by Band Back Together | Feb 4, 2014 | Adoption, Adult Adoptees, Adult Children of Narcissistic Parents, Adult Survivors of Childhood Sexual Abuse, Anxiety, Anxiety Disorders, Cancer and Neoplasia, Child Sexual Abuse, Coping With Anxiety Disorders, Emotional Abuse, Fear, Generalized Anxiety Disorder Resources, Incest, Loss, Narcissistic Personality Disorder, Parent Loss, Sadness, Therapy, Trauma |
The scars of a narcissistic mother last a lifetime.
This is the brave story of an adult child of a narcissistic mother’s story.
My dear father fell ill the end of February 2013. He’d been in and out of the hospital for three months with various ailments and a discovery of an aggressive cancer. We lost my dear father on May 29th 2013.
My father cared for my 80-year old mother. He waited on her hand and foot; he’d been doing this my whole life. It was now my turn to care for my mother.
I thought I was doing what was right; I thought I was being a good daughter. I visited with her every day. Let her cry on my shoulder, took care of her needs, medication, doctor appointments, fed her, cleaned her home, took care of her pets. My brother occasionally would show up, with some type of take-out food, but scoot out quickly.
After a few weeks, I started to get the wrath of my mother. I couldn’t do anything right
…I was too slow. I forgot to do something. Then, it turned into criticism of my body and how I raise my children; she was sorry she ever adopted me. I left her home crying every day; going home to my own family filled with anxiety and stress. I felt every bit 12-years old, all over again.
I am just recently learning about Narcissism.
I was 2- 1/2 when I was adopted. My brother is 8 years older than me and my parent’s biological son. I could never remember much of my childhood before the age of 11 or 12, but do remember a few haunting memories that I tried to pass off as a nightmare. One of the reoccurring memories happened when I was 6 – my then 14-year old was brother tickling me. It progressed to him pulling up my nightie and trying to penetrate me with his penis.
I can’t remember much past that.
He was always inappropriate, showing me his penis and laughing, making a sick game of it. I can’t remember the length of time this went on. Sometimes he would be nice, then he would be plain cruel to me.
I stopped talking in 2nd grade. I was so terribly shy, so shy that I would cry if someone looked at me the wrong way. I started remembering everything when I was a preteen but I was too ashamed to tell anyone as my brother continued his cruelty. He didn’t call me by my name. He called me Moose – as in a “fat moose.” My mother allowed this. She allowed him to be cruel to me and never said anything. In fact, it was my fault he was being mean.
He left for college when I was 12. Then came the wrath of my mother. She would make me weigh myself in front of her. She was very thin, an ex-model; she was an alcoholic and a very mean drunk. My father would water down her vodka in hopes she would be less volatile. She would scream at me for various reasons, none of them made sense. I just felt unloved. In fact, she made me go to a therapist at 13 because she said I had a “detachment disorder” and “could not love anyone.” Something about “not being held when I was back in my home country.”
My father tried the best he could to assure me I was pretty, smart and lovable. I always felt that from him, but he never stood up to my mother and quietly observed the maniacal behavior. I could write so much more of what happened through my childhood. (ed note: please share with us)
I am now 44 years old, married 18 years with 2 teenagers. I know I have the ability to love. I know I was mistreated because I could never treat my own kids that way. I am now in therapy to reconcile my feelings of guilt and quell my anxieties that still exist. I have never felt good enough or have been able to express myself for fear I might upset someone.
I am learning that my brother was the “golden child” and I was the scapegoat. It is all starting to make sense to me now. My therapist also believes my parents or at least my mother had knowledge of my brother’s sexual abuse towards me. Ughhh, I can’t even imagine this could be true. I have no contact with either my mother or brother as of Thanksgiving. My children tell me I seem less stressed. My husband also has noticed a huge change. I believe I am healing. I believe my father’s passing brought me to a place where I could see all the indignities I had suffered at the hands of someone I called Mom.
by Band Back Together | Jan 30, 2014 | Abortion, Abortion Recovery, Grief, Guilt, Help For Grief And Grieving, Loss, Sadness |
Upstate NY, 1985
It was taken away from them. Just a seed in the beginning of a life forming to join this world.
A decision. She wasn’t ready. Not in her plan. So scared, but no decision to be made. Outcome predetermined; not to start.
So it was ended. They had no chance to join this world. Left to find another possibility for the loss was cold.
She could feel it in her hips. The pain was held and rocked till the grief was pushed thru every pore, wrung out thru sorrow ’till she could find space to breathe.
Why is it so hard to let go?
Why does it wash over you decades in time?
They were crying out to be saved, but she didn’t hear.
I am so sorry to have left you. I wasn’t ready to carry a soul.
It’s all consuming, the process of growing up. Staying aware, but willing to feel the piercing joys and sorrows that you have endured. Sometimes it’s so cold. She was just learning how to share gold, black & pink.
Still stiff, I’ll learn how to relax and breathe.
–and I forgive you sweet melissa. U meant no harm
–then why does it hurt?
– because you feel deeply and that is a gift to cherish
I feel the blood in my body and hear the ink on the page. I’m still learning to see clearly and that is okay.
–thank you. I am grateful
– U are always welcome. my gifts are bountiful
–amen
– I forgive you. come fly with me
by Band Back Together | Jan 8, 2014 | Addiction, Addiction Recovery, Adult Child Loss, Anger, Denial, Enabling, Fear, Grief, Guilt, Help For Grief And Grieving, How To Help With Low Self-Esteem, Loss, Love, Loving An Addict, Self-Esteem, Substance Abuse, Substance Abuse Relapse |
Losing an adult child to Dextromethorphan addiction is a nightmare no parent should ever have to experience.
This is Ethan’s story:
Yesterday, the phone rang with the call some part of me has been expecting for a year or two now. It was the Galax Police Department calling to notify me they had found my 23-year-old son dead in his apartment after they were asked to do a welfare check.
It’s the call no mother wants to get, but after living with his addiction for so long, it was one I expected at the back of my mind. I thought I was prepared, but really, until the phone rang I clung to hope that he would turn his life around. I’m still struggling to wrap my head and heart around the idea that he really is gone. Our communication has been spotty for years, so full of anger at times, I’m used to not hearing from him for days or weeks. Just a week ago, he called wanting a PlayStation 4 for Christmas.
I told him no.
He’d skipped Thanksgiving, I think at least partly because he was angry with me over a Facebook post in which I was thankful for him, despite the fact that he hadn’t always been the son I imagined. I was uncertain over what Christmas would bring. Maybe that was the cloud that’s been hanging over my holiday. I hadn’t even bought him any gifts.
Now I won’t have the chance. Ever again.
There’s a picture of him on the living room wall, holding my dog last Christmas, sporting a goofy toboggan and a grin. When he was straight, he had a lethal sense of humor and was always worried about me.
In my memories, he is the golden haired little boy who trooped behind his older sister and worried her to death as she played; the elementary schooler who liked being smart and didn’t care for basketball or karate; the middle schooler who put on weight and had braces and didn’t like himself as much as he should have. I still loved his smile. He’s also the sullen teen who stretched out, became tall and lean, who gave up band and skateboarding, who put his fist through the wall and refused chores. Yet on good days, he still gave awesome hugs and when he managed a smile, the room lit up.
The good days, however, seemed fewer and farther between the older he got. Instead of correcting his path, he intentionally chose it, repeatedly. We argued, by text, at great length last month about all the wonderful things he thought his drug of choice did for him and whether or not he was happy. When he was high, he thought he was Death incarnate, or maybe god. He was immortal, capable of anything he set his mind to. He hated everything around him except the video games in which he could further escape from reality.
I know he had dreams – of being a video game designer, of having a family, of being a dad. He told me he wanted to be a good dad, which was so sad because his dad was such a deadbeat. My son was great with children. His nieces adored him. But he poisoned his chances at that when he started using drugs, when he chose to keep using them. In many ways, I lost my son when he and his best friend started getting high. He was never the same after that; moody, angry, scary and demanding.
He always thought that since it wasn’t an illegal drug, or even one he had to obtain illegally, that it was safe. Dextromethorphan is a cough suppressant and central nervous system depressant. It’s sold over-the-counter and safe in recommended dosages. Taken a whole pack or more at a time, however, it mimics the effects of PCP. It causes psychosis, seizures, organ damage, and potentially death.
He left home for nearly a year when he was 16, loading his belongings in a rage on the day my grandfather died. Even when he didn’t live with me, I gave him a phone to keep in touch, came to his rescue when he needed me, took afternoons off work to deal with a broken heart. He came home the next summer because they didn’t have room for him any more and I wanted him to finish school, which he did. But frankly, I was afraid of him and his angry outbursts. He turned 18 and graduated, still with no purpose or desire to have one, and I made him move out.
He had a few jobs, wrecked a few cars, and was living in his car when one last accident ended its usefulness. By then he was having seizures. He was unable to work, so I rented him an apartment and took him regularly to Winston-Salem to see a doctor and psychologist. We didn’t know that, even then, he continued to use. Then he found a roommate and they got high together, he went into a psychosis and pulled a Japanese sword on the roommate, and we found out the truth. He was in jail when we cleaned out his apartment and found bag after bag of empty blister packs of drugs he stole, by the way.
I should have known by the illogical rages, I guess. But even though I knew the drugs had caused the neurological damage that brought on the seizures, I didn’t know their effects as well as I would have some widely-discussed street drug.
(ed note: Will be creating a dextromethorphan abuse resource page in memory of Ethan. Love, love, love to you – Aunt Becky)
When he got out of jail, I refused to enable him any more. He moved to Virginia with my parents. He never worked again, except odd jobs at the church and for my family. When my dad’s illness meant mom couldn’t take care of him too, he first rented a house, then lost his job at the church, and wound up in the homeless shelter. During that time he been in a horrific wreck in which he should have been killed. He was high, in a blackout, hit a parked car and went over an embankment. He was ejected and broke multiple bones, including his back, but was not paralyzed.
We were all convinced he’d hit bottom.
For months, back at the shelter, he stayed on the straight and narrow due to random drug testing. He was a house monitor, had friends and was fun to be around again. When he moved into an apartment, the first thing he did was get high. This summer police called me and asked if I was his mom. I expected the next words to be a death notification. No, he was on the streets acting strange.
He spent two nights in jail for public intoxication.
I hate to admit how seldom I’ve seen him since his birthday in April. He was in a downward spiral that I knew I was powerless to stop. I talked to him on the phone fairly regularly and tried to make sure he knew I loved him. Often, his voice was unintelligible and I would strain to have a conversation, never knowing if he was high or if was an aftereffect of the drugs. Sometimes he called in tears from emotional pain. Lately there had been physical pain as well, but he would not see a doctor.
For years I’ve prayed for God to heal him, to help him choose sobriety, and more recently to take away the pain that seemed to drive him.
At last, Ethan hurts no more.
At one level, my prayers have been answered.
There’s a hole in my heart and an ache in my stomach. I’m not sure if writing about it makes it more real, or less. I know now I’ve had almost a day to process and I’m still not sure I’m ready to do anything else. I hate that, right now, so many of my memories are not good, but maybe that’s what I need to get through the next few days. I refuse to take a photo album down and bring happier ones to the surface.
I’ve been touched by how many people have reached out to me; wept again when I realized how many of my friends have already, in some form, walked this path. I don’t know what to tell people I need beyond time. I’m trying to go on with life, to do the things I enjoy instead of trembling in a corner in sackcloth and ashes. I know that may raise a few eyebrows, but my grief won’t change his death, just as it never changed the way he chose to live.
I know I’m fragile right now and I’m trying to take care of myself. I wish I could hug him one more time and remind him again that I love him – no matter what. That not being possible, I want to hold my daughter and granddaughters and feel the breath in their lungs and the beat of their hearts.
I want to somehow know that he’s finally at peace and that I won’t ever have to feel this way again.
by Band Back Together | Jan 7, 2014 | Anxiety Disorders, Coping With Anxiety Disorders, Coping With Depression, Generalized Anxiety Disorder Resources, Major Depressive Disorder, Suicide |
If you are feeling desperate, alone or helpless, or know someone who is call 1-800-273-TALK (8255) to talk to a counselor at the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline.
You are not alone.
“Is it me making you unhappy? I don’t want to think that you stay with me if I don’t truly make you happy. What can I do to make you happy? Would ten puppies make you happy?”
God, I felt stupid. My husband had just asked me what I was feeling and I lay there in bed, tears streaming down my face. “Why are you asking me this? I don’t want to talk about it!” That’s my answer for everything. If I don’t see it, it doesn’t exist. Talk about avoidance issues.
My husband sort of knew I had depression issues far back before we were married. He always poo-poo’d the idea of depression. He always thought it was something you could control. Until he encountered his own anxiety issues a couple years ago. Now, he knows it’s a real thing.
The earliest I can remember having depression was at the age of 12. My dog had been given away (stupid, I know) and I felt like I just wanted to die. My mom asked what was wrong one day. I broke down, telling her I didn’t want to live. She started crying and told me that I shouldn’t feel that way. From that point on, I realized I would need to pretend everything was okay.
At 15, I found my first love. He was as awkward as I was, a talented artist, and he treated me like a queen. He always told me I was beautiful, always made me feel special, always showed his feelings. I couldn’t do the same for him. I had all these repressed feelings, I tried to say things that would make him feel special, but I would catch myself before saying it. I would think to myself, “Why would I say such a corny thing? That would make me weak.” Unless I was with my close friends, I made myself appear to have no emotion. To anyone else, I looked mad and/or uninterested. We were together for two years, but I wasn’t allowed to hang out with him because of my religion. I broke it off in our senior year of high school. That was a very dark time for me. My emotionless outer mask was at its prime. I pretended to be fine, but I cried myself to sleep every night. I felt horrible. I can’t even begin to describe myself at that time.
After graduation, I commuted to the local university. I made some friends and decided to reinvent myself. I left out my religion and just let myself be. The mask was still there, but I pretended I was being myself. I met some guys online, dated a couple, but the sadness was always there. One boyfriend dumped me because I as “too cold.” He wanted a warm and inviting girlfriend. I couldn’t offer that.
When I met my now husband, we both had been cheated on and then dumped. We were each others’ rebounds. Neither of us was in it for long term. Now here we are, together for thirteen years, and married for nine. I have my episodes where no matter what I think or do, I just get so depressed. Nothing matters. All I think is how easy it would be to just disappear and not have to endure this. Sometimes, not even the consolation of my son helps.
Some days are just so hard.
by Band Back Together | Sep 4, 2013 | Baby Loss, Coping With Baby Loss, Grief, Loss, Prematurity, Preterm Labor |
The scars of losing a baby will never fully heal. We are shattered; unable to see the light.
This is her story:
At 5AM on Tuesday, the 5th of February 2013, I gave birth to a baby boy at home.
He was 20 weeks and 1 day gestational age; he weighed a mere 340 grams.
I held my son his whole life; eight minutes.
I named my son Cash Alan. I watched Cash as he struggled for life; an image that will forever haunt me. I shared his pain and fear but there was nothing I could do to save him.
An autopsy revealed that premature labour was caused by an infection of the uterus and placenta due to low levels of amniotic fluid.
Cash was cremated on Thursday, February the 14th 2013 and I keep his ashes with me in a small urn. I’ve found some comfort in knowing that all Cash knew of Life was my love for him, but I will never truly come to terms with his death.
Prior to my loss, I spent over 15 years building a career as a publicist. I loved my field and felt passionate about everything I was doing.
After I lost Cash, everything changed.
I became someone else, none of the little stuff mattered anymore. I see Life so differently now. I was at a crossroads, lost in my grief. A few weeks after losing Cash, I packed up and moved 1600 kilometers away for a fresh start. I knew I no longer wanted to be a publicist, the late nights and time away from home kept me away from my other children.
The idea came to me after spending hours upon hours searching the internet for keepsakes to honour Cash. On 24 June 2013 (the date Cash was due to be born) I started a business called “In Loving Memory Of Cash;” a dedication to the brief Life of my son. The official launch is planned for 5th February 2014; his first angelversary. I want to to ensure that bereaved parents have an opportunity to save the moment without thinking about the details.
I now handcraft unique memorial keepsakes full-time. 100% of the profits are used to support pregnancy and infant loss projects and campaigns. Creating memorial gifts is a great outlet for my own grief. A piece of my heart and soul goes into every one of my creations: IT’S NOT JUST ABOUT MAKING SOMETHING SPECIAL, IT’S ABOUT HONOURING A PRECIOUS LIFE, HOWEVER BRIEF.
The most comforting words when grieving are “You Are Not Alone.” I’m able connect with bereaved parents on a level that not everyone else can. I understand the intense pain and sorrow, the never-ending heartbreak, and the heavy burden of empty arms.
The response so far has been tremendous. I have already helped many families honour their angels. I have my bad days where I want to stay in bed and grieve all day long. I live for my other children, but now I have a purpose, a reason to go on:
I want to make sure no angel gets forgotten.
