I just discovered this sub and though I am much better now, perhaps my story can help someone else identify things wrong in their own lives. Also I might help someone to believe that things can eventually turn out fine.
My parents divorced soon after the birth of my younger sister, the third child. My grandmother informed me later in life that my mother cheated on him frequently and he knew, but he let it slide, in an admittedly admirable attempt, in his words, "to salvage the family." They fought about everything. "Who filled the dishwasher last?" was one of many questions sure to bring about an all out screaming match. The was never any physical abuse in my family that I witnessed. My father was much more likely to just give up in the end and let my mom 'take the victory,' even though he was nearly equally stubborn.
One of my very first memories is being in my mom's car, hysterically crying after my mom explained that they were divorcing. I don't think I actually knew what any of this meant. I was maybe 5 years old, but my older sister was crying, so I emulated. After the divorce, my father was as bachelor as they come. Fish tank and TV on the floor, not a single decoration on the wall, refried beans microwaved on a tortilla was a meal, and freeze pops were dessert. Those were some of the best days of my life. Jumping on your bed or the couch, running and horse play inside was all legal, perhaps encouraged.
Though he lacked the ability to furnish a house, he was very able to involve himself with his children and encourage learning and the pursuit of intelligence. He is a very intelligent man himself, as a nuclear engineer working on nuclear submarines. No opportunity to learn was neglected. He was very fond of quizzing us on titles, album names, band names, band member names when any song came on, and informing us when we didn't have the correct answer. He would ask us to add/subtract/multiply/divide the numbers from a license plate on an arbitrarily selected car.
My mother, though she had the bulk of custody, was very inactive with us. She quickly married one of the men she cheated on my father with, who I believe was more than twice her age. She seemed more interested in playing him, than raising us. He was a great man and was always overly pleasant to all of us. I have a fond memory of him taking us on a vacation to Aruba. He took me to a 'special' beach to see the 'sunny side ups.' It was a nude beach and prepubescent me was VERY thankful for this gesture(am male). Old, rich, having his gold dug and probably aware of it, but such may be the price of landing a young piece of ass at his age.
My father spent a great deal of time single, but he eventually started dating a lawyer. She was mostly pretty awesome, definitely more strict than my father, but the rules were reasonable and my sisters and I were gladly obedient. We had many great times in any of her three magnificent houses, so following a few rules was a small price to pay. I still don't know what came between them, but I suspect it was the massive disparity in their finances. Frankly, she absolutely was out of his league professionally. Oddly, she gave my father the contact information of a friend of hers(P) that might be more suitable to him. That strikes me as such a strange gesture, but I digress. She likely had no idea, but in doing that, she destroyed my and my sisters' childhood.
My sisters my P before I did and told me they didn't like her. I forget their reasoning, but I remained open-minded. I remember having the clarity of thought at around 10 years old that I wouldn't judge her until I met her. The day came and my dad brought me to her apartment. Spotless place, well decorated, it felt comfortable on the surface. I met her son(J), he was my age and if I remember correctly, we watched cartoons on his TV in his bedroom after meeting. She cooked us dinner, meatloaf packed with onions, two things I hated and that my dad knew I hated. My father was uncharacteristically adamant that I eat this meatloaf. I felt like I had to since I had so much vested trust in him and I'd never seen him this angry about nearly anything especially food.
I forced myself to eat as much as I could. I know this sounds overly dramatic, most kids have to eat the foods they don't like. But I started to feel sick to my stomach, so I got up from the table to get myself some water to help me out. P made a sort of huffy puffy noise and signaled for my father to follow her. They both went into a different room as J cleaned up his plate and went to his room. My father and P came back, cleaned up their plates and my father came to me and firmly told me that I am never to get up from the table without asking permission and I am absolutely not to ever open the refrigerator without permission ever again. He then left me in the dining room, alone, not to leave until my meatloaf was eaten.
I sat at the table for around two hours, not eating this meatloaf, crying. What happened to my father to change him so drastically? Two weeks ago I could practice wrestling moves with my sisters on the couch, now I can't help myself to water. With a wet face, defeated, I finished my meatloaf and was ignored for the rest of the night. This was just a taste of what was to come. I had no idea how much worse my life was about to become. From that point, any and all glimmer of life within me was suppressed.
It was mandated that every time I enter the house, I must address P with a formal salutation, which she would lift her nose at and ignore. I once ignored this rule and walked right past her. I felt like such a badass and my heart was pounding. I heard P bark an order at my father, who immediately came into my room and screamed at me. If I was ever spoken to, the volume was maximum. My punishment was to write fifty pages of lines front and back, "I will say hello to P." Writing lines was typically my punishment for everything, as I had nothing that could be taken from me. It seemed that I was not punished for my actions, but simply because it had been too long since my last punishment.
J was the star child. He was perfect. He did no wrong. He was rewarded for seemingly nothing. It was constantly made clear that he was my superior. My father once left the house 'to go to the dump' and returned with only enough ice creams for himself, P, and J. Once my father and P left the house and made it very clear that J is in charge while they were gone. Well, J fell asleep. The phone rang and I did not dare answer it, I would be punished if I touch the phone and talk to an outsider without permission. The phone rang again and again and again. The phone rang for more than 30 minutes, all the while J slept. When my father and P returned, they found that J was asleep. I was immediately punished for not answering the phone even though I insisted that J was in charge, not me.
School was my escape. I was so happy to go to school every morning, not because I liked it, but because it wasn't home. I felt my most human at school even though I was shy and socially awkward. Not every move I made was a reprehensible action. People talked to me, even girls sometimes. I fell in love with a girl(k) and she lived on my street. I asked her to be my girlfriend, though I was crippled with fear of doing so. I had learned to expect nothing but failure. Amazingly, she said yes. That day, before I got off the bus, I gave K a hug. P watched me through the house window. Before I could perform my daily salutation, I was being screamed at for hugging a girl. I was wrong, another mistake. 50 or so pages of, "I will not touch girls." Soon after, P took a job at my school and essentially invaded what shelter I once had.
The most heinous 'crime' I committed is the most convincing evidence that P has a severe mental disorder. One Saturday morning I was instructed to leave my room, go outside with J and watch him play with something I wasn't allowed to have probably. A few hours passed and about midday, P initiated a panic in the house. One of the cats could not be found. She demanded that everybody assisted with the search. We searched everywhere, under the beds, in the closets, in the basement. Once the panic was ripe, P made the oddly specific suggestion that I should search the drawers of my dresser. What little clothes I had were packed into my dresser, I had to force the clothes down to close every drawer. I confidently stated that I could not have possibly closed the cat in a drawer because there would not be enough room for her to even fit. P insisted knowingly. Sure enough, as I was watched opening my drawers the cat was packed into one. She was alive thankfully, but I was accused of jamming the cat into my drawer for no apparent reason.
When my older sister was old enough to go to high school, she took a stand. On my mother's weekend, she refused to go back to my father's. Somehow it worked, but then I lost her influence. I looked up to her and when she left, I had to fill that role for my little sister. I became her father figure at 13 years old. I became the senior officer of the resistance movement. We were our only sources of comfort in that house for years.
P would serve a hot dinner and loudly call to my father and J that dinner was ready for them. My sister and I were to wait until the hot dinner was cleared. Then, and only then, were cleared to enter the kitchen and prepare ourselves a meal from what was left out. Usually a weak portion of lunch meat and white bread, after which we were to clean up and go back to the confinement of our rooms. As I grew older, I started to realize just how messed up everything was. I had felt for so long that this was just how everything was, but with time, the construct of P's oppression unraveled.
Eventually I staged the same refusal that my older sister had, and I convinced my younger sister to stick with me. I could not bear to leave her there alone. I would have rather stayed than leave her alone there. For some reason our refusal worked. It took me a long time to understand that this was probably P's goal the entire time. Convince my father that his children are terrible and convince him that he is glad for it when we want nothing to do with him. I harbor a deep resentment for P, but I have an even greater disrespect for my father for letting it all happen.
For years I suffered from lack of confidence, barely any social skills, depression, negativity, pessimism, excessive self critique, fear of failure, fear of success and generally the fear of anything outside my immediate comfort zone. I very slowly worked my way from the pathetic mess I once was. I certainly don't claim to be brimming with confidence and success, but I have made massive strides in my life. The fact that I can even recognize and openly admit that I have improved is an improvement. I am going to college now for a degree in computer science, after years of convincing myself that I am not as unintelligent as I was made to believe. My life is constantly improving as I shed the shackles I once bore.
Until recently, I worked at a supermarket. On occasion, my father and even P would come in and shop. I would have casual conversations with them, as if to assert my dominance over the situation. I genuinely feel as if I was doing my father a favor by speaking to him, because he doesn't even deserve that. I feel sorry for him. He is the one that has lost, not us. He will die as a man that has never met his own grandchildren and that is truly sad. I do my best to not entertain any negative emotions about what I've been through, what's done is done. In the end, I am the man that can shake my father's hand out of pity, with a prideful smile on my face, knowing that I have built everything in my life from less than zero.
Submitted October 10, 2017 at 12:50PM by smaugoferebor http://ift.tt/2y6iR5z raisedbynarcissists
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