worry – Sweat & Sparkle

Pathetic

My husband’s ex-wife, Psycho, has never been accused of being overly stable. The instant she found out my husband had moved on after their divorce and found someone new, she launched a stalking and harassment campaign that has spanned over 16 years and shows no sign of slowing down. Lucky me, eh?

While she has been obsessing over me, I have made some observations of my own. For years, I have watched her lie, steal (from her own children at times), backstab, use, manipulate, sneak, gossip, and badmouth, and very little else. It shows.

What has all of this earned Psycho over the years? Let’s see…in 16+ years, Psycho has transformed from a ragingly jealous hag to…a ragingly jealous hag who is 16 years older.

It wasn’t difficult to determine that Psycho is a textbook narcissist. That word gets tossed around a lot these days, slapped onto the forehead of anyone we don’t like, but I mean it in its clinical sense: a mental health disorder in which the person has an unreasonably high sense of their own importance, and the person seeks excessive attention and admiration, while lacking the ability to care about others, even their children.

The passing of time has left its mark on Psycho, as it does all of us. The difference is, after decades of living lie upon lie, desperately trying to force everyone to swallow a false image of herself, Psycho just might be suddenly realizing that instead of building a genuine life, she has devoted all of her time and energy to jealous fits and propping up flimsy fabrications of what she wishes were reality.

The result is nothing less than disastrous. Pushing mid-50s, Psycho has never even minimally supported herself, let alone the kids. The crumbling shack of a trailer she squats in isn’t even hers. It is an act of contemptuous charity by her adoptive mother, who barely tolerates her but wishes to bolster the illusion of Psycho’s normalcy by offering up a place for her to live, under the watchful eye of her enabling father. Dysfunction runs in their blood.

Psycho has managed to obliterate not only two marriages, but every semblance of a relationship she has attempted since then. In all honesty, what does she possibly offer to someone? Dishonesty, mood swings, non-stop complaining, inability to pay her own bills, and oh yeah, an uncontrollable fascination with her ex-husband and his upgrade…what does she possibly hope to attract with that?

When my husband and I first started dating, he used to joke, “Thank you for not being crazy!” We would laugh, but I also knew it wasn’t completely in jest. He has told me how grateful he is to be with someone who doesn’t scream, curse, throw things, threaten, steal from him. We enjoy each other. We have fun together. We respect each other. That is not possible with her, and eventually, everyone discovers that for themselves.

In a nutshell, Psycho has focused so hard on raging against people she is violently jealously of, and trying to force others to believe she is something much grander than she truly is, that she failed to develop as a person, to form any sincere interests, or build an actual life. She is now left standing in the dark with her scraps of props on an empty stage, a discarded character of a show no one is interested in anymore.

I wouldn’t care about any of this if it didn’t impact the kids, but naturally, it does. Their mother is desperately vying for attention in any way she can get it, indiscriminate as to who it comes from. How can they not be embarrassed? The youngest child still lives with her, and Psycho’s mothering skills are loud and clear in this child’s chronic absenteeism from school, which is now nearly 15% of the school year. (That, at least, is nothing new. Psycho has never given a damn about the kids unless they score her likes, praise, and accolades.)

It’s only going to get worse. Narcissists like Psycho don’t suddenly wise up as they age. They deteriorate. They shrivel. They panic as their failures stack up, and their mask rots off. Psycho will be left to stand on the only things she has devoted her pathetic life to: jealousy, anger, bitterness, and endless lies.

Measure of Love

The word “love” gets tossed around much too casually, I think. People who have no concept of what love truly is seem to use the word the most.

I liked the quote above but also felt a twinge of sadness. I do believe the kids have been robbed of learning what healthy love is. They have been exposed to explosive, raging, tumultuous, on-and-off, in-and-out drama in their other home, and they have been told that is love. They have been taught that love comes with strings, with demands and expectations to be met, like a hostage situation. They have had the illusion of love dangled out to them like a carrot, then yanked back and withdrawn if they did not obey every command or perform every pony trick.

That isn’t love. Not even close. Love is not using people. Love is not manipulation. Love has no place for childish bullshit drama.

My husband and I decided long ago that the kids are exposed to so much arguing, hostility, and yelling at their other home that we absolutely refuse to add to it. Everyone fights, sure, but it shouldn’t be the norm. We agreed to not fight in front of the kids ever again, and we haven’t. We have spared them from that in at least one of their homes.

Let’s face it, though, the kids spend at least 80% of their time in their other home. Seeing us every other weekend may be a nice break from the upheaval and chaos, but they seem to have already accepted the battlefield as normal. Keeping a bag packed for the next split-up is ordinary. “I love you, I hate you, I love you, I hate you again” is like a theme song, played so often that they don’t question it anymore.

Two of the kids have graduated high school, and perhaps not surprisingly, their current relationships seem to be less than satisfying, at best. I find myself wondering why they settle for mediocre or downright virulent relationships, then just shake my head. Well, yeah. They have learned well from what they have watched and lived in their other home. Why would they question it when it aligns with what they have seen others do for years?

I remember one of the kids telling me and their dad that they hoped they had a marriage like ours someday. I hope they still feel that way. I hope all of them will someday refuse to settle for bottom-feeding relationships and keep an open mind and heart for someone who they can laugh with, feel safe with, who they can trust and develop a healthy and happy relationship with. I hope they are willing to just stay single instead of hopping from one meaningless encounter to the next, simply because they can’t stand being alone. Single, learning about themselves, growing as individuals, will always be better than stagnating in a hollow and trivial duo.

I don’t pretend that my husband and I are perfect. Naturally we have flaws, just like everyone else. But I do believe we are perfect for each other. And we never would have found each other if we weren’t willing to walk away from septic relationships and say “I know someone better is out there” and be willing to be on our own, healing, learning, growing, until that person came along.

I suppose I will never stop worrying about the kids. Not when they’ve been given such unhealthy examples through their lives and have so much toxic learning to scoop out of their heads. Their time with us has just never been enough to really nudge that garbage aside.

We have done our best to show them that love should be joyous, not venomous. I hope, at least, that the whisper of “There is a better way, and I want you to be happy” eventually lands on ears willing to listen, minds ready to learn, and hearts ready to change, for their own sakes.

Refuge

Is it Friday yet? This has been a long, stressful week already! Part of my stress is work: staying late, being asked to help people out with projects that, quite honestly, I feel they should have been able to handle on their own. But those projects are finished (for now), so I am taking a quick breather.

The rest of my stress is nothing new: the kids…or more accurately, worrying about the kids.

I wouldn’t worry so much about the kids if I could be reassured they were in good hands when they are not with us, but there is not enough self-deception in the world to make me even begin to believe that. I see so many outrageously horrible decisions being made. I see the kids in an unbelievably toxic environment with so-called adults behaving more like children than the kids do. And, as usual, I see no concern at all for any of it except from me and my husband.

My only comfort is knowing that my husband and I have always tried to teach and equip the kids to rise above the circumstances they have been forced into, and we’ve encouraged them to forge their own paths. All of them are old enough now that if they choose instead to march along right behind the walking personality disorder in their other home, then that is, sadly, now between them and the people who have refused to ever care about the kids and their well-being.

We will always be here for the kids. That will never change. Unfortunately, I don’t believe they will open their eyes until they desperately need sanity, stability, and reality, none of which can be provided by the mentally unstable individuals surrounding them now.

The worst thing I can do is neglect myself. That isn’t going to help anyone, least of all me. I need to take care of myself and be gentle with myself. I just finished a long walk during my lunch break, chatting away with my co-worker. It’s a start, right?

The other morning, when the alarm went off, my cat was tucked close to my side, purring loudly, and my husband had wrapped an arm tightly around me. I felt so safe, content, and peaceful. I was tempted to turn off the alarm and drift back to sleep, because I just didn’t want to get up and leave that cozy, soothing spot.

I am happy that I feel that way with my husband. No matter what is happening, I know he is my home base, my safe place, my refuge. I think an evening with my husband is just what the doctor ordered!

The Truth

I have nothing to hide. Other people in the children’s lives cannot say the same, but that is on them, not me. I can’t imagine living a mockery of a sham life, one false prop stacked upon another, hoping the mask doesn’t slip too far, forcing others to read their lines and play their parts so everything doesn’t come crumbling down. Honesty and just being exactly who I am work best for me.

Part of my stalker’s obsession with my words is her need to control what is said about her, her need to force the narrative to support her lies. I know the truth, and the truth terrifies her, because all of her disgusting and shameful ugliness is laid bare to anyone willing to accept reality.

What is the truth? Let’s see. My youngest stepdaughter is failing three classes, has missed 20% of this school year, and has been suspended already. How is anyone supposed to overlook such obvious dysfunction and believe this woman has even a sliver of parenting ability or the slightest concern about the wellbeing of the children?

In time, the two middle children will be where the oldest one is now: still struggling with the reality that his own mother truly doesn’t care about anyone but herself, never has, and cannot be the mother he wants and needs. There is no way to prepare a child to face the ultimate reality that their mother is a selfish, manipulative parasite whose maternal skills were violently expelled with the placenta.

from Surviving the Narcissistic Parent: theinvisiblescar.wordpress.com

Since the kids were tiny, I have struggled with how to protect them, how to shield them from the agony of the day they fully open their eyes to what their mother really is. I have looked into their tearful faces as they ask why she lies so much. I have held them on my lap when they were scared and couldn’t possibly understand her rage or hurtful words. I have quietly listened as they got older and started to catch on that something about her is not right — other mothers don’t act like this — and are increasingly embarrassed by her behavior.

The kids are manipulated, lied to, jerked around, brainwashed, all to make their mother’s life easier, appease her ego, and maintain the façade that she is a decent human being and a wonderful mother. If the kids are chewed up, spit out, and destroyed in her attempt to make others believe she is something she is not, then so be it. She quite honestly doesn’t care about them, anyway.

I understand her desire to live a lie. Because the truth is, she is over 50 years old with no significant accomplishments, completely supported by her father, already long surpassed in adult accomplishments by my older stepson, and intensely disliked by anyone who has seen who she really is. Her delusions soothe her, comfort her into believing she is not an abysmal failure.

She knows the truth, though, no matter how much she promotes and defends her lies. She is too weak-willed to be motivated to improve herself or strive to be a better person, however, so she just lies some more and gets irrationally angry at anyone who refuses to swallow her fairy tale.

I know the truth. So does she. In time, so will the kids. That is the scariest, and most heartbreaking, part of all.

Slithering

A narcissistic mother’s abuse of her children does not magically stop when the kids turn 18. In fact, it actually seems to amplify, as those kids begin to tentatively nudge their way out from under her noxious thumb.

Instead of celebrating and encouraging their burgeoning independence, she grinds down harder, deliberately erodes their confidence, and ultimately badmouths them and spreads childish rumors about them if they still choose to remove themselves from her repugnancy.

Essentially, when a child takes a stand and demonstrates any desire to not be a lying, mooching, batshit-crazy piece of shit like her, she pitches a toddler-style tantrum, resorts to grade-school retaliation tactics due to her emotional retardation, and regresses even further as a parent, a person, a human being.

She chooses to be this way. It is unfathomable, but she favors slithering over growing.

She will not tolerate the children being better than that, better than her, so she holds their heads under the filth and drowns them in her obscenity. She wants to destroy them, snuff out any part of them that is happy, caring, free, ambitious, independent…and not like her.

That is not a mother. At best, that is a stretched-out, shameless, foul incubator. That is a middle-aged loser whose parents pay her bills, cosset her, and supply her with a dingy trailer because she is too useless to even acquire that on her own.

No wonder narcissists lie so much. When you are undeniably worthless, fanciful lies must be so much more appealing than the truth.