Reading old emails exchanged with my captors makes me sick. Nauseated. Loquacious lovey-dovey’s and toe-curling coo’s drip from our email conversations. The contrast between our communication back then is in stark contrast to the barbs and silences now.
It’s contradictory. Crazy-making.
Stockholm Syndrome overwhelmed me again last night, wracking my frame with guttural sobs. As tears poured down my cheeks, a voice I barely recognized as my own cried, “What did I do that was so bad? What happened to all the love? Why did they do all this shit to me? Did they ever love me at all? Did I ever truly love them? Did they ever have empathy for me?”
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Lenora Thompson writes a great blog...she's been there, seen that, and lived to tell the tales. - Facebook friend
Bed bugs: mother’s latest paranoiac fad. Her home’s gonna’ get infested with the little devils. She’s sure of it.
Mother’s paranoia is nothing new. She’s been this way all my life. And her mother is a paranoiac, controlling narcissist too. Together they form a hysterical duo, collecting and trading dangers like some people trade baseball cards. Their “Danger Scrapbook” is second-to-none, bulging with terrors of every description.
Oddly enough, none of these horrors have ever befallen them…nor anyone else in the family. Nevertheless, reality never stopped them from foisting dangers of every kind onto me. And only because they love and care about me, right!?Ah, I remember well the first time their paranoia struck me as, well, odd. Maestro? Flashback harp music, please.
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Find the weakest, sweetest woman alive. This is imperative or nothing wonderful can come of the system for breaking your woman's psyche I'm about to relate.
Let's get down to brass tacks, shall we?
The ideal woman comes from an abusive home. If you're lucky, one or both of her parents will hale from the narcissist camp. She'll come to your arms broken in, broken down...just plain broken. The perfect foil to your dramas. A playground for your brainwashing and mind control. A child woman who was never allowed to fully mature, thanks to her narcissistic mama. A cat-on-a-hot-tin-roof ripe and ready for Stockholm Syndrome.
And best of all, she'll never, and I mean never stand up to you. Now that's a woman you can fall in love with!
Those who attack victims always have an agenda. Victimizing someone is bad. But revictimizing a victim by shaming them for being a victim. Wow! That’s low!
Revictimized is defined as when “a survivor who has removed his/herself from an abusive environment is harmed again by perpetrators.”
The victimizing started when I was a baby. I didn’t ask to be victimized. I did nothing to cause it. I didn’t even know it was happening. No child of a dysfunctional home does. It’s not their fault.To imply otherwise is to revictimize them.
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Without my OCD stress relief, I knew I'd explode. Dad's rages drove my stress level off the charts. Then he forbade dermatillomania, my only stress relief. It was torturous! And I wasn't the only one in agony...
Like a distressed cockatoo, Mother was pulling out her feathers...I mean, hair. The onset of her trichotillomania, panic attacks, anxiety and agoraphobia coincided with my dermatillomania. But that's another story, for another day.
Then came the knock on the bathroom door. The furious demand to “know what you're doing in there.” My parents' horror at the sight of my ravaged complexion. The anger, the rage, the sorrow that their Little Project didn't look perfect anymore. Didn't make 'em proud. Didn't impress the neighbors and relatives.
Dad made a solemn vow, “Until you stop picking on your skin, I'll never tell you that you're pretty ever again.” Way to kick a 15-year-old girl when she's down and needs you most, Daddy-O!
He kept that vow, even on my wedding day.
They couldn't stop me. Oh, I considered stopping. But I knew, just knew, I'd explode inside. Crack. Have some kind of break-down.
If I stopped, it wasn't a question of if I'd crack, but when. “Accupicking” was my one and only stress relief. That...and comfort eating...
Take from my blog on PsychCentral.com. Click here to read the whole article.
Somebody just “twipped” my “twigger.” I owe them a tremendous debt of gratitude. This was a dry day. Not much inspiration. I cast about, writing about this topic and that topic, but nothing gelled.
The situation: a less-than-positive remark on one of my articles. The “twigger”: a comment on my private rant about the less-than-positive remark. She said, and I quote, “...set your rant aside and look for the honesty...just maybe, you'll realize that a simple thank you for [their] comment is the best response.”
Obviously, the commenter had failed to read my rant which acknowledged the accuracy of the less-than-positive remark. They were spot-on, but they weren't kind.
And then it all came flooding back. All the parental criticisms made “for my good.” Hundreds, nay, thousands of 'em. It started about the time narcissistic parents start feeling nervous because their kid is growing up and they might, just might, lose control. I was fourteen and shocked by all the criticisms suddenly blindsiding me. They ranged from making me believe I was an (almost) slut to something as vague as, “Shake my hand and commit to 'trying harder'.” To this day I wonder how much harder I could try. I already had a 4.0 GPA.
The blind-siding hurt worse than the criticisms themselves. So I developed a coping mechanism I nicknamed “Mrs. Should.” She was a big, ugly woman constantly looking over my shoulder, criticizing me for everything. She criticized me for the yea and the nay at the same time.
It worked. No criticism every blind-sided me again.