I watch my cat Sheldon snoozing peacefully on the bed. He’s worn out after several hours exploring outside. His sharp black and white coat blends in with the black and white pattern of the blanket he’s splayed out on. It’s a good time for a photo, while he’s like this, because when he’s awake, he’s never still long enough to get his picture. I press the camera button on my phone but before I hear the snap and see the flash, he’s already up, peering at me with one eye, obviously annoyed I’ve woken him.
I woke up before dawn this morning because he was walking on my face, trilling loudly for attention. He was hungry, so I gave him some kibble. After he ate, he was still restless and made a beeline for the door. I don’t like letting him out at night, but the sky was a dark indigo blue, indicating the sun would be up within an hour. So I opened the door and off he ran.
I watched him as he stalked through the morning-damp grass. The “stalk walk” is a walk he reserves for the Great Outdoors. Sheldon’s a terrible hunter. He would never survive on his own if had to, but he likes to pretend he’s king of the jungle. The only thing he ever killed was a moth, and only because the moth was already half dead and twitching on the floor when he found it. I remember he batted it around for a bit, like a cheap cat toy, and when it stopped moving, he looked up at me imploringly. “Mrow?” he asked.
Sheldon can go on pretending he’s a badass, and I’ll keep pretending he is exactly that, every time he straggles back in the house after one of his jaunts. I’ll keep rewarding him with catnip, a rub on the belly, a scratch under the chin, or a bowl of Friskies.
I envy him sometimes. He is mindful by nature. He doesn’t worry. He doesn’t fret about the future or have regrets about the past. His needs are simple: a warm bed in a dark room, a full belly, a corrugated cardboard scratching pad, the occasional catnip treat, a rub on the belly, a beam of moving light he can chase, a catnap that lasts most of the day, the freedom to explore. He’s never worry about death or age, healthcare or taxes. His needs are few and all will be fulfilled as if by magic. He has no responsibilities but he gives back so much. When I watch him sleep, play, or stalk his imaginary prey in the jungle of my backyard, I feel at peace. I feel like the world is still a good place.
It’s hard to believe my dad has been gone for over a year (he passed away on June 6th last year). In honor of Father’s Day, I’m reblogging this post I wrote three days after he died.
I never really grieved properly, and may never be able to. We hadn’t been close during the last decade or so of his life. Mostly I feel a bittersweet sadness when I think of him. I hope wherever he is, he is happy. Sometimes I talk to him and I feel like he hears me. For all the problems we had and the distance that had grown between us, I never stopped loving him.
Me and my father, Summer 1983, Dallas, Texas.
I’ve experienced a strange array of emotions since my father’s death on Monday, June 6th. To be more accurate, I haven’t felt too much emotion at all. I used this event to take two days off from work, but not really to grieve, just to reminisce and remember the good times my father and I had together. And yes, there were many good times.
I know the things I’ve written about my parents in this blog haven’t been too flattering, but that’s because of the subject matter of this blog. Essentially, I write it for myself and nobody else. I feel no shame in saying the things I have said, none of which were untrue. And I never identified them or used any real names. I can’t deny they simply were were not very good parents, but for this post, I’ll just…
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Originally posted on June 10, 2015
I remember one of my narcissistic lovers. He was a textbook example of a malignant narcissist, and a mean one at that. Although he never became physically violent, I think he would have if I hadn’t ended that relationship.
One of the strangest things about him was the way he gave me gifts. The guy had plenty of money–he had a trust fund and owned his apartment free and clear, and he was always traveling. He never asked me to go with him though. Instead, he’d bring me back “gifts” from his road trips. I remember he’d make a big show out of presenting me with these gifts as if he was giving me the keys to a new car. They were never wrapped nicely, but always stuffed in a paper or plastic bag.
So what sort of gifts did this narcissistic trust fund jerk give me? Jewelry, chocolates, books, candles, clothing?
No. He’d give me gifts of trash. The stuff he didn’t want. You know, like the free samples they give out in hotels–tiny bars of hotel soap, shampoo, a wrapped glass with the hotel’s name on it, even a “Do Not Disturb” door sign. Once he gave me a gift card with about $2.00 left on it. I couldn’t even use that because it was for a store they don’t have in this area. Thanks, Mr. Generous! The most extravagant thing this loser ever brought me back from these trips was a keychain that was probably free too. One of his gifts was half a Stuckey’s nutty bar, that he’d already opened and eaten part of. How cheap can you get? He was the stingiest POS I ever knew.
A ring or earrings maybe? Think again, chump.
It wasn’t like he didn’t have the money to buy me something nice. He used to show me, with great fanfare, all the nice things he’d bought for himself. A leather jacket, a framed picture, a box of homemade peanut butter and chocolate fudge. I remember asking him if I could have a piece of the fudge and he said no.
For Christmas that year he actually bought me something. It was a “Toonces The Driving Cat” coffee mug. Although still a cheap gift, it was thoughtful because he knew I loved that Saturday Night Live skit.
About a month later, we had a fight. We were arguing more frequently by then. Then he said something that made me wonder if I’d heard him right. He said he wanted the Toonces mug back. He told me to go get it and give it to him. I said no. Shooting me eye-daggers, he said through gritted teeth, “I never gave you that. I only let you borrow it.”
Wow.
Livid, I went and found the mug, pretended to hand it to him, saying “Here!” As he reached for it, I threw it hard against the floor in front of him, shattering it into bits. He stormed off in a rage and slammed the door on his way out. As I swept the pieces of broken ceramic into a dust pan, I heard the squeal of his tires as he backed out of the driveway like a bat out of hell. He always did have a problem with road rage too.
I read a post on a narcissistic abuse blog last night in which the blogger expressed concern and confusion over Ollie Matthew’s support of Donald Trump. For anyone who doesn’t know who Ollie Matthews is, he has a popular Youtube channel for survivors of narcissistic abuse and was himself raised by narcissists. Lately he’s been posting videos that defend Trump’s narcissism by calling it “confidence” and making other excuses for the things Trump does and says. His channel has been losing original subscribers, since so many victims are so triggered by this president and can’t understand Matthews’ need to defend and support a man who is probably the biggest narcissist in the world, and a sociopathic one at that.
Curious, I went to Ollie’s Youtube channel and started to watch one of his Trump videos and I had to turn it off. I felt sick. Here was a guy who has been victimized by people just like Trump and doesn’t exactly have very nice things to say about them. I’ve found his videos– which express a lot of raw anger at “his” narcissists, particular his mother — helpful in the past, especially when I was newly No Contact. Why on God’s green earth would someone who in no uncertain terms tells us to avoid narcissists like the plague be supporting a malignant narcissist who seems to have limitless power to abuse not just a few people, but millions — maybe even billions if he manages to destroy the environment or start a world war?
Unfortunately, Matthews isn’t that unusual. I have come across several narcissistic abuse bloggers and Facebook group owners who proudly and unapologetically support Trump. I don’t understand this. I could understand a victim who is unaware of narcissism or narcissistic abuse supporting him. If becoming educated about this problem is enough to make a person take the huge step of going No Contact with an abuser, why wouldn’t it also make that person think twice before throwing their support behind a narcissist whose behavior is so extreme that mental health professionals are willing to break the Goldwater Rule and publicly diagnose him with NPD or Malignant Narcissism?
Honestly, I haven’t the foggiest idea. Do they see Trump as a good guy? Ollie apparently does — he says his narcissism is “confidence.” Maybe they have Stockholm Syndrome and are unconsciously still drawn to abusive people. Maybe they really agree with his destructive policies and don’t see them as destructive. Maybe they see this man’s abusive language and bullying as a principled refusal to be politically correct. “He’s being honest,” one wrote. They apparently cannot see the gaslighting, the lies, the abusive and chaotic behavior and actions, the fragile ego, the vindictiveness, the crass self-centeredness, the scapegoating of people and groups who dare to criticize him or that he sees as “weak.” Reading posts in support of Trump by narcissistic abuse bloggers, Youtubers, and group owners makes me feel insane. I don’t understand it and never will.
“Class Divide” is a fascinating documentary that takes a look at the sharp socioeconomic contrasts in the quickly gentrifying Chelsea neighborhood in New York City between the wealthy students who attend the very expensive Avenues private school and their like-aged peers who live in the projects directly across the street. Their stories and those of their families and neighbors interweave and the real story emerges — that these kids are not all that different from each other in their hopes, dreams and aspirations.
For the past few weeks, for some reason, I haven’t had a lot of interest in blogging. Part of it is laziness, but the truth is I’m having trouble thinking of new things to write about. I’m finally sort of over writing about narcissism, and feel like there’s nothing new to add to the subject. I feel like I’ve moved on — but where to? I’m not sure right now. It’s not really writer’s block. I can write, but unless I actually care about what I’m writing about, why bother? I feel vaguely guilty about this but can’t explain why.
I’m deeply interested in political matters these days, and I think that shows. I’m still reluctant to write a lot about the political situation, but I’ve broken my rule to stay away from politics on this blog several times now. I’ve toyed with the idea of turning this into a political opinion blog, with a focus on the narcissism of our *cough* president, but for some reason I feel like I shouldn’t do it here. Lucky Otters Haven just doesn’t seem like the right place to do such a thing, though I have no idea why.
My lifelong education in narcissism has prepared me for this presidency (whether that’s a good thing or not, I’m uncertain because it also tends to make me obsess and analyze things outside my control too much). My education has certainly kept me from falling for the smoke and mirrors act and I’m shocked at what an accurate BS detector I’ve developed as a result of being a narcissistic abuse victim myself. I never knew I had such a good one.
Although my interest in blogging has waned for the time being (I’m sure it’s just temporary) I actually had the most activity ever last month — and made more money from this blog than I ever did before (not that it’s a lot because it’s not). That should be a motivator but I’m not sure it really is. I don’t want to write just for the views and the cash; I write because I want to and would do it even if I only had an audience of a few people and made nothing at all.
This summer I’m involved in a couple of home projects, including enclosing the porch (the work on that hasn’t started yet). I’ll be plenty busy with that, but I will post updates with photos as it comes along. As for other things, I guess I’ll just play it by ear, and write when a good idea pops into my head, whether it’s politics, personality disorders, or anything else. In the meantime, I will probably reblog or repost some of my older articles that I think deserve to be seen again.
God, I love this man. Vicente Fox, the former president of Mexico, is full of snark and insights. Here, he tells Trump why “Mexico is not going to pay for that f*cken wall,” among other things. The jab about Trump’s Diet Coke drinking not helping with his weight is priceless.
Besides being uproariously funny, Fox seems to be compassionate, even trying to appeal to the child Trump used to be. Unfortunately, a malignant narcissist as far gone as Trump is never going to have the insight or desire to “build a bridge across the oceans of time” to reach his child-self. But I love the fact Fox goes there.
Hey, if Fox can’t run for President, he should apply as a regular on Saturday Night Live.
Lucky Otters Haven 