The Rest

One Christmas Eve long ago, our family was invited to have dinner at the home of acquaintances.  We didn’t really know them, they were friends of friends.  It was a strange, unfamiliar Christmas Eve. 

There was a lot of wine, champagne, booze poured around the dinner table.  It was merry, it was a holiday.

This was a period where my Mom drank too much.  She knew it, I knew it, she knew that I knew it, and she resented me for it.   The Monster knew about it too, but refused to acknowledge it or offer his support, even after my Mom asked him for help.

That Christmas Eve, at the home of acquaintances, she drank too much. 

When it was time to go, the Monster thanked the hosts, said his goodbyes, packed the kids in his car and took off.  Leaving me with my Mom and the potluck dishes to bring home, in her car.  I was shocked he had left without saying a word to Mom who was clearly too drunk to drive.   He had contemptuously ignored her, probably in disgust, as he had whisked everyone else away.   But, I was there to pick up the pieces.

I was an older teenager, a young adult at that point.  I told my Mom, “You’ve had too much to drink, give me the keys and I’ll drive us home.”   She laughed at me, a little too loud and defiant, and said she was fine.  She yanked the keys away when I tried to grab them.  Told me I was being a goody two-shoes and a pain in the ass, and to mind my own business.  Something like that.  My sweet Mom could be mean when she was drunk.   I protested a bit, but for some reason, I then held my tongue and let her take the wheel, while I rode shotgun. 

My hands gripping the sides of the car seat, I kept a tight watch on her driving performance.  Soon after turning onto the highway, she started dangerously veering into the left lane.  I yelled, “Mom!  What are you doing?!” and she straightened her direction.  Witnessing her loose aim correction every few seconds, I was terrified for the rest of the 10-minute drive, but we made it home safely.  Well, safe and sound as far as our bodies were concerned.  We got out of the car,  brought the empty dishes into the kitchen in silence.  She acted as if all was right with the world on the Eve of Christmas, and I headed to bed half-shaken half-furious.  Everyone else was already in bed.

That incident has stayed with me, vivid in its intensity, for all these years. 

It was a 10-minute drive.  Nothing happened.  We got home just fine.  Mom stopped drinking that next year and has not had a drop since.   Yet, these 10 minutes have run through my head like a roll of gritty super-8 film over and over again for the last 10 years.   I never understood why until yesterday.

I cried myself to sleep last night, overwhelmed by the discovery, the realization, the symbolism, and by the pain.

That night, the Monster saved all the kids, except for me.   I remember being surprised by how fast he took off, without any kind of check-in about how we were all getting home.  But it never hit me until yesterday that he knew exactly what he was doing, as he always does.  He was saving the important ones and he didn’t care about the rest.  Whether I was able to drive my Mom home or she decided to drunkenly take us back, he didn’t care.  Whether she put me or herself in danger, he didn’t care.  Whether I was faced with making a difficult decision and having to be the grown-up, he didn’t care.  He did not care.   Not about her, I already knew that.  But not about me either.  Out of his four children, I was the one the Monster left behind.  Without a second thought.  Without a loving thought.  With just contempt and disinterest. 

That night, my Mom willingly put my life in danger.   And I never realized until yesterday how much I still resent her for that.  How much I still hurt from that.  I have spoken with her about this incident many times since she stopped drinking years ago.  She knows how significant and traumatic it was for me.  And she realizes how irresponsible and unacceptable her behavior was that night.   She has apologized countless times.  I truly believe she feels atrociously guilty and sorry about it.  

But, I learned last night that she was much drunker on that Christmas Eve than I had ever thought back then.  In my young mind, my trusting child’s mind, I had believed that despite having had too much to drink, she must have been fine, insisting to drive, since she would never endanger me .  That belief was just an instinctive rationalization on my part, to be expected from a child about her parent.  But, my Mom admitted for the first time yesterday that she blacked out that night on the highway.  She really was much too drunk to drive.  When she started veering to the left and I called out “Mom!  What are you doing?, I bolted her out of a drunken stupor. 

I think this confession was the true reason why I soaked my pillow in tears last night.  I finally grasped that my Mom also did not love me as she should.   And I suddenly felt naked and cold, like a small child lost and alone.

She was living in an alcohol fog, fueled by self-loathing and misery, so consumed by the abuse she suffered in her marriage to the Monster and by thoughts of leaving him that she had become a parent who was no longer coherent and functional as a parent.   That is her explanation.  Makes sense.  But it still doesn’t repair the hole in my heart. 

I cried myself to sleep last night.  Because it was fucking hard not to be able to look away anymore.  I could no longer pretend that my Mom was so good of a parent, she made up for my father being a Monster.  She was never that good of a parent.  Deeply flawed, she failed me in a huge, traumatic way.  That Christmas Eve, she simultaneously forced me to be the adult and didn’t allow me to make the adult decision.  Similarly, she — mostly unknowingly — made me the unwilling mediator in her relationship with the Monster.  But that is a whole other blog post or two.

My tears have dried since last night and I’ve had a chance to do a little thinking.  Being a mother myself, I now have a deepened sense of the significance of parental responsibility and parental love.   That Christmas Eve, my Mom fucked up.  That Christmas Eve, my Mom demonstrated she didn’t love me as a sober happy parent should.  But, unlike the Monster who left me behind while he saved all the others, I’m pretty convinced my Mom did love me through her problems and flaws, and still loves me now that we can talk about them.

Pain

Crying myself to sleep is what it took to get me back to writing.  I don’t know how long I will be back.  But for now, I’m back.

Visiting my family is always a highly stressful emotional rollercoaster disguised in the alluring costume of a vacation.   This visit is no different.  I broke out in hives three times after booking my flight and wondered if it was an odd coincidence.  Assessing the stress that is consuming me now that I have landed here, I realize that it was not.

The dark cloud, the shadow of the Monster, is suffocating me at the moment.  A wave of painful memories has washed over me,  throwing to shore all the baggage and scars I haven’t yet all figured out. I am trying to find my breath.

Through it all, I keep fighting.  Holding on to that light at the end of the tunnel.  Determined to believe that every painful, tearful moment here rehashing old traumas is akin to therapy and will make me stronger and clearer in the end.  I have to believe it.

It’s Been a While

The more time passes, the harder it gets to formulate thoughts into a post. Things have been quiet and fine. The Monster lurks in the background, still commenting here and there on our family blog. Letting it be known that he is alive and well, and watching. But I’ve been mostly successful with shoving his nefarious presence aside.

Or have I?

I find myself angry lately. Angry at my father. Angry at everything that emanates from him, through him. Every so often, I wish I could climb on some rooftop and scream “Fuck you, Dad!”. It would echo and echo, until everyone in the land heard it and it finally reached him and punched him square on the nose and knocked him on his ass with bruises to spare. Or maybe I could read my very own State of the Emotion Address in the middle of the town square. He’d be forced to hear it. Forced to listen.

I wish he would disappear from this earth. I wish he would die. There, I said it. Just so I could stop having to deal with him, and everything he creates and represents, and everyone he touches and exploits. And I could stop being angry, maybe.

I am angry.  Because he gets away with everything but murder. Though he could probably get away with murder as well. I am angry because he has damaged me so profoundly. Beyond repair, it seems sometimes. I am angry because he continues to fool and abuse people. I am angry because many, too many, believe he is the charming, generous, smart gentleman he appears to be. I am angry because he has a manipulative, destructive hold on my brother who has now become an unhappy, unrecognizable jerk. I am angry because he tries to control my other brother and my sister with smooth talking and savvy guilt trips. Both of them still seem to know who he is. So far. Thank God. I am angry because he paints a horrendous (and false, need I say?) picture of me and my husband to my siblings and whoever else will hear it. I am angry because he refuses to stay out of my life. He refuses to let go of me.  He just won’t.

The anger is manageable. It is not all-consuming all-the-time. But when it surges, it is overwhelming.  I feel a tightness in my chest. Like an emotional gag reflex.  And I want to scream and throw something.

I wish I could wage a public relations campaign against him. Film a PSA, beautiful in black and white, nitty-gritty with raw faces and punchy phrases.  And put it out there, for everyone to see. Watch out for this Monster! I want everyone to know what an evil bastard he is, underneath all that charismatic and affable coating. I want to protect others from his clutches.

But, I am not responsible. I am not SuperWoman.  I am not supposed to be the savior of each person who suffers under his grip.

Or am I?

I know I am not responsible for who he is or his actions.  I am working hard to accept that. But am I also absolved of responsibility for how his actions may affect others? What if I could warn them? What if I could protect them? Didn’t someone say once, that to abstain from acting speaks louder than any action?

But to be fair, this altruistic angst is not all that eats me.  I am angry that a version of me lives out there.  A version over which I have no control. A version that is made up, with beautiful shades of malice and artful layers of gall, by the Monster. All lies. All expressed genuinely, I’m sure it appears, with a touch of sadness and a pinch of regret.  All the more to convince his audience of his sincerity.  All the more to pass himself off as a victim.

I wonder if my sense of responsibility for others is perhaps tinged by a desire to rectify the lies being spewed about me. A need to assert myself as one Me and erase that invented, ungracious version. When this thought hits me, I remind myself that I can only control so much, if anything.  Perspectives are subjective.  The people who know me know the real Me. I hope.  I should not care about those who wish to believe the Monster.  They believe a fantasy.  I can only ever affect that by being Me.  As real and good of a Me as I can be, every day.

I finished reading The Sociopath Next Door recently. Finally. It was a grueling read for me, best done little therapeutic bit by little therapeutic bit. It is not a perfect book, and none of the case studies accurately fits my father. But close enough.  It has been tremendously helpful.  The best advice Stout gives, in her tips for dealing with sociopaths, is to get away from them. Run! As far and as fast as you can. And don’t look back.

Oh, I am trying.

Apologies and Christmas Thoughts

I haven’t written much lately. I feel I owe an apology to my few but loyal readers. Or an explanation. Only there isn’t a good one. It is more an array of reasons.

First, I have to admit I’ve been a bit petrified by Coco’s nomination for Julie Pippert’s December Class of Amazing New Blogs. While incredibly flattered and grateful, I think it somehow made this whole little online endeavor a bit too official and legit. It freaked me out and I froze. What to write that would be worthy? Nothing has seemed good enough a subject.

Second, my Angel has been very needy lately. One of those phases where he requires his mommy’s attention, arms, voice, smile, milk, smell and heartbeat on a near constant basis. He has needed to be held, nursed, rocked, played with, sung and read to, a lot, for a couple of weeks now. The house is a disaster but it can wait. My little guy is only going to be this small for so long. Reflecting on their life journey, I doubt anyone on their deathbed ever regretted cuddling with their babies and paying some focused attention to them. Quite the opposite. As the Rebel would say, taking care of our Angel is the most important job I have right now. Everything else can wait. Unfortunately, my writing is included in the “everything else”.

Third, the holidays are upon us and in what little free time I’ve found recently, I have been busy shopping for gifts, baking, decorating, planning menus, and attending a few parties. I love this time of year.

And this is a perfect segue to the last and probably most important reason for my blogging absence: I have been happy lately. The dark cloud has lifted quite a bit in recent weeks. I am not sure what the turning point was. Perhaps this focus on Christmas is lifting my spirits.

While I love this holiday, my enthusiasm has often been dampened in years past by my father’s purposeful efforts to be the biggest scrooge on earth, or by family drama of some sort. This year, however, I find renewed energy for enjoying the holiday. You see, this is my Angel’s first Christmas and being a mother puts in all in perspective for me. I want to start meaningful traditions, I want to make and purchase thoughtful gifts. I want to spend time doing things for and thinking of others. And, I want my baby to be happy.

I remember so many Christmas mornings ruined by the Monster. Like many children around the globe on December 25, my siblings and I would rise with the sun, anxious to open gifts. Every Christmas morning, part of our family tradition was for my father to take as long as he possibly could to get out of bed while all 3 (and then 4) of us kids begged him to get up from behind the living room door. Fidgeting with consuming impatience to get past this last barrier so we could discover what gifts awaited us under the lit tree and in our stockings. For some reason, it was important to us that our father be there to witness our awe at the magic of Santa Claus’ visit. Even when the older kids knew “Santa” was my Mom in her flannel pajamas dragging trash bags full of neatly wrapped gifts out of the garage at dawn and artfully arranging them under the tree, there was always a younger sibling for whom we had to uphold the myth. Once the Monster was finally up, we would rush into the living room and try to enjoy the morning. Inevitably though, my father would make some snide comments about the choice of certain gifts, or roll his eyes at my Mom, or chastise her in a theatrical whisper for spending too much money. She, of course, was the sole party responsible for orchestrating the Christmas festivities.

When I was younger, I thought my father was teasing us, making us wait so. With age and perspective, I realized he actually took a sadistic pleasure in making us wait. He languished in our naive, desperate desire for his presence. That, or he just didn’t give a flying rat’s ass about his children and preferred to linger under the warm covers, and under the pretense that patience was a good skill to teach us. There is probably a bit of truth to both theories. Toward the end of my parents’ marriage, the Monster would let the time drag longer and longer before rising, and I believe this Christmas morning ritual became a way for him to taunt or punish my Mom for whom the holiday was important (because of what it meant to her children). Until one year, she finally refused to let him have his fun, and ushered us into the living room without waiting for him. Rebellion! We opened presents without his presence.

It was quite a turning point. For us all to see that life could go on without the Monster’s self-important attendance. To see him asserting himself as the childish, selfish being that he was. To see him going a step too far and voluntarily diminishing himself in our eyes. And to see my Mom demonstrate the authority we believed she wasn’t allowed to own.

I think my father realized he dug his own grave on this one. He stayed in bed most of that morning, sulking, getting up only when nearly all of the gifts had been opened. Nonchalantly strolling into the room, pretending he hadn’t noticed anything had changed in our dysfunctional Christmas morning tradition. That same year, he barely looked at the gift I got him, which he only opened grudgingly because I was standing there next to him expectantly. Like many others, I remember that particular slap in the face vividly. But, he had warned us a few weeks before Christmas he didn’t want any presents. So I guess I deserved his contempt.

All this sickening reminiscence to get to the point that, this year, I have the beautiful opportunity to start fresh and make Christmas for my baby what it ought to have been for me. This sense of control over my destiny — in terms of things Christmas-related — makes me feel grounded. It makes me feel happy and giddy and hopeful and powerful, like I haven’t felt in quite some time. Probably because this sense of control over this part of my life adds another layer of distance between me and the Monster. It concretizes the progress I’ve made in separating myself from my father and his poisonous, destructive, manipulative dynamics.

And, as often happens when I am happy, I don’t think of the Monster so much these days. I don’t brood over my issues with him. It is easier to dismiss him as an afterthought. As a result, I don’t feel the urge to write and hash out my angst in words. If I liken this blog to my therapy experience, I’m going through one of those phases when a therapy session used to feel pointless. I would go in, sit on the couch, smile rigidly at my therapist, and start the session with an awkward silence. I would let it be known that there wasn’t much to discuss this particular week. I would then babble on about the latest trivial occurrences and eventually, usually, some thread of thought or discussion would come up and lead us somewhere more or less interesting.

Perhaps I need to do the same thing with my writing. Perhaps this realization is good incentive to make it a weekly habit. At the same time, I can’t force it. I started this process to find some therapeutic relief and it has been quite organic. I don’t want it to become a burden. I don’t want to see it as a chore or resent my readership. Yet, even those seemingly pointless therapy sessions contributed to a beneficial whole. I may make weekly writing a New Year’s resolution. We shall see.

 

Three Good Things

Recently, fellow blogger Coco wrote a lovely post, describing three things she liked about herself. Any reader of that post could consider themselves tagged to do the same. The challenge in writing these three good things is the focus on the “good”. Being prone to self-deprecation and constant disclaimers, I thought this would be a fruitful exercise for me.

It is an especially trying exercise in that I am today in the foulest mood I’ve experienced in a long time. I’m not sure whether it is fatigue, hormones, or simply that today was rough. Stuck between four walls with a little one who did not want to sleep. Naps are a mother’s respite in a stay-at-home routine. Naps offer a recharge of energy, of sanity. But, my Angel did not want to sleep today and so, no naps. I did not get a break. I’m not talking about a break to rest with my feet up or watch Oprah, but a break in baby pace that would have allowed me to cross things off my increasingly elastic To Do list and, selfishly, to be alone with my thoughts for a moment.

To add insult to injury, the Rebel was particularly insensitive to my plight when he got home from his own grueling day at work. At his “real” job. I will spare you my passionate perspective on the mommy wars. Needless to say, I am cranky. I am tired, needy, sore. Wishing my husband would grasp this and apologize for hurting my feelings without my having to hint or gripe about it. For once. I wish he would blast through my grumpy armor with a warm, cozy hug and bring me back into balance. Unfortunately, he is in the other room, absorbed by the television. Clueless and unaware, or doing a damn good job at pretending.

Ugh. Why did I start writing this post? I really would rather go curl up in bed with a good book. Or perhaps flip through myriad channels until I find suitable mindless entertainment.

But, this will be productive and beneficial for me. I will make it a therapeutic exercise of sorts, and determine how the Monster has helped shape these three good things, directly or inadvertently.

1) We will start with an a propos reminder: I am good at being the bigger person. I am able to step back from a conflict situation or argument, and evaluate the right and wrong, the pros and cons. I can analyze myself, my feelings, impulses, motivations — and recognize where I might have erred. I am not afraid to apologize. I can offer a truce or an invitation for calm discussion. I do not hold grudges.

Nope. I do not hold grudges. Even with the Monster. I may have a lot of unresolved feelings toward my father. But a grudge is not one of them. I have no ill will toward him, and am very proud of that fact. In fact, it makes me feel strong, whole, and like a good person to realize that while I carry the burden of many scars because of him, I do not wish him pain, misfortune or the same weight on his shoulders.

2) I can find something to like about everyone I meet. Being an adept judge of character, my first impressions are rarely proven wrong. Yet, even if my initial analysis of a person is overwhelmingly unfavorable, I often find myself seeking that one positive trait, that glimpse of a sympathetic feature. I always can. It does not mean I will like that person, or absolve them of responsibility for objectionable behavior. But, my empathy is a major participant when sizing others up and helps me accept and mesh with folks from all walks of life and all points on the spectrum of personalities. I am a frequent devil’s advocate.

I must engage in this behavior based on my past. Childhood in the shadow of a sociopath throws one for a loop. To reconcile my father’s demonstrations of antisocial, unloving behavior with his role as a “caregiver”, I must have jumped through hoops to find something to like about him. I hunted those positive traits. I hung onto them, like prized possessions. Old habits die hard.

3) One of my favorite qualities is my integrity. I think it is my strength, my guiding light, my depth. Here again, the Monster is an important formative influence. Witnessing his despicable behavior from an early age, I was acutely aware of his lack of ethics, dishonesty and emotionally abusive personality. I had no control over my father’s actions and words, but felt responsible for their destructive impact on others.

Listening to my conscience. Letting myself be guided by empathetic emotion. Putting myself in people’s shoes. Treating others like I would want to be treated. Trusting my compass, my sense of right and wrong. And putting my money where my mouth is. Sacrificing personal benefit for a greater good. That is how I live my life, and I cherish this about myself.

So, these are my three things. I can relate each of them to my father, and that is somewhat disturbing. He is after all and always a large part of who I am, including the three things I like most about myself. However, I take heart in noting that he is only part of these good things by virtue of having been an influence in my life, not an example or model.

I feel better. Foul mood averted. The Rebel fell asleep in front of the television. I am going to go wake him up with a kiss and we will go to bed. All forgiven and forgotten. Ready for a restorative night of sleep. And a new tomorrow.

Late Night Thoughts

It’s late. The house is dark. My two loves are sleeping in the next room. When they slumber, it is astounding how much they look alike. Father and son.

I lie awake in bed, looking at them, one on each side of me.

The Rebel is curled up with one too many pillows, bound to result in a sore neck tomorrow morning. If I attempt to wake him though, and encourage something a bit more ergonomic, he mutters sleepily and shifts to an even more uncomfortable position. So be it. It brings a grin to my face.

Our Angel, so peaceful, is dreaming with his arms sprawled out over his head. He’s nearly outgrowing the cosleeper we have rigged to the side of our bed. I can’t help but lay my hand gently on his chest. It rises, up and down, up and down. As he draws a baby breath, in and out, in and out. I rest another blanket on his plump frame. It is chilly tonight. He is so little. So beautiful. So perfect.

I look at them, my two loves, one on each side of me. And my heart swells in my chest. About to burst.

The two of them complete me. I feel whole. So much love, happiness, fulfillment. Hope. And unrest.

Like so many nights recently, I can’t sleep. It’s not too late yet, but there is a familiar tumult in my head. So I creep out of bed, tip-toeing my way on the creaky hardwood floor to a room where I can be alone.

I wonder if the Monster ever felt such a surge of love when looking at me. A few months ago, I found a photo of my father holding me when I was around my Angel’s age. It has haunted me since. In this photo, I am too little to be quite aware of my surroundings. My father is smiling happily. Is he happy? Is he proud? Did someone crack a joke in the room? Does he feel silly holding a baby? Does he feel manly and powerful, showing proof that he has reproduced?

I wonder if the Monster ever was able to feel the same joy and awe I do when looking at my Angel. That kind of burning, unconditional, all-encompassing love that makes any given moment brighter, more beautiful, more meaningful. That inability to withhold a smile. That explosion of warmth in the chest. That unspoken but inherent promise to do all I can to protect and nurture.

I think not.

What a shame.

I feel sorry for the Monster sometimes. Often. How sad to miss out on such a vital part of life. Love. It brings tears to my eyes.

Tears of sadness for him. Brushing off something so amazing.  Coldly.  Without a clue.

Tears of pain for me. For having to let go of my hope. My hope for a father’s love. A father who is incapable of loving.

Tears of joy for my baby. And a prayer. May I be for him everything that my father was not.

Here He Is Again

The Monster has reared his ugly head again.

No matter how much I try to keep him out of my life, every so often my father manages to let me know he is watching. He keeps track. He knows about me, mine and our life.

My husband and I have an online family journal with which we keep our friends and extended families updated about our goings-on. The Rebel and I have both moved repeatedly before and since meeting each other. We thus have pockets of friends scattered throughout the country and the rest of the world. Our blog is a convenient medium through which to keep our family and acquaintances near and far in the loop about our Angel, our projects and activities, our thoughts on life and other such things.

That online journal is no secret, by virtue of being publicly accessible via the internet. My father came upon it, either by searching for us online or being pointed to it by my brother Victor who has confused loyalties. Thanks to tracking engines, we have figured out when the Monster visits. He does so obsessively. This was troubling enough, as I know he meticulously reads everything the Rebel and I write, taking mental notes about which information he may manipulate or use to badmouth us later. However, disturbing as that knowledge may be, I’ve learned to deal with it because the benefits of our family blog outweigh the pesky negative of the Monster’s lurking.

What makes this bitter pill harder to swallow is when my father becomes an active participant in this part of our life. Over the past six months or so, the Monster has sporadically posted comments on our family blog. He refuses to identify himself, instead posting as “Anonymous”. Every bit the coward he accuses others to be. Needless to say, his comments are always negative and, strangely, solely aimed at my husband. Under the guise of an inquisitive and contemptuously polite tone, his comments are for the most part derogatory or even aggressive toward the Rebel’s thoughts and opinions. I am not sure whether the Monster thinks he’ll affect me more effectively by tormenting someone I love. Or perhaps he is crazy enough to think he might convert the Rebel to his point of view.

Despite professing his anonymity, the Monster is an open book. In addition to his presence being confirmed by web analytics, his obvious tells are those of a poor poker player. He uses the same rhetoric — down to the exact same words — he used to employ in his demeaning arguments with me years ago. It’s always lofty, condescending and vague, touting important words such as “justice”, “ethics”, “responsibility”, “respect”, and other concepts that are utterly unfamiliar to him — but do sound impressive. He often quotes a dictionary definition or a famous thinker’s words, so as to legitimize his venom. He criticizes, demeans and mocks, while making demands for integrity. Integrity, I could not think of a quality more foreign to him.

The Rebel doesn’t take well to being put down, particularly when it is unfair and unjustified. At first, he reacted impulsively, bent on defending his honor and principles, and there ensued a war of words. I realize the comment section of a small family blog is quite inconsequential to the world at large. But this virtual fight between the two most important men in my life stressed me out of my mind. Striving to keep my anguish in check, I explained the mechanisms of the sociopath to my infuriated husband. I attempted to defuse his anger by outlining how arguing with that kind of a disturbed character is pointless. The Rebel quickly grasped the essence of those dynamics and his outrage morphed into a slightly twisted form of amusement. He began to make a sport of answering the Monster’s vile comments with aplomb, sarcasm and a righteous confidence I never had the self-esteem to muster. Witnessing this written combat, I was both in awe and in distress.

Of course, a sociopath needs to win. And I believe the Monster was at first shocked by my husband’s audacity, which he surely must have labeled disrespectful. He then shifted into higher gear and let his guard down, spewing insults and slander left and right. What the Monster didn’t expect is for our community of loyal readers — consisting, of course, of family and friends (most of whom actually know my father) — to come to the rescue and berate this Anonymous commenter for his unwarranted affronts. Seemingly unaffected by the collective backlash, the Monster marched on, replying with the same virulence until we finally decided to delete his comments. We should have done so from the start. But the decision to delete the Monster’s comments came after a wave of exhausting family drama, my siblings all chiming in with their variety of loud opinions regarding the Rebel’s reactions to my father’s words.

Stress and distress aside, these confrontational exchanges between my husband and my father on our family blog led to my having a breakthrough of sorts. You see, one of our friends, disgusted by the Monster’s words, called him an “idiot” in her chivalrous comment. My reaction was significant of the depth of my emotional troubles. Upon reading that word, my heart sank. On one hand, because I was afraid of the Monster’s reaction. How dare someone talk to him in that “tone”? My father was going to be angry. On the other hand, because I felt sorry for the Monster. This word was going to hurt his feelings and I felt the urge to protect him.

“Why, oh why, do I feel responsible, or even guilty, for the Monster?” I abruptly asked myself. He brought this onto himself. AS HE ALWAYS DOES. The realization of this cause-and-effect process was momentous. All of a sudden, I understood that I should not feel guilty for the consequences of my father’s actions. He is an adult. As such, he ought to be responsible for his actions. Especially because he, alone, stirs up the shit. He, alone, causes trouble. He, alone, causes drama. He, alone, is malevolent.

Since this breakthrough of sorts, my emotions about the Monster’s poisonous involvement have spiraled from high-strung to increasingly more distant and cold. Of course, everything is relative. Let’s just say I have added a filter to my perspective and it is most helpful. The Monster continues to comment on the Rebel’s posts every so often. A month or so ago, he even took on a few different, fictional identities, attempting to distance himself from his Anonymous label. That switch-a-roo nearly managed to fool my husband who, after answering to the critical comments of these “strangers” honestly and respectfully, was doubly shocked when he realized the extent of my father’s insanity. How can anyone be both so hateful and childish in their determination to deride another?

I believe the Monster is resolute to teach the Rebel a lesson. As if that were his mission in life. His fatherly duty toward a son-in-law he has never met. Since I no longer acknowledge him, my father must also think he can indirectly edify me by whipping my Rebel into shape. The concept is laughable, as my husband is a hundred times the adult that my father will never be. I can hear the Monster as if he were in front of me. “Someone must put that kid in his place.” “I’ll show him how things work in the real world.” “I’ll teach him respect.” My father has never understood the two-way street of respect, confusing others’ fear of him with it. It of course would never occur to him that he doesn’t deserve respect, despite the fact that he doesn’t dish it out for anyone.

And, I am exhausted just recognizing this: the Monster has just begun. Like any good sociopath, he needs to feel dominant, victorious. At the moment, he is honing his tactics, sharpening his knives. He now posts his comments during the night, undoubtedly hoping that some readers will see them or perhaps even respond before we can get to them in the morning. He reposts the comments we delete, one, two, three times before he gives up on that one. Until the next one. Since we are unwilling to change the settings of our blog at this point, our community of family and friends being more important than my pest of a father, I think we will continue to have to deal with his antics for some time to come.

So, once again the Monster is back. Trying his best to poison my world, to claim his insidious stake in my life. But things have changed. Ironically, the more he asserts his pernicious presence, thereby showing his true colors, the more I find myself discerning the layers of his antisocial personality and distancing myself. Shedding those bits and scraps of him that have been embedded within me. Pulling those splinters out, one at a time. The Monster may need to win. But as long as I remember to not let him reach the heart of me, he never will.

Anonymity

The Rebel and I have the kind of marriage where there are no secrets. I trust him completely, wholeheartedly. And I tell him the truth about everything, sometimes candidly so, omitting nothing aside simply from those things I forget. With this blog, however, I have backed myself into a corner and created the first lie by omission, the first unshared notable experience. The first secret.

While the writing has been enjoyable, keeping this secret from my life partner and best friend has not been. I have itched, burned to tell him so many times. But a fierce, protective urge kept me from it. Until yesterday. Finally, when I reached the edge of the cliff — should I say the words? should I not? — I spontaneously pushed myself to jump. I told him that I had been blogging. For about a month. Following his suggestion. As a form of therapy. To deal with all that baggage with my father.

Funny how once the words were out of my mouth, they tasted stale. As soon as I had divulged it, my secret lost its sheen. And I realized how instead of inviting my husband into the joy of sharing this secret with me, I hurt him retroactively by not having done so from the start. He was hurt, and it surprised me, for about a second. I then became afraid I hurt my marriage. I kept a secret from the Rebel and by doing so, I broke a little piece off our trust in each other. By so doing, I also gave him the right to keep a secret from me.

Writing here has been an intensely private and trying process for me, pulling all those thoughts and feelings and analysis out of myself and onto the screen. It is akin to therapy, and as such, it is not something I feel comfortable sharing with those around me. I have tried to maintain my anonymity in every way, shape and form while I blog. I am well aware that this shield is not foolproof but that does not matter. The concept of that anonymity is what matters, rather than its absolute success. For others’ sake as well as for mine. A relatively incognito online existence allows me to protect those in my life about whom I may speak frankly here, while giving me space to be honest with myself about the whole process.

I told the Rebel I didn’t want him to read my writing here. I don’t know if that was accurate. I feel unsure about the whole thing. About him knowing, about him not knowing. About him reading, about him not reading. I resent having to keep this a secret from him. I would like for us to share it. For him to have that insight into my heart and soul. Yet the game loses its purpose if he becomes involved.

It all comes down to the magical benefits of online anonymity. No one in my “real life” knows I write here. I know this is a common attribute among many online scribes, understandably so. The pseudonymous nature of this endeavor allows me to avoid pressure of any kind as I put words onto the digital page. I only owe myself to write. As I begin to have readers, the pressure is mounting to keep my prose up . But this is welcome encouragement, tied into the complex process of self inquiry. My whole point here is to be truthful. Without anonymity, considerable real life ramifications come into play. How can I be unreserved if I become afraid it may hurt others or my relationships with them?

Looking back on my spontaneous decision to unmask myself to my husband yesterday, I am mostly happy and relieved. The Rebel can be tremendously respectful. He is also brilliant. I know he can figure out where my writing lives on the internet. I also know he is smart enough to visit this place without my awareness. Should he decide to be curious and come upon this site, he grasps the importance of my anonymous safety and has the heart to let me believe it remains so.

I will continue to push myself toward self-truth and awareness, as if he weren’t part of this online world. I will pretend I cannot hear that little voice that tells me otherwise. And he can use the key to my domain of anonymity as he wishes. I owe him a secret, after all.

Trauma

Once in a while, I hear or read words that suddenly make me reevaluate everything I thought I knew about something, someone or myself. Recently, this happened.

Trying to take an active stance in my emotional struggles, I have been doing a lot of research lately, about sociopaths, antisocial personality disorder and behavior, and the effect of such people on their victims. In the midst of some online probe, I came across a blog post by a mother whose daughter had been married to and abused by a sociopath. She described her daughter as demonstrating typical symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder. The concept was new, yet the list of symptoms was singularly familiar and thus puzzling. Following this new thread of thought, I oriented my net surfing to the subject of trauma and its victims.

I then came upon this article by experts in the matter of psychological trauma which I found enlightening. What a shocking and soothing surprise to realize that many of my feelings and anxieties actually fit into one oddly neat box. All my neurotic thoughts; random yet consuming memories of unpleasant events; feelings of paranoia and lack of safety; crushingly poor self-esteem. My depression, anxiety, guilt. They all emanate from the same place. A traumatic stress reaction. Fitting myself into that diagnosis is like placing that last piece of the puzzle that suddenly makes the whole picture take shape. That messy mix of emotions that makes me feel so discombobulated so much of the time turns out to follow a standard and organized list. Amazing.

Before I go any further, let me acknowledge that I am no professional shrink. I thus take my self-diagnosis with a grain of salt. And I am not claiming that I suffer from full blown PTSD. That being said, the symptoms of Traumatic Stress are similar, just less intense. Additionally, a key aspect of psychological trauma is whether the victim subjectively feels they have been traumatized, and I do. It all makes sense now.

Psychological trauma is the unique individual experience of an event or enduring conditions, in which:

1. The individual’s ability to integrate his/her emotional experience is overwhelmed, or
2. The individual experiences (subjectively) a threat to life, bodily integrity, or sanity.

(Pearlman & Saakvitne, 1995, p. 60)

The article goes on to explain that circumstances of the traumatic event commonly include abuse of power, betrayal of trust, entrapment, helplessness, pain, confusion, and/or loss. Check, check, check.

The worst situation is when the injury is caused deliberately in a relationship with a person on whom the victim is dependent—most specifically a parent-child relationship. Check.

The traumatic experiences that result in the most serious mental health problems are prolonged and repeated, sometimes extending over years of a person’s life. Yep.

These experiences, while usually physical or sexual in nature, may also consist of emotional and verbal abuse as well as witnessing violence directed towards a caregiver. Once again, little check marks on the list.

Psychological effects are likely to be most severe if the trauma meets the following short list of criteria. Here I define how my personal experience with the Monster fits in.

• Human caused

Until proven otherwise, the Monster is a human being, albeit doing a poor job at it.

• Repeated

I would consider daily verbal and emotional abuse, as well as daily witnessing of verbal, emotional and at times physical abuse against my Mom, a repeated traumatic experience.

• Undergone in childhood

While my realization and analysis of my father’s condition came when I was a teenager and young adult, I endured his abusive personality and the traumatic experience of living under his roof from the time of my birth. Walking around on eggshells and overachieving in hope of some improbable approval were skills I learned quite young.

• Unpredictable

Inconsistency and unpredictability were the Monster’s favorite tools in exerting his power over us. He may have been in a great mood one minute, but could turn foul the next without rhyme or reason. I used to grab onto his good moods like a rodeo cowboy on a dancing bull. If I held on tight enough, desperately enough, his happy disposition would perhaps last. Alas, it was all subject to a whim, a breeze, a draft.

If he made a promise — for something fun, like going to the movies or the bookstore — no matter how much I minded my p’s and q’s, the most innocuous step out of line in his eye would cause him to change his mind and thereby break the promise. Most likely, he had found something more interesting with which to occupy himself and was looking for a convenient reason to get out of his promises. But from where I stood, the tide was abruptly changing and there was no logic to the flips and flops of his behavior.

• Multifaceted

The calling of names and use of demeaning put-downs. The oppressive guilt trips. The conditional demonstrations of affection. The bullying and ridiculing of my lovable Mom. The insinuated but nonetheless real threats to my security and happiness. The bewildering lies affirmed with such staggering conviction they chipped off bits of my sanity, one at a time.

• Sadistic

This criterion poses a problem for me. While many of the Monster’s actions toward me were in essence mean-spirited, destructive and harmful, I can’t decide whether they were purposely meant to hurt. And that is the key in calling someone a “sadist”.

Incidentally, my phobia of rodents triggered by some indicative mice droppings in our kitchen yesterday, I tearfully told my husband of a relevant day in my pre-teen years. On that day, ordered to help my parents clean out an old stable room on our farm house’s property, I had grudgingly complied but complained to my mother of discomfort caused by a mild dust and mold allergy. My father, within earshot and wanting to teach me a lesson for whining, pointed to an old broken down cardboard box that he had designated for me to drag to the other side of the yard where it would later be burnt. As I pulled the box, it tore open, revealing a gutted, rotting dead rat nestled inside. I remember the electric jolt of shock and horror and feeling suddenly frozen to the core. Frozen at the sight of the unsightly dead animal. Frozen as the comprehension of my father’s incomprehensible action showered me like hail. I remember the half-cocky half-annoyed laughter of the Monster, echoing in my ears as I ran away brokenly. Feeling ashamed, of all things.

I feel compelled to label the Monster’s behavior on that traumatizing day that of a sadist. I am still angry, disgusted and sick over it, almost twenty years later. The Rebel disagrees, claiming that instead of sadistic my father was stupid, intending to (very inadequately) teach me a lesson. The purpose being that of teaching, rather than that of hurting, I supposedly cannot call it sadism, even if the lesson hurt profoundly.

The Rebel may have a point and so, my thoughts are still hanging in the balance on this one. Either way, the Monster was not a nice guy.

• And perpetrated by a caregiver

This one makes me chuckle with cynicism. My father was a parent, by virtue of having donated sperm and being married to our Mom. He was supposed to be a caregiver, but examining the specifics clearly leads me to think otherwise.

The Monster brought home the bacon, or something like it. We had a roof over our head, food on our plates and clothes on our back, although it was all paid for by money that would later be demanded in lawsuits against the Monster. He was home a lot, even if his interactions with me and my siblings consisted of his barking orders and demands and our complying like a well-trained army of little elves. He was occasionally affectionate, dishing out hugs and kisses when only he felt like it, even if that urge came right when he had just chastised us unfairly, destroyed our cheerful mood or squashed our spirit. I don’t think he ever changed a diaper, cooked a meal or helped with homework.

. . .

Outlining these criteria for trauma, I can’t help but be astounded that I didn’t understand it all sooner. My father is an abuser, straight out of the textbook. A definition-perfect sociopath. Why shouldn’t my reaction accordingly be that of a traditional victim? Perhaps I have feared the naked self-awareness that comes with acknowledging victimization, not wanting to allow the Monster that power over me. But the damage is done, and I can only hope that grasping the reality of my scars will help me heal them.

Cloudy Days

I’m back from a few days visiting family. It was both wonderful and damaging to see them. My Angel and I stayed at my sister’s house. Marie and her Sweet Pea were lovely hosts and made for some great company. However, seeing my family and being back in that environment always shakes up all sorts of feelings. I haven’t been the same since my return. The dark cloud is back, I think. What irony to be making this acknowledgment just as an autumn storm brews outside, thunder rolling and all. How cinematic.

I can’t tell when this feeling started. Whether I was distracted from it, being away from my routine for a short week. Or perhaps being around family in familiar surroundings where the Monster is part of the fabric triggered it. Regardless, I notice the symptoms and take note. That fog just behind my eyes. Extreme procrastination. Self-deprecation and guilt. Anxiety over things I cannot control: weather, politics, pollution, the prospect of terminal illness, death.

I stay up at night, I don’t want to go to sleep, regardless of how tired I may be. It takes a conscious effort to get out of bed in the morning, regardless of how busy my day may be ahead. I think dark thoughts when I see a sharp knife. Nothing concretely suicidal, but I notice the possibility. The threat is there, lurking. The dreams are back: anxious fretful dreams of being lost in big, confusing, impersonal buildings and pursued by random strangers.

I feel fake, smiling and cooing for my Angel. I am afraid that his pure, innocent little soul will see through me. I am afraid of tainting him somehow. I wish he would sleep all day because taking care of him tires me. It demands so much of me emotionally. But when he’s awake from his nap, I can’t stop kissing him, hugging him. I am so grateful for that little guy. He creates a different framework for my emotions.

Honestly, it isn’t nearly as bad as it has been. Yet. And I think I can kick this dark cloud in the nuts. I hope so. I really want to.

My husband saw me crumble into tears this weekend and told me “Don’t let your father do this to you.”

It is an interesting perspective, a productive use of words. My father is “doing this” to me.

Yes, my depression is caused by my relationship — or lack thereof — with my father, I am convinced of it. I was doing just fine since therapy ended a year ago. My learnings were put to good use and I have grown and been happy. However, the Monster has been back in my life over the past few months, directly and indirectly. Clearly, that is the reason for my relapse, or the beginning of it.

Yet equating my depression and its confusing, insidious symptoms with my father and his abusive antics requires a leap of faith for me. There is a missing link somewhere.