I had the opportunity to question on my own my sexual orientation, I had gotten myself involved with my ex-girlfriend. Everything I wished I had had from my mother–nurturing, kindness, affection–came from this woman.

However, my truth also includes a life lived according to the bible of Jesus Christ, my Lord and Savior. Talk about confusion. I also know I live with choices and consequences. I live with the knowledge and belief that we are all naturally born curious, regardless of our background. I also believe we live with choices. And this was a choice I made several years ago.

Since then, I have made the choice to remain committed to my husband and to turn away from living as a bisexual. I still have urges and desires, but I choose to turn from them in order to stay committed to my husband, whom I love with all my heart. I don’t believe that bisexual orientation will ever go away, hence my choice to stay committed must be adhered to. I want to live as I feel God wants me to live and that is according to His holy word. I say this also with the knowledge that I accept you for you, unlike what you might be thinking about me and my faith. I love all people, regardless of what choices you’ve made, how you live, how you think. I would hope you would receive me with grace and kindness and acceptance for who I am and for what I am sharing. It’s time we put love first in all things.

Isn’t it about time that love conquer this evil world?

But no more paper doll living. It’s time to get real about who I am and about who you are. Anyone can live in the pretty paper town. But I could never be the idea to myself–not all the way.

 

I Refuse to be Silenced by *Him* Any Longer

*TRIGGER WARNING: Talk of entrapment and attack*

The nightmare involved–no, starred–*him*. I must have been in college because I’m driving the car I took to college–a black and grey Mercury. And I am fairly certain I was driving home from college. It seemed all my friends were falling in love, getting engaged, getting married. And me? Rejected and alone and feeling fairly desperate. Emotional wreck. Everywhere I looked, happy people–couples on billboards, in cars, out in the yards. Everywhere. I cried the whole three hour drive home. And I was alone, sobbing every mile.

As I finally got home and turned the corner, our neighbors’ twins and *his* cousins, were on the corner, celebrating their double wedding at that very moment, all dressed up in their bridal gowns and the gentlemen in their tuxes.

And as I pulled into my parents’ drive, all his family–cousins, aunts, uncles, siblings–gathered around my car–laughing, pointing, mocking my tears and my loneliness, just as they had when I was a child in our younger years.

*He* was at my side of the car, trying to reach in and get at me–get me to come out–taunting me and laughing.

I kept crying and my mouth was numb–I kept trying to tell them to stop and just let me go inside but no one could hear me or understand me –finally everyone left but *him*–still by my driver’s side, taunting and reaching for me.

The window was cracked a bit and *he* had the idea to pour water in my window to force me out. I couldn’t tell *him* to stop–I tried but *he* kept getting more water and I couldn’t close my window or get out. *He* poured water in my sunroof and as the water rose inside the car, my anxiety rose to match. I can hear *his* maniacal laughter and *his* urging for me to come outside to face *him*. But the water rose and rose and rose to the top of the car, my mumbling voice frantic to get out and escape.

---

The other nightmare wasn’t as detailed and I remembered more after I was awake than during the actual dream. (Ever happen to you? You have a dream. You know it’s a dream, but the details are foggy and you’re able later in your conscious state to piece together the story better?) I was being held down by someone–and I believe it to be a man, but I don’t know who. I assume man, because of the weight and stature I felt on top of me. He was in all black and I couldn’t breathe. I tried to tell him to get off of me–but he just held me down. He didn’t say anything that I recall and didn’t show his face. I fought to get him off but he just held me–I punched and tried to scream–but again, my mouth felt numb. I woke up and found myself punching the air as I sat up.

---

I know both nightmares were about my childhood sexual abuse. I know this. But to interpret dreams–not my forte or expertise. All I can gather is this: even in my nightmares and dreams, my abuser wants to control me. I will NOT allow that any longer. I am stronger now. I am smarter now. I am able to voice my needs and wants and my hates and my loves now. I am no longer in contact with him and never will be again. I have that choice and I choose to use my voice.

I choose to help others who need to be set free from their abuse.

I will be strong.

I will use my voice.

*He* will not have the last word.

Nothing can silence me any longer.

 

Free Me From This Prison

Living with depression is exactly a prison. Oh, I’ve never been to prison, but boy do I feel like I’m a prisoner in my own my mind. Depression leaves me feeling like no one wants me around and no one would mind if I were gone. Perhaps it’s true.

Or perhaps that’s a lie straight from hell.

I have to remind myself that this journey of trauma recovery from childhood sexual abuse and this life of self-preservation and learning to live and survive my narcissistic mother is a lonely road and no one can be on this road with me but me.

I tell myself that I’m unhappy at work and all I want is to be home so I can work on my writing. Yet, I arrive home and can’t write. I sit and stare, waiting for the muse to come to me, but she fails at every turn. So, then I assume my life would be better at work, but I am so unhappy there most days. Top that with trying to learn who my safe friends are and seeing them move on without me? Yeah, depression holds me down and stomps on my chest.

Being in this prison makes me want to turn the key and unlock a door I have the right to unlock, but can’t seem to find the strength to do so. I want to unlock the door and walk from one prison of lonely recovery to the old prison of familiarity. At least when I was living before my recovery journey, I had a life, albeit a life of a different kind of prison. I was still living in captivity but the captivity was familiar. This prison I’m in feels more like solitary confinement than a way to find freedom on the other side. Other lives move on and I sit in toxicity of my own doing and the doing of my abuser, wanting desperately to reach out to a friendly, safe face from my past. But I refuse to give in to that urge. I tell myself if they wanted to talk with me, they’d have found a way to seek me out instead. So, I isolate, which spirals me downward into further depression.

I have to find ONE avenue, one path, one place to put a sense of hope into place. So, I turn to the only source I have at my fingertips: my bible. Psalm 42 reads as follows:

As the deer pants for streams of water,
so my soul pants for you, my God.
² My soul thirsts for God, for the living God.
When can I go and meet with God?
³ My tears have been my food
day and night,
while people say to me all day long,
“Where is your God?”
⁴ These things I remember
as I pour out my soul:
how I used to go to the house of God
under the protection of the Mighty One^[d]
with shouts of joy and praise
among the festive throng.

⁵ Why, my soul, are you downcast?
Why so disturbed within me?
Put your hope in God,
for I will yet praise him,
my Savior and my God.

⁶ My soul is downcast within me;
therefore I will remember you
from the land of the Jordan,
the heights of Hermon—from Mount Mizar.
⁷ Deep calls to deep
in the roar of your waterfalls;
all your waves and breakers
have swept over me.

⁸ By day the Lord directs his love,
at night his song is with me—
a prayer to the God of my life.

⁹ I say to God my Rock,
“Why have you forgotten me?
Why must I go about mourning,
oppressed by the enemy?”
¹⁰ My bones suffer mortal agony
as my foes taunt me,
saying to me all day long,
“Where is your God?”

¹¹ Why, my soul, are you downcast?
Why so disturbed within me?
Put your hope in God,
for I will yet praise him,
my Savior and my God.

My hope that this will get better rests in God alone. He alone hears my cry and my plea for relief and He is my joy in the midst of this lonely, dry desert of a prison. He frees me and offers hope on the other side.

 

The Pills I Choke Down to Discover My Truth

Anxiety.

Depression.

Complex PTSD.

ADD.

OCPD.

Medical science and psychologists and therapists have diagnosed me with the above list over the last six years. I believe with my current therapist and my coach working together, I can agree with them on the first three diagnoses. But they come at a cost at times. And they come with medicines and treatments along the way to help me cope through my triggers, my flashbacks, my haunting, sadistic memories of my childhood sexual abuse and entrapment.

They come with a pill to swallow.

And I don’t swallow pills well.

But there’s one pill I have had to choke down in recent months that I have had more difficulty than ever swallowing: My mother is a covert narcissist.

What do I mean by “covert narcissist?” I had to look it up myself the first time it was brought to my attention that I may have very well spent almost 44 years with a person in my family who lives and breathes this very definition and title–to a card-carrying status.

According to study.com, the definition reads as follows: “Covert narcissism is a more discrete form of narcissism displayed by a person with a more shy and reserved personality. It is characterized by grandiose fantasies and thoughts, a perception of entitlement, and a general sentiment of being better than others. Covert narcissism is typically expressed in a more passive and indirect manner than overt narcissism; it is conveyed with a condescending attitude, insincerity, passive aggressiveness, defensiveness, and hostility.”

(For more about the signs of covert narcissism, you may follow this link: http://bit.ly/1NX8rIV)

Yup. You read it correctly. My mother is a card-carrying member of the club–she just doesn’t know it yet. And likely never will know it. Or accept it if she was ever told. Besides, how could she ever believe it?

1. Let’s go with the first pill I have to swallow about my mother: Self-absorption. My mother is absorbed in her own agenda at all times. She comes across to many in her community, her church, even her family as one who gives of herself to the betterment of others, but in reality, the praise she does get, she receives with aloofness, seeking more praise in the eye of appearing humble.
2. Lack of empathy: Just this weekend, I was talking with my sisters-in-law about my recent medical treatments and visits. I had not been to the gynecologist in 12 years (I know–before you start guilting me into the why, remember that adult survivors of childhood sexual abuse struggle with medical examinations, and I for one, fall into that category. My abuse has left me isolating and avoiding doctors for myself and I finally got the courage to go to a new gynecologist, share my abuse background with her and her staff, endured the annual tests, and proceeded with further tests and a biopsy to rule out pre-cancerous cells. Yes, I did that. On my own. My husband was very supportive in my wanting and needing the time to consist of the two of us going through the process together. So, when I shared with my sisters-in-law the results, one of them said, “So how about your mammogram? Do you feel more comfortable now going through with that procedure?” I shirked at her question but before I could answer, my mother forced another pill down my throat. “It’s not that big of a deal. Just schedule it already and get it over with” was her response. Lack of empathy much? Yes, right there.
3. Passive-aggressiveness: I am learning about speaking my truth through work I’m doing with my therapist and my coach simultaneously.  In that work, I am learning to speak my needs to others in a healthy way like never before. So, when I decided to have a birthday party for our youngest child, my mother asked if she could bring something for the food. I told her I didn’t need anything–I would be glad to simply host my family for this celebration. She insisted on helping out, so I told her a couple small items she could bring, if she really wanted to, but deep down inside, I really needed to host this party on my own, as the qualified and highly capable adult I am. And guess what? She made me swallow her passive-aggressiveness in her words that, “Well, people do like ___________ also, so maybe I’ll bring that too.” I cringe when I think about my accepting her “help”.
4. Highly sensitive: So, a few days later, I was coming inside from working on our yard for the party, and about to get in the shower, when–uninvited–she walks in our back door, “Just to visit for a minute if that’s ok.” Actually, no, it wasn’t ok. I was about to have a private moment to myself when she crossed an unexpressed boundary. So, I waited, dirty and smelly, grass clippings all over myself, waiting for her to complete her “visit,” with me–wishing I could speak up and tell her to leave. (You’ll find this is where I struggle the most with her–speaking up and speaking my needs versus wanting to show respect and honor for my mother, as I’ve been raised to believe.) Finally, the topic of the party came up again and I decided to speak my truth. “Mom, I really don’t need you to bring anything. I would like to do this on my own. When you insist like you are, it makes me feel like you don’t think I can handle this on my own–that you think and feel I’m incapable of hosting a party at my house.” Her response? A laugh. A shrug. A smug look down her nose. And then finally, “Fine then. Do it yourself. I was just trying to help.” I told her appreciated her offer but indeed, I would like to do this on my own. (And then, ironically, her “visit” was over . . .) P.S. She still brought food even though we had ended it that I would be fine hosting alone. Right. Swallow that pill down really good.
5. Impersonal or difficult relationships: She’s had friends, and friends that have lasted a lifetime, but she acts like she can’t stand her friends behind their backs. And the relationship she has with my father, her husband? Even though they’ve been married over 46 years, she berates and belittles him and makes him feel like a bumbling idiot. I understand his frustration and anger at times when she puts him down or embarrasses him in public–she does it to me and makes me swallow that pill and makes it difficult to cultivate a healthy relationship with her.

There you have it. Five of the seven pills from the website I linked for you. My mother has me take them almost daily.

But I have the cure for how to get better and healthy once and for all: establishing and maintaining healthy boundaries. What do I mean by “boundaries”? That saying, “Good fences make good neighbors?” What does a boundary look like for me? Here’s a sample listing of privileges I’m taking away from my narcissistic mother as I establish and maintain healthy and safe boundaries:

• You are not allowed to ask questions you know the answer to.
• You are not allowed in my home without my permission or invitation.
• You are not allowed to parent my kids.
• You are not allowed to text me at work and expect an answer.
• You are not allowed to interrupt me when I’m speaking.
• You are not allowed look at me with condescending look.
• You will not bribe my children.
• You will not use my children for your labor.
• You will not use family members as currency to see me.

I’m learning that these boundaries may come at a price. However, I am bound and determined to create those boundaries for both of us to find peace and so I can share my truth with others and more importantly, with myself. Speaking my truth and conveying my needs in a real, honest, healthy avenue and maintaining those needs will assist me in establishing a healthier me–and at this point in my life, that’s all that matters.

*Author’s note: This blog post was originally published June 1, 2016. June 1 is Narcissistic Abuse Awareness Day.

What It Means for Me to Live a Free Life

I wrote this in my journal almost exactly a year ago and it seems perfect to start out this blog site with my thoughts on freedom from childhood sexual abuse. I hope you gain some truth in the reading of my sketched out thoughts.

TRIGGER WARNING: entrapment, sexual abuse

I’m sitting here on my brand new deck, enjoying this summer sunshine. From where I sit, I can see the side of the playhouse–that A-frame structure built by my grandpa as a special place for me–the only girl–to play house and enjoy my dolls–to be a girl with her own space for secret girl play time. That structure was supposed to be a place of fun and fond childhood memories. Instead, it has become a symbol of sadness. Of identity rebuked. Of innocence stolen. I mourn for that little girl. Oh, she played with her dolls, but the memories which linger there aren’t the most pleasant of times. It’s become a prison. I remember sitting in the upper loft most of the time, even though it didn’t have as much space to play and move. I can’t help but think my lack of “play” memories below are because the abuse which took place there was the graveyard for secrets–of fear–like if that little girl went down stairs, what might happen? I wonder if she avoided playing down below because it’s where he laid down and pressed his hot body on top of hers.

I remember dripping in sweat after hours of play–him locking the doors and me wondering if I could just get to the upper level to open the latch on the door to get air to breathe–to endure the abuse.

I believed my mother would have come to check on us–on me–if the doors were closed and locked, worried I couldn’t breathe in the summer heat. And she did–one time that I recall. She knocked, asked if I was ok, if we were “playing naughty” or if we were being nice. I lied because he told me I would be the one in trouble for what he was doing to me. I obeyed him and his sinister, depraved thoughts and words as a slave to his touch. My mother says she never knew what was going on, but how could she not have known? She asked the “right” question and had to know I was lying to save myself from his threats. How could she not have known?

My therapist asked me to go through old pictures of me as a little girl–to see if I could give the scared little girl permission to find her voice. I went through some old pictures–and found some of *him*–weird and eerie–and a picture of the playhouse. I also found photographs of me–and some early pictures are of me smiling–truly happy and joyful. And then there’s a time frame where the pictures look hollow, empty, stripped behind the eyes and the smile. My therapist wanted to know if there’s anything the little girl couldn’t do because of FEAR that she wanted to do–what did that fear take away from her?

• A sense of security
• A sense of belonging
• A voice to express feelings
• The ability to like herself for who she is
• The ability to think she’s beautiful
• The feeling of being desired genuinely
• Took away safety
• Took away my control

FEAR took away my control.

FEAR took away my self-worth.

FEAR took away my voice.

FEAR took away my security/safety.

When I put up walls to people–my friends, etc.–it allows ME control, which fear took away from me. “Back away/push” before you get pushed–before you get hurt–SO by “controlling” I still allow *him*/fear to win because I tell myself the lie that I am not good enough to be liked genuinely for the ME I wish I could allow people to see.

THIS IS HIS CONTROL OVER ME STILL!

Tear down the wall–

Let go of the control–

Let go of the fear and the power–that fear has tried to take away from you. YOU are your own power. And my power comes from my heavenly Father, Jesus Christ. In HIM, I receive power and glory and beauty and honor and strength and freedom.

“I trust in Your unfailing love. I will rejoice because You have rescued me. I will sing to the Lord because He has been so good to me.” Psalm 13:5-6