Narcissism-Scenes From the Front Line — The Doctor

IMG_3471It’s just a fragment of a memory, out of context, out of time, but a dramatic one none-the-less. My mother is in her room, on her bed, writhing in agony. She is wailing in pain and sobbing. My father is pacing back and forth in the livingroom, lost, unsure of what to do.

I am in the kitchen immobile. I can’t move. I am frightened and worried. My mother is in distress. There is nothing that I can do. My sister is home. I know that, but I don’t know where she is.

My father says, “We should take you to the doctor’s”.

My mother replies, sobbing, “Dr. Dean can’t see me until….” I don’t remember how far away the appointment was, but it is strange at this point in my life to remember my mother saying that.

If she had in fact been in as much pain and discomfort as she appeared to be, why was she refusing to see a doctor? Why did she not go into the emergency room of the hospital? Heaven knows that we had been there on many occasions.

I blurted out, “Dr. Dean will be dead by then.” I’m not sure why I said this. Perhaps, it was in recognition of how ridiculous her statement was in the midst of all of this drama. Perhaps I didn’t want the only solution, the only end to this to be so far in the future. All I know for sure is that I felt helpless, lost, worried and panicked.

That’s it.

I don’t remember any more. I don’t remember the outcome, other than the fact that Dr. Dean did die before my mother got in to see him. He was rather old at the time.

Now, in hindsight, I realize that this was probably just one more manipulation. My mother used illness as a way of making herself the centre of everyone’s attention. She was sick throughout my entire life. In this particular instance, the likely reason that she did not want to go into the emergency room was that there was nothing wrong and they would be able to tell. Her family could not. We were focusing all of our energy on her and that is the way she liked it.

The Narcissist Survival Guide now available

Leaving-page-001

In this book, Martha Beck examines the truly pathologic relationship she had with her parents and how she managed to get out from under it.

Narcissism-Scenes From the Front Line — The Drive

Narcissism-Scenes From the Front Line — The Fax

Narcissism-Scenes From the Front Line — The Interview

Narcissism-Scenes From the Front Line — The Call

Narcissism-Scenes From the Front Line — The Cavity

Narcissism–Scenes From the Front Line — The Funeral

Narcissism-Scenes From the Front Line — The Pants

Narcissism-Scenes From the Front Line — The Trailer

Narcissism-Scenes From the Front Line — Biking

Narcissism-Scenes From the Front Line — New Job

Narcissism-Scenes From the Front Line — The Pants

IMGP4598Tomato red pants were the only thing that we could find given the parameters of our shopping trip. We were in a hurry. There were things that my mother would rather be doing. Unfortunately for her, I was not yet capable of going shopping for myself.

I had been wearing the same pair of pants to school everyday for as long as I can remember. This is a pattern that lasted until I went to high school and got my own job and my own money. At that point, I could buy my own clothing and dress however I could afford. I was not there yet.

I was about ten or eleven years of age and the demands of having children were just too inconvenient for my mother. Clothing shopping, well any shopping for that matter, was just not her idea of a good time, so she did as little as possible. When she did shop, she would let us know how expensive we were and how inconvenient we were, but I digress.

On this particular day she had other plans. She always had other plans. I had ripped the only pair of pants that I had. I probably had outgrown them. But, I had ripped them to the point that I could no longer wear them. My mother had been angry. First, she was angry because I had ruined my clothing. Second she was angry because now she had to take me shopping. Third, she was angry because buying me clothing was going to be expensive and finally she was angry because, as she let us know, she would’ve been an opera singer if she had not had children.

So we had hurriedly gone shopping. There was not enough time allotted for us to go to several stores and the department store that we were in did not have a lot of selection in my size. In hind sight, this is hard to believe and I now wonder whether or not she was trying to buy from the children’s department only because they have less expensive items, but I have no way of knowing. If she was, I was probably at the high end and that would explain the limited selection.

Unfortunately for me, a red pair fit. They were hideous. They were unacceptable. They were purchased. I was concerned about going to school in these red pants. I did not want to be seen.

My mother said, “Your ass looks like a big red tomato in those pants.” Nice.

Read the entire book, now available
Read the entire book, now available

I wrote my first book above, before I knew my mother was a narcissist.

The Narcissist Survival Guide now available

Narcissism-Scenes From the Front Line — The Drive

Narcissism-Scenes From the Front Line — The Fax

Narcissism-Scenes From the Front Line — The Interview

Narcissism-Scenes From the Front Line — The Call

Narcissism-Scenes From the Front Line — The Cavity

Narcissism–Scenes From the Front Line — The Funeral

Narcissism-Scenes From the Front Line — The Trailer

Narcissism-Scenes From the Front Line — Biking

Narcissism-Scenes From the Front Line — The Doctor

Narcissism-Scenes From the Front Line — New Job

It Was Not Very Nice in My Home

IMG_0816Its a funny thing. I knew that my mother was not your normal, everyday mother but she differed so significantly from the other mothers of her time that it never occurred to me that there might be more to it.

She was a working mom, by choice, not by necessity, and that was pretty rare in our neighbourhood in the seventies. Also, she divorced my dad, which actually became quite common but she was at the beginning of the curve and no one was talking about it yet. She also had had many, many surgeries on her foot.

We had always been told that she had polio when she was two, but I have no way to confirm this. What I know for sure is that her one foot was significantly smaller than the other. She had had bone grafts and braces and they had never been able to make both her legs the same length.

As I recently discovered, she fits the description of a narcissist. Dr. Karyl McBride says there are two main types: the one extreme completely controls the children’s lives and tells them how to act and how to dress. The other extreme, my mother, was extremely neglectful. As I mentioned, I thought that this contrast was because she worked, but there was more to it.

I like to write, so I tried to dredge up memories of what it was like when I was still living with my mother and I noticed a funny thing. It was difficult to remember anything. Then, suddenly, a crack opened and a flood of memories came back. I quickly made short hand notes of each of them.

Later, when I was trying to write a blog on having a narcissist as a parent, I couldn’t remember anything again. I sat and relaxed and was poised to write and there was no connection to the memories. I have built a wall around the bad stuff. I find it not very accessible at all. I guess that shouldn’t be that much of a surprise, to find that you have blocked out bad memories, but I had no idea.

When I think of my mother there are about a half dozen safe memories that surface. The shop she worked in, a couple of bits that I have shared with my own daughters and the odd piece of this or that from restaurant meals and the like. There is this entire wall around most of it.

I checked my notes and the wall came down. I wrote. I remembered. It was not very nice in my home.

The Narcissist Survival Guide is now available

My Mother was a Narcissist

photoI was sitting in front of my computer at work. My personal email was open. I forget what I was about to do, when it happened. I had recently read a book, “When will I Be Enough” and in it I found a description of my mother–to a ‘T’, right down to some of her sayings…This made me rethink my understand of my world, who I am, which stories from my childhood were true or why they were not. My mother was a narcissist.

Picture yourself in complete blackness. Quiet, damp, like a dudgeon built using stone for the walls. Now, hear the creak, from an old horror movie as a large wooden door opens a crack. A split forms in the stone wall and a blare of bright sunlight hits your unprepared eyes. This is how I felt, at work, when the memories that I kept hidden from myself flooded back into my awareness.

I quickly typed into an open email, until it became overwhelming. Every severe, intense emotional sensation was overlapped all at once. It seemed to be hitting me in my chest, at the base of my neck. It felt as though the sheer power of the energy would cause my chest to explode and my face to rip open from the inside. I locked my computer, got up and went to hide in the washroom.

The next morning, a time when I generally write, I sat down at home with the intention of examining one of the memories that I had been flooded with. Nothing came. They were gone again, hidden behind that stone wall in my memory. Inaccessible. This is how we protect ourselves from the pain. This is how we keep from reliving the emotional trauma day after day.

Unfortunately, I recognize that this wall must come down, stone by stone. I need to examine and process these memories so that so much of my resolve is not used up keeping the wall intact. Unprocessed emotion stays with you. It jumps out when least expected or when something in your life triggers a part of what you have stored. It has been blamed for addictions, depression and disease.

I opened the draft of the email that I made my notes in and I was able to look at it and examine a single memory. This is the best way for me to deal with this new revelation. Unfortunately, my fortress is no longer intact and I find that I’m bursting into tears while driving, watching television and while I am alone. I caught myself, yelling at myself during a particularly long drive. Thankfully, I was alone at the time. Not pleasant, but I think it is probably necessary. More stories to come. I’ll post them here.

Read the entire book, now available
Read the entire book, now available

I wrote my first book, (above) before I knew that my mother was a narcissist.

The Narcissist Survival Guide now available

Narcissism–Scenes From the Front Line — The Call

Narcissism-Scenes From the Front Line — The Cavity

Releasing Emotions

Influences in my Youth

IMG_2942I was watching a series of Ted Talks on storytelling and a common theme, or rather a common element, is that each of the speakers have mentioned a strong influence when they were young. One woman spoke about being brought up in a chauvinistic household and being beat for not following the rules that she was supposed to follow. Another man spoke about how his grandfather ignited his imagination by deconstructing things for him at an early age, taking apart phones and radios. Another man spoke about his mother taking him to the movies when he was a young boy and on and on it goes.

I look back at my early life and recognize that I was neglected. I don’t have any strong role models, people introducing me to things or gifts of insight. I learned how to look out for myself, which I realize is valuable, but it is not being brought up. I can probably relate more to children that have been lost in the woods and survived, except that I lived in a city, amongst humans, not wild creatures.

This knowledge makes me feel a longing for something that I never knew and never had. I remembered my girlfriends being in love with Donny Osmond, how they idolized him and wanted to meet him and I never understood that. There were no celebrities that I had a crush on or felt any connection to. I did not look outside of myself for people to bring things in and offer opportunities.

My wiring has been all about being self sufficient, learning what my needs were and how to meet them myself. This of course, set me up for a marriage to a man that had no obligation to meet my needs or provide any sort of support or encouragement. I hadn’t had it in the past, why would I look for it now? I probably wouldn’t have even noticed if he had not also been cruel and mean. But, in the final tally of it all, I realized that there was no reason to stay and serve this man because he was not a partner, not a friend and certainly not a lover. He was, by this time, however, the father of my children, so I have no choice but to continue to deal with him, but I digress.

I did not have the mentors, the unconditional love and the insights of an adult in my life while I was growing up. This sent me in a particular direction. How could I possibly get people to like me? Good grades in school, excelling at sports and being nice to people were the keys to who I became. Now, in the second half of my life, I am faced with the question of where to go from here. Despite my past, this is my present. What type of future do I want to create?

What I would like to leave for the world is my understanding of what it is like to be allowed to grow up instead of being raised. To be able to explain how to identify the children who are in danger of being neglected and overlooked by those that are supposed to love them and care for them and to offer hope to the people that have survived this lack of upbringing. I would like to help them become all that they can be and live a satisfying life of joy. A few Ted Talks will do that to me.

Read the entire book, now available
My entire story about how I grew up.
A quick summary of everything I learned first hand in how to deal with narcissists

Oak Street — Chapter 1

IMGP6205That was the day that I moved out of Oak Street, but I was there, off and on for six years. These years saw me through public school and into my first year of high school. By grade 10 I was too far away to walk to high school, but from Oak Street, the high school was only a couple of blocks away.

One of the advantages of living that close to the school is that you can go home for lunch. It was expected in grade school. We got out at 11:50 a.m. so that we could observe the proper time for lunch, which was 12 noon exactly. Then, we did not have to be back to school until 1:20 p.m. This meant that you could finish up your meal, help clear the table and do the dishes and then return to school.

Nowadays most children stay at school over the lunch. It is a necessity of the working family that is not in the house to supervise a meal, much less prepare it. My mother took advantage of this great expanse of time by having us deliver something for her during our lunch hours. I remember phone books, dessert samples, plastic bags with soap or shampoo samples in them and a bunch of other things.

There was no question that my mother had ambition that she was trying to tamp down or find an outlet for. Before we had left the A-frame she was trying to collect enough points to win some sort of contest. In order to do this you had to buy a certain cat food, a type of puffed wheat that came in huge bags and some other items. We had excessive amounts of these things in the house. Another peculiar thing to remember. My mother used to mass buy products.

Unfortunately for me, the cat food gave my cat diarrhea. And everyone knows what happens to a cat that has diarrhea for an extended period of time, they get taken to the farm. This alleged farm visit occurred at a very similar time to our move to the new house. It would be consistent with the facts, as I understand them now, that my cat was simply left at the A-frame house. She probably just had no idea where we were or where we went.

I have clear and vivid memories of my cat Squirt. When I got her she was just a handful of a kitten even for a young child. I don’t know how old I was but I do remember walking home with her in my arms. I walked right through the round piece of grass in our neighbourhood and every child from the crescent came out to get a look at Squirt. I was very protective of her. My mother had told me stories of cats that had simply been mauled to death, so I was very careful to not let many people handle her. I felt a deep love for this kitten. She was a soft, short hair, tabby cat that was grey, black and white. She may have had a little brown in her. The pattern of her fur formed an “M” on her forehead, which happened to be my last initial.

But I digress, my mother seemed to have a lot of ambition that she couldn’t direct in a way that she found satisfying. In addition to all of these deliveries, she also took a job at a new start up classified add newspaper. These were a new idea at the time and had yet to become truly viable businesses. She worked hard at this newspaper.

By the time that I was ten I was no longer getting picked up at school to work for my mother. At this time, grade five, I was able to come home and make myself some lunch. One of the things I remember making was Kraft Dinner. This is not the same KD that you can buy nowadays. The flavours were balanced when this KD was reconstituted with margarine. It also had a firm noodle, not the kind that can be microwaved and always gives you the feeling that you’ve slightly overcooked it. These were real noodles.

I had boiled the water, added the noodles and set the timer. When the noodles were done I took the pot over to the sink to drain it into a strainer. I poured too fast and the water splashed up over my left hand scalding it. The skin bubbled up and filled with water. I did not try to call anyone. I did not tell anyone that it had happened. I knew that I was supposed to pull my sleeve down over the burnt part of my hand in order to protect it and I went back to school.

I was in Mrs. Walkers grade five class. I always admired this teacher. She had a calm respect about her. No one misbehaved when she left the room. We all knew how we were supposed to act and it was just expected. I sat behind this large guy who felt like a well of peace and calmness. I told him about my hand after he understood that he was not allowed to tell anyone.

When I got home that night, and my mother returned, she first wanted to “pop” the skin and let the water out. I wouldn’t let her do it. Then, she was concerned that I had called her mother and forbade me from telling her mother that I was cooking my own lunch. Then,…she decided to have a doctor look at it. Essentially, they put a light cast over the area and sent me home. There is no scar.

In hind site it is remarkable that I knew how to take care of my hand. I was protective of it and covered it so that it would not get damaged. It was probably the first memory I have of being taken care of, in the larger sense. The knowledge I needed was available to me when I needed it.

Keep Reading: Absence of Parents

Read the entire book, now available
Read the entire book, now available

 

www.wendypowell.ca

Releasing Emotions

http://www.exposix.com/answers/Chihuahua-Pictures.html
http://www.exposix.com/answers/Chihuahua-Pictures.html

My dog, Bug, was still alive, but she was not responsive. I had just found her on the floor of my mother’s car, a big black ford with bench seats. I ran to get my mother who was up at the club house watching the horse races with some of the trainers that she knew. She had decided to bring the dogs with her because she wasn’t sure if she would be returning home that night. The dogs would’ve been better off left on their own at our house.

We rushed Bug into a veterinary clinic. I watched the doctor expertly draw off some medication into a syringe. He proceeded to inject her with it and there was no discernable reaction from my dog. In hindsight, I’m sure he injected her with saline, realizing that she could not be helped but respecting our need to see the doctor take some kind of action.

I knew she was about to die and I was helpless to do anything about it. The pain of seeing her dying and the loss of having her leave, were too much for me to process at the time. This was compounded by the fact that it was ridiculous that my mother would leave two dogs in a black car in a large un-shaded parking lot on such a hot day, even if they had water and the window was open a bit. It was all pouring over me right now. I let it rip threw me and I started to sob. The pain in my body was intense, but there was relief from feeling the pain.

I was able to let it happen this time, instead of when Bug died, which would’ve been the best time to have cried over her death, because this time I was a doing an exercise aimed at releasing pent up strong emotions.

You see, strong emotions, once created, either need to be expressed through feeling them at the time, or the energy from the emotion just gets stored in your body. Since you have already decided that it would be too unpleasant to feel the emotion, each time you remember it, it tries to get out and a considerable amount of thought and effort must go into blocking the memory and the associated emotional response to it.

This effort to block the emotions can be expressed in multiple ways. It may take the form of an addiction to any type of medication, food, shopping, gossiping or simply being angry a lot of the time. You may be avoiding as much contact with other people as you can or working obsessively. Another unfortunate consequence of blocking emotions is that you will find that you do not feel any emotions. It is not possible to block only the unpleasant ones and you may simply find that you do not feel anything at all, good or bad.

If this blocking system fails you, say when you are tired, stressed or dealing with other issues, you will get an inappropriate emotional response when it is least expected. This will happen randomly, like snipping at a sales clerk, crying for no reason or getting angry with a co-worker. In order to release these feelings you need to create a safe time and place to just sit and allow yourself to feel.

This time and place can be deliberately created. The reason that you might like to do this is to let go of past trauma. Set aside some time when you have some privacy and actively allow yourself to conjure up old memories or just raw emotions. It might be helpful if you listened to music, read poetry or watched a particularly appropriate movie to help move the emotions along.

It is beneficial if you feel completely uninhibited. Loud sobbing or yelling may occur if you allow yourself to experience deep pain, hurt or anger. Also, it can be helpful to try doing this exercise in the shower or with a comforting blanket or quilt wrapped around you. Consider the fact that you want to maximize both your privacy and your comfort and try to find a suitable time and place to express the emotions you have been storing.

Be careful to keep your focus on the bodily sensations and your emotional response. It will not serve you if you focus on what happened, why it happened or why it should not have happened. These explanations detract from the experience of the emotion. What you want to do is feel the emotions, not try to justify them, explain them or even understand them. Focus on what you feel not how you would tell someone about it.

While doing this exercise, it was shocking to me to have the memory of Bug’s death surface. It had happened over thirty years ago and I had no idea that I had never processed the pain and anger. I guess it is understandable, given the fact that I deeply loved this dog. She travelled with me everywhere and I made a purse that was just the right size for her to fit into. She could tell me within seconds which friends were keepers and which should not be trusted. Despite the fact that she had a nasty habit of leaving my underwear at the front door, I adored this dog. Her death was not easy for me to handle. It took over thirty years to feel the pain.

After finally grieving this event, I can now recall her death. I still feel loss and sadness, but the deep pain and anger are gone. This is how you know that you have released the emotion. It is simply not still painful to remember anymore.

Narcissism-Scenes From the Front Line — The Doctor

IMG_3471It’s just a fragment of a memory, out of context, out of time, but a dramatic one none-the-less. My mother is in her room, on her bed, writhing in agony. She is wailing in pain and sobbing. My father is pacing back and forth in the livingroom, lost, unsure of what to do.

I am in the kitchen immobile. I can’t move. I am frightened and worried. My mother is in distress. There is nothing that I can do. My sister is home. I know that, but I don’t know where she is.

My father says, “We should take you to the doctor’s”.

My mother replies, sobbing, “Dr. Dean can’t see me until….” I don’t remember how far away the appointment was, but it is strange at this point in my life to remember my mother saying that.

If she had in fact been in as much pain and discomfort as she appeared to be, why was she refusing to see a doctor? Why did she not go into the emergency room of the hospital? Heaven knows that we had been there on many occasions.

I blurted out, “Dr. Dean will be dead by then.” I’m not sure why I said this. Perhaps, it was in recognition of how ridiculous her statement was in the midst of all of this drama. Perhaps I didn’t want the only solution, the only end to this to be so far in the future. All I know for sure is that I felt helpless, lost, worried and panicked.

That’s it.

I don’t remember any more. I don’t remember the outcome, other than the fact that Dr. Dean did die before my mother got in to see him. He was rather old at the time.

Now, in hindsight, I realize that this was probably just one more manipulation. My mother used illness as a way of making herself the centre of everyone’s attention. She was sick throughout my entire life. In this particular instance, the likely reason that she did not want to go into the emergency room was that there was nothing wrong and they would be able to tell. Her family could not. We were focusing all of our energy on her and that is the way she liked it.

The Narcissist Survival Guide now available

Leaving-page-001

In this book, Martha Beck examines the truly pathologic relationship she had with her parents and how she managed to get out from under it.

Narcissism-Scenes From the Front Line — The Drive

Narcissism-Scenes From the Front Line — The Fax

Narcissism-Scenes From the Front Line — The Interview

Narcissism-Scenes From the Front Line — The Call

Narcissism-Scenes From the Front Line — The Cavity

Narcissism–Scenes From the Front Line — The Funeral

Narcissism-Scenes From the Front Line — The Pants

Narcissism-Scenes From the Front Line — The Trailer

Narcissism-Scenes From the Front Line — Biking

Narcissism-Scenes From the Front Line — New Job

Narcissism-Scenes From the Front Line — The Pants

IMGP4598Tomato red pants were the only thing that we could find given the parameters of our shopping trip. We were in a hurry. There were things that my mother would rather be doing. Unfortunately for her, I was not yet capable of going shopping for myself.

I had been wearing the same pair of pants to school everyday for as long as I can remember. This is a pattern that lasted until I went to high school and got my own job and my own money. At that point, I could buy my own clothing and dress however I could afford. I was not there yet.

I was about ten or eleven years of age and the demands of having children were just too inconvenient for my mother. Clothing shopping, well any shopping for that matter, was just not her idea of a good time, so she did as little as possible. When she did shop, she would let us know how expensive we were and how inconvenient we were, but I digress.

On this particular day she had other plans. She always had other plans. I had ripped the only pair of pants that I had. I probably had outgrown them. But, I had ripped them to the point that I could no longer wear them. My mother had been angry. First, she was angry because I had ruined my clothing. Second she was angry because now she had to take me shopping. Third, she was angry because buying me clothing was going to be expensive and finally she was angry because, as she let us know, she would’ve been an opera singer if she had not had children.

So we had hurriedly gone shopping. There was not enough time allotted for us to go to several stores and the department store that we were in did not have a lot of selection in my size. In hind sight, this is hard to believe and I now wonder whether or not she was trying to buy from the children’s department only because they have less expensive items, but I have no way of knowing. If she was, I was probably at the high end and that would explain the limited selection.

Unfortunately for me, a red pair fit. They were hideous. They were unacceptable. They were purchased. I was concerned about going to school in these red pants. I did not want to be seen.

My mother said, “Your ass looks like a big red tomato in those pants.” Nice.

Read the entire book, now available
Read the entire book, now available

I wrote my first book above, before I knew my mother was a narcissist.

The Narcissist Survival Guide now available

Narcissism-Scenes From the Front Line — The Drive

Narcissism-Scenes From the Front Line — The Fax

Narcissism-Scenes From the Front Line — The Interview

Narcissism-Scenes From the Front Line — The Call

Narcissism-Scenes From the Front Line — The Cavity

Narcissism–Scenes From the Front Line — The Funeral

Narcissism-Scenes From the Front Line — The Trailer

Narcissism-Scenes From the Front Line — Biking

Narcissism-Scenes From the Front Line — The Doctor

Narcissism-Scenes From the Front Line — New Job

My Mother was a Narcissist

photoI was sitting in front of my computer at work. My personal email was open. I forget what I was about to do, when it happened. I had recently read a book, “When will I Be Enough” and in it I found a description of my mother–to a ‘T’, right down to some of her sayings…This made me rethink my understand of my world, who I am, which stories from my childhood were true or why they were not. My mother was a narcissist.

Picture yourself in complete blackness. Quiet, damp, like a dudgeon built using stone for the walls. Now, hear the creak, from an old horror movie as a large wooden door opens a crack. A split forms in the stone wall and a blare of bright sunlight hits your unprepared eyes. This is how I felt, at work, when the memories that I kept hidden from myself flooded back into my awareness.

I quickly typed into an open email, until it became overwhelming. Every severe, intense emotional sensation was overlapped all at once. It seemed to be hitting me in my chest, at the base of my neck. It felt as though the sheer power of the energy would cause my chest to explode and my face to rip open from the inside. I locked my computer, got up and went to hide in the washroom.

The next morning, a time when I generally write, I sat down at home with the intention of examining one of the memories that I had been flooded with. Nothing came. They were gone again, hidden behind that stone wall in my memory. Inaccessible. This is how we protect ourselves from the pain. This is how we keep from reliving the emotional trauma day after day.

Unfortunately, I recognize that this wall must come down, stone by stone. I need to examine and process these memories so that so much of my resolve is not used up keeping the wall intact. Unprocessed emotion stays with you. It jumps out when least expected or when something in your life triggers a part of what you have stored. It has been blamed for addictions, depression and disease.

I opened the draft of the email that I made my notes in and I was able to look at it and examine a single memory. This is the best way for me to deal with this new revelation. Unfortunately, my fortress is no longer intact and I find that I’m bursting into tears while driving, watching television and while I am alone. I caught myself, yelling at myself during a particularly long drive. Thankfully, I was alone at the time. Not pleasant, but I think it is probably necessary. More stories to come. I’ll post them here.

Read the entire book, now available
Read the entire book, now available

I wrote my first book, (above) before I knew that my mother was a narcissist.

The Narcissist Survival Guide now available

Narcissism–Scenes From the Front Line — The Call

Narcissism-Scenes From the Front Line — The Cavity

Releasing Emotions