Question #52: What if ancient Rome never fell?

Posted on February 7, 2016 by luckyotter

Ancient Romans had impressive technologies that got “lost” during the Dark Ages.While advances continued to be made, especially in architecture, during the Middle Ages, technologies that the Romans began to develop became dormant. Some of these were hydraulic power, the beginnings of the steam engine, science-based advances in medicine, the aqueduct system, indoor plumbing (yes, there was running water and flush toilets, at least for the wealthy), and even a mechanical computer.

But ancient Rome, like so many other great civilizations, including this one, became hubristic and militaristic, drunk on its own power. History shows that this kind of excess in a society never ends well, and Rome is a glaring example of what happens when a society becomes too big or too mighty. So Rome fell, and it took with it almost all technological advancement for a thousand or more years.

I wonder what would have happened if Rome never fell. I wonder if we’d be about a thousand years more advanced than we are today. Perhaps the steam engine would have been invented in 600 or 700, rail travel by 800, the discovery and harnessing of electricity by 900, the combustion engine (leading to cars) slightly later, space travel by 1000, modern computers (or their equivalents) by 1050, the Internet and Smartphones (or their equivalent) by 1100. By the time of the Renaissance, we’d probably be far more advanced than we are right now.

Would we now be colonizing other planets and traveling to distant stars? Would we be able to reverse aging or cure cancer? Would we now be immortal or have already self destructed? It’s sobering to think how powerful Rome would be by now if it hadn’t fallen. We might be living under a global dictatorship.

I think there’s a natural system of checks and balances that keep a society from gaining too much power, at least over any extended period of time. Societies that grow too powerful seem destined to fall (and are bad for its average citizens), but from the ashes of their ruins rise the seeds of the next great civilization. The Middle Ages, for all its backwardness and ignorance, spawned some of the greatest minds in history, bright lights keeping watch over the dark wilderness of a western world that was replenishing itself through a much needed long sleep.

Procrastination.

Posted on February 5, 2016 by luckyotter

I’m a procrastinator. I even procrastinate about things I WANT to do. Like right now, I have several over-a-week-old emails from readers I have yet to reply to, a good Facebook friend inbox’d me several days ago and I have yet to respond to her, and there’s a post I really want to write about my therapy session tonight but I’m just feeling too lazy to write it.

It weighs on my mind heavily that I really need to do these things and there’s no pain in doing them (in fact, they’re enjoyable), so why am I still procrastinating? Why am I writing this post about procrastination instead of replying to my emails, talking to my friend, or writing a more interesting post than this one?

I don’t have the answer to that. I think I’ll write the post tonight, and do the other stuff tomorrow night.

Also, the word procrastination looks and sounds a little absurd.

Stories from the broom closet #2

Posted on January 13, 2016 by luckyotter

I didn’t think I’d post more of these so soon, but my last article Adventures in Housekeeping: Stories from the Broom Closet, which included five anecdotes from my day job, was both popular with my readers and fun for me to write. So here are six more stories. I was joking when I said I could write a book of these, but I might do just that!

1. We Three.

One of my favorite things about cleaning houses is the pets. There’s a house that belongs to an alcoholic dermatologist, whose retired husband spends his days tending after his three huge Golden Retrievers. Max is the lively one, no longer a puppy, but he thinks he is. Standing on his hind legs, he’s as tall as a tall man. You have to be careful coming up the basement stairs to let yourself in, because there’s no handrail and the dogs are never put out of the way. More than once, Max, in his rambunctious joy over seeing me, has almost knocked me down the stairs while lugging all my equipment. The solution to this problem is to go upstairs first, round up the dogs in the kitchen, and then go back downstairs to fetch my equipment.

Max lives with Dottie, a scaredy-dog if I ever saw one. She’s beautiful but very shy and hesitant, so I think she might have been abused when she was younger. Lex, the third Retriever, is older than Max and slightly less rambunctious, but not by a whole lot.

Max is the dominant personality of the trio. Before I learned it was best to keep the dogs in the kitchen while cleaning, he would try to eat my equipment. One day I went with a partner, and she was in hysterics as he jumped about six feet in the air and tried to grab the vacuum tubes with his huge lion-like paws and pull the whole contraption toward his huge jaws.

The alcoholic doctor, who’s usually sleeping off a binge on the couch in the afternoons, doesn’t seem to care much for the dogs. They are her husband’s babies, and she just tolerates them. One day she complained to me that she can’t ever have anything nice in the house or ever go away anywhere because of “those damned dogs.”

On another day, poor Dottie was in in the way while my partner was vacuuming, and her feathery golden tail got caught in the hose. The poor terrified dog yelped and whimpered. My partner, feeling terrible, began to apologize to the woman, but the doctor was already doubled over with laughter. She held her sides and could hardly speak. After she pulled herself together, she said next time she’d have her camera ready because that was so funny it belonged on Youtube. Dottie, tail now free and unharmed, slunk away and we didn’t see her again that day.

2. The Clotheshorse.

A wealthy (“old money”) older woman lives in an 18th century plantation-style house that has four stories and a pull-chain toilet in the basement (out in the open, unenclosed by anything). The grounds are vast and immaculate, the ceilings and woodwork are ornate, and the house is brimming with valuable antiques. She’s one of my most annoying customers, for these reasons:

1. She is a slob and her master bathroom vanity always has mystery fluids and toothpaste caked all over it. She never picks up her clothes or shoes off the bedroom floor and there’s always about 100 used tissues under the bed. (She suffer from allergies, but I guess she’s never heard of a trash can).
2. She’s obsessed with moving furniture, and every time I go to her house there’s always some piece of old furniture in an inconvenient place, like blocking a doorway.
3. She keeps her microwave inside a cabinet high above the refrigerator. I understand she doesn’t want the “ugly microwave” on display in her Old Worlde style kitchen with its exposed brick walls, fireplace, and hardwood floor, but being that she’s about 5 feet tall, and the microwave gets a lot of use (it’s always coated in bacon grease and crusted on boiled milk), it makes no sense to keep it in such an inconvenient place. I wondered about this until the day I saw her pull a large stepladder out of the pantry to fetch a plate of bacon from the microwave.
4. She’s a world class snob who treats someone like me as “the hired help,” not that I expect or want my customers to talk nonstop either (and some do that too) or treat me like I’m royalty or something. Just being treated like a human would be nice.

She has a huge walk in closet that used to be a second bedroom adjoining the master. French doors with yellow-gray, antique glass open out onto a large deck that contains a hot tub and a gazillion potted plants. In this “closet” are racks upon racks of expensive designer dresses, gowns, pants, blouses, and other garments. One entire wall has shelves built into it that contain about 300 pairs of designer shoes.

One day last spring as I pulled up in the circular driveway, I saw that the French doors upstairs were left open, and all the racks of her clothes were out there on the deck, the garments blowing in the breeze. Obviously she was airing them out, but she wasn’t home. I soon got busy with other things, like scraping the dried toothpaste off her bathroom vanity and trying not to break her collection of miniature antique teapots.

After a while, the wind picked up and the sky began to darken. Thunder rumbled in the distance. I remembered the racks of clothes outside, and I had an evil thought. For a moment I was tempted to leave them there outside to get rained on. The visual of this unpleasant woman’s thousands of dollars worth of designer gowns and dresses getting soaked in a rainstorm filled me with a kind of mean, psychopathic glee. But my conscience won, so I ran upstairs to roll the racks back inside the huge closet and leave the woman a note. I never got a thank you.

3. Trustafarian Animal House.

trust_fund_baby

I really can’t stand people who have everything and don’t appreciate it. There’s a woman of indeterminate age who inherited a huge rambling two level house in one of the most affluent areas in town. The house, which could be stunning, is a disaster. It’s completely trashed by her and her redneck lover, which they share with her five dogs, four cats, two grossly overweight brindle rabbits (who have the whole sunporch to themselves), and a giant turtle who lives in the dining room and whose smelly quarters are never cleaned. The front yard, which was once nicely landscaped, is overgrown with weeds and the winding stone walkway to the front door is a crumbling ruin.

This owner is whiny, loud, lazy, and childish, with a grating voice, but she’s less annoying if I compare her to a cartoon character because when thought of as this way instead of a real person, she really can be kind of funny.

She obviously came from wealth and I’m not sure what happened, because she works as a store clerk at the mall. Maybe even with that monster of a house, she’s strapped for cash. Her lover works in landscaping, but I don’t think either of them works much because they are always at home and they are always high. Sometimes they have friends over getting stoned with them. They also drink a lot. There are always empty cans and boxes of Bud Light or Pabst Blue Ribbon scattered everywhere.

The many animals come and go as they please. The dogs are allowed to run all over the upper middle class neighborhood unsupervised and none of the cats are fixed and the house always reeks of male cat urine. The dogs and cats are friendly, but they walk all over the floor you just mopped and then she whines about the paw prints that were missed.

I remember the first time I went there to clean, she told me to “watch out for dead animals” when I vacuumed under the couch. It turned out she was referring to the possibility of finding dead mice and birds brought in by the cats. I didn’t see any, but wondered if she’d actually live in that house with a dead mouse or bird under the couch until I came to clean again. Probably, given the usual state of the house and the fact she’s such a lazy person who doesn’t appear to ever clean anything herself.

The last time I went to her house, she was sitting at the kitchen table building a Lego tower. I noticed other Lego structures sitting on the fireplace mantel. A huge stuffed Snoopy sat on the living room couch. She said her mother gave her the Snoopy for Christmas. I think this lady is eternally 10. Not that an adult playing with toys is a bad thing, but she’s 10 in almost every other way too, like something bad happened to her at that age and she got stuck there. You gotta feel kind of bad for someone like that.

4. The Jilted Lover.

Dead_Rose

One of my customers is a writer of novels who is probably in his early sixties. He’s a very friendly and pleasant man, who always tips and offers coffee. The first time I went to his house, he introduced me to his fiancee, a gorgeous and very thin woman about half his age. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man his age so much in love. He’d regularly bring her flowers and candy, and the two of them would hold each other and kiss and stare into each other’s eyes like smitten teenagers.

One day he answered the door and I could see he’d been crying. Either that or he had a very bad cold. He smiled at me sadly and I asked if he was alright. He said no, he wasn’t, because his fiancee had left him. I was shocked. Choking on tears, he said he was going to go in his office and try to write for awhile. I watched him close the glass doors behind him, and dejectedly trudge over to his desk.

Later I was vacuuming the area in front of the office, and looked up and saw the old man holding his head in his hands. He certainly wasn’t writing anything. I didn’t know what to do. He looked up and his face was wet with tears. Embarrassed, I looked away quickly. I felt terrible for him but I knew it was best not to say anything. When I was finished with my work, I let myself out quietly and drove home.

They are back together now, and going ahead with their wedding plans. They both made me listen to “Happy” by Pharrell Williams. They held hands and said that’s going to be played at their wedding. It’s as if nothing ever happened. I hope things last this time.

5. Mandarin Oranges.

There’s a divorced mother who lived in a big house with her two teenage sons. The older son, about 16, lived in the attic. Besides his bedroom, he had his own bathroom and sitting room with a big screen TV. There were blankets out on the roof, so I think he slept out there sometimes.

You never knew what to expect when you went up to his room. He liked to leave “surprises.” He collected expensive basketball shoes, and they were usually out of their boxes and strewn all over the floor, along with all his clothes, which never saw a hanger. One time there were plates with dried up food that must have been there for a long time, because flies and maggots had found a home in the dregs. Another time there were porn magazines under the sheets and a jar of Vaseline (I tried to pretend I didn’t see this). More than once the toilet was clogged but he hardly ever flushed it anyway.

The biggest surprise was the day I opened the toilet lid to find it filled with mandarin orange slices. There must have been 20 or 30 of them in there. For what reason would anyone put mandarin oranges in a toilet? Of course it was clogged. I knew I had to tell his mother, who had just come home. She was pissed. “That’s it,” she snarled. “I don’t ever want you to clean his room again. He’s spoiled rotten, because of his father. That boy needs to learn to clean his own damn room and if his toilet won’t flush because he did something stupid like throw expensive fruit in it, then he needs to fix it himself.”

At least she’s not like this other woman who won’t allow her teenagers to clean their own rooms because “they weren’t raised to have to do that sort of thing.”

6. The Best Reunion Ever.

cat_and_dog

This isn’t really a housekeeping story, but it still belongs here. Several years ago, I was visiting a friend in New Jersey, who worked as a pet-sitter, and I accompanied her on a few of her jobs.

We had to go feed and check up on a cat and dog whose owners had been away for two weeks. They were due back any time. The dog, Eddie, had a tennis ball that was almost destroyed, but Eddie wouldn’t accept any other tennis ball except that one. Not only that, he refused to eat his food until you sank the tennis ball in his food bowl, and then he’d happily eat around the ball, and finally pick up the ball and finish the food under it. It reminded me of the way a kid eats an Oreo. After Eddie and the cat, Missy, were fed, we took turns throwing the ball to Eddie for him to fetch.

It was at that moment the owners pulled in the driveway. Eddie and Missy both ran excitedly to the door, and both started pawing at it. Eddie barked and whimpered and ran around in circles and danced in front of the door.

The owners came in and their pets ran to them like children on Christmas morning. Eddie barked and jumped up and down, and Missy rolled ecstatically on the floor, chirping and coming as close to smiling as I’ve ever seen a cat do.

The owners looked just as thrilled to see them. In all my life, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a reunion quite like that. The innocent joy and love for their humans those two animals displayed really touched my heart.

What my therapist said that almost made me cry.

Posted on January 10, 2016 by luckyotter

At the end of our last session, he told me he looked forward to our visits. I could tell he meant every word. I asked him why, and he just said, “you make working with you easy.”

I know that doesn’t sound all that impressive, but believe me, it was. I couldn’t speak, and if I had, I think I would have burst into tears. I’m not there yet though.

He saw my reaction and just smiled and thanked me. He always thanks me at the end of each session. I’m not sure for what, but it helps me a lot.
I sensed nothing but warmth and kind regard from him, nothing questionable at all.

I’m not 100% sure what his words referred to, but I have some idea (nothing inappropriate though!), and thinking about it still makes me a little verklempt.

Stories from the broom closet: adventures in housekeeping.

Posted on January 9, 2016 by luckyotter

I don’t write a whole lot about my job working as a part time housecleaner because of the stigma attached to a job like this. As a college educated person with a very high IQ, who used to make a living as an editor/columnist for a long-defunct medical journal and moonlight writer of book reviews for publications like Publishers Weekly and Library Journal, sometimes it’s hard to reconcile just how low I’ve fallen on the social status ladder. I’ll spare you the details of how that came to be, because it’s not very interesting and has a lot to do with self-sabotage and being trained to be a victim by my abusers (and has a lot to do with the economy and the geographic region I live in as well). I’ve written about all that before anyway. This isn’t about that.

This isn’t supposed to be a depressing post though. Framed the right way, I actually have a very interesting and even fun job, albeit one that doesn’t pay much and fluctuates depending on time of year.

12 Reasons Why Cleaning Houses for a Living May Be Underrated.

1. It sure beats sitting in a call center all day getting screamed at for things totally outside your control and where you are required to put up with and “handle” the abuse thrown at you. (I did that too and had enough after 4 years of it)

2. You’re constantly busy, and the scenery is ever-changing, so you never get bored. No interminably long afternoons spent watching a never-moving clock.

3. You’re constantly moving and it’s a great way to keep in shape. I was able to cancel my gym membership.

4. Sometimes you get tips, especially around the holidays. Some of the tips can be good.

5. You sometimes get really nice stuff other people want to get rid of: I’ve taken home small furniture, a crystal vase, books, an antique mirror, original paintings, clothing, leather bags, and shoes, various homemade baked goodies, and a homemade quilt (which got eaten by my dog, well I hope he enjoyed it).

6. I work alone most of the time, and as a socially awkward, introverted person who never could decipher office politics and the kiss-up games most offices require you to play to move ahead, this works well for me.

7. Once you start having your own clients who request you only, you begin to establish a kind of relationship with them. They look forward to seeing you and it feels good that your giving them a clean house (and sometimes providing them with company) makes them happy.

8. I’m not required to work evenings or weekends, and sometimes I’m off as early as 1 or 2 o’clock. Sure you don’t make as much on slow days like that, but it’s nice to be home early, as long as it doesn’t happen too often.

9. Although the novelty of this has worn off, it can be interesting seeing the types of homes people have and the way they have decorated them. Some of the houses are impressive indeed!

10. The work is mentally easy and I can let my mind wander while working. It is physically hard work though, and sometimes at the end of the day, I’m very sore! A hot bath with epsom salts usually helps though.

11. The pets are awesome, and are the best part of the job (even though they shed and make messes). I could write other stories just about the different pets I meet. Maybe I’ll do that sometime.

12. It’s also a great job for an aspiring writer because you meet so many different kinds of people (they’re not all snobby rich people living in gated communities, though we have those too). You have a front row seat to a lot of family drama and eccentric types and other things sometimes that make you go hmmmm or WTF! It’s a great opportunity to study and observe human nature and that hones your skills as a writer. You also learn a lot about people.

Some of the things I hear and see make pretty good stories, so here are five of them.

The humorist and memoir writer David Sedaris used to work as a housecleaner in New York City, and used some of the things he experienced during that stint as fodder for his uproariously funny essays.

1. The Lonely Lady and the Surprise Birthday Lunch.

A well to do older lady living alone, whose husband died last year, seems to want company more than having her house cleaned. Although she talks way too much for my taste, she’s a sweet lady and last year threw me a surprise birthday party just for the two of us! She said she needed an extra hour and I thought, oh no, she’s going to want me to clean out her refrigerator or organize her closet or something (trust me, you do NOT want to see this woman’s closet–she’s almost a hoarder and never throws away anything).

When I arrived she asked me at one point to stop what I was doing and come into the sunroom. It was a beautiful warm sunny day and the table was set beautifully, with flowers and greens everywhere. She had prepared delicious chicken salad with vinaigrette and fresh tomatoes and basil, another tossed salad, sweet ice tea, and an amazing lemon cake with lemon buttercream from an expensive bakery (with NO cream cheese icing, thank God!) To top it off, she presented me with $50 in cash! That was a good day. And even better, she didn’t ask how old I was. I really think the woman is just lonely and felt like having company and I got the honor.

2. Schizo Santa Claus and the Cup of Hair.

It’s not coffee in that mug, but the words say it all.

There’s another guy, a Vietnam veteran who looks like Santa Claus who probably suffers severe PTSD or even schizophrenia. The man is very strange and his house is a disaster and it stinks too. He always wants to go back to sleep after you clean his bedroom. He collects beautiful, antique chessboards and has them all over his house. He seems to be somewhat of a hoarder too and it’s hard to move around in the tight, cluttered rooms.

The man sheds; his wiry gray hair is all over everything. The first time I went there I thought he must have a pet, maybe a wirehaired terrier, but no, the hair belongs to him.

He keeps a mug of his sheddings on the bathroom vanity. You cannot touch it, you are not allowed to throw it away. The first time I went there I didn’t know so I threw it away and he started to panic. I had to dig through the trash to find the hair and with a pair of plastic gloves, retrieved it to its rightful place in the mug on the bathroom sink. I have no idea why he needs this, and I don’t want to know either. Maybe he’s knitting himself a wig or a sweater. Who knows.

3. Contact High and the Stoner House.

The other day I went to clean a one-time house (not a regular client). The door was answered by a guy in his early 20s or maybe late teens, who was obviously stoned. He told me his mother was up in Maine having chemotherapy treatments but would be returning the next day. He showed me around the house and told me not to worry about cleaning his room, he would do it himself.

Two of his stoner buddies were there with him, and they all sat in the living room smoking out a bong and watching some anime movie.
Soon he came upstairs and told me he had spoken to his mother on the phone and she told him I had to clean his room after all (I know he had not been on the phone; obviously he decided he didn’t feel like cleaning it).

His room reeked of pot smoke and there were bongs and pipes on almost every surface and little piles of weed. I got a contact high just from being in there. Later I overheard a telephone conversation where his mother told him his two friends had to be gone when she arrived home the next day. I guess that was the last time he could party!

I got a $25 tip from him when I was leaving. He said the house looked great. I hope his mom agrees.

4. The Elderly Couple Who Refused to Move Downstairs.

At another one-time job, the middle aged son from New Jersey had come to try to talk his elderly parents, one who was wheelchair bound, the other with advanced Alzheimers, into moving into a downstairs bedroom. He wanted to close off the stairs because of the danger of falling, but the father, the ambulatory one with Alzheimer’s, wouldn’t have it. The old man walked around in nothing but a diaper, and his bowed legs looked like toothpicks but he scampered up and down the stairs like a first grader jacked up on Red Bull. He kept insisting he didn’t mind carrying his wife (who weighed at least twice what he did!) up the stairs. Yikes! This feisty codger had to be watched closely!

The son told us that since he was unable to move in with them (because his job and family were back in New Jersey) and they had bought and paid off the house and refused to move or go into a nursing home, that he would have to hire a full-time nurse and cook to take care of them both in their house. His concern and love for his disabled and elderly parents was touching and so was the old couple’s abiding love for each other. They were actually the kind of old people you’d call cute. In fact, I’d call them them freaking adorable.

5. The Malignant Sociopathic Bible Thumping Narcissistic Bitch from Hell.

There was one customer that couldn’t keep a regular cleaner, because of what a horrible and mean person she was. In the short time I cleaned her house, I didn’t see one redeeming quality. First of all, the lady was a control freak. She was told on a number of occasions to have the sheets ready when we got there, but she wasn’t having any of that. She’d deliberately wait until we were about to leave before taking he sheets out of the dryer. When called out on this once, she demanded to have the name of the person in the office who said that, even though she had been told again and again to have the sheets ready. Basically she was calling us liars.

She’d keep you in her house as long she could (knowing full well we had other assignments that day), standing over you watching everything you did and making you do things over and over even when there was no need. Her washer and dryer happened to be in the master bathroom so she’d wait until you had just mopped the floor in there before retrieving the sheets for the beds, leaving her shoe marks all over the mopped floor so you’d have to mop it again. She’d also push into you on purpose on her way to the dryer, and then in a sarcasatic-sweet voice, coo “I am SO sorry!”

One time someone else cleaned her house because I was sick that day. She said this woman waited until the moment she came in to clean the kitchen and suddenly decided she just had to start rearranging her kitchen cabinets at that moment!

I finally had enough of this nasty character the day she blamed me for her vicious dog growling at me. She had a golden retriever, and usually they are very sweet dogs, but this one was anything but. I was coming up the front porch stairs and the dog was there, not tethered to anything, growling and baring its teeth at me. The woman came out and stared at me with black malevolent reptilian eyes.
“What did you do to my Ginger? She NEVER growls at anyone! You must have done something to upset her.”
That was the last straw. I told the office I would no longer clean this woman’s house. Shortly after that, she canceled service.

Did I forget to mention the woman’s house was filled with Bibles and plaques of Christian sayings and Bible verses and ceramic angels? Oh, and her husband called her “Mom” and seemed terrified of her. Also her grown children never visited. I wonder why!

If you like these stories, there are others. I can post them in a later article, if there’s enough interest.

Okay, Tony Burgess, happy now?

Posted on January 4, 2016 by luckyotter

Tony Burgess wrote a post telling me to post something new right now. I was going to take a night off, but now I’ll feel guilty if I don’t, so here’s a new post.

I was a weird, sketchy kid who had weird dreams. When I was about 5 I had a dream about something called a “clout” that looked like an oversized steel wool pad. It was sitting on the small rug in front of my bed and I was too scared to put my feet on the floor because that clout thing was evil. It just sat there on the rug, in all its black malevolence, not moving, but I knew it was alive and meant to kill me. I knew if I put my feet on the floor the clout would suck me down into the Hell-portal it must have come from.

When I was around the same age, one morning I woke up doubled over with laughter. My dad asked me why I was laughing, and I remember saying, “someone was throwing mud at my door.” I pointed to the door of my room and globs of gooey mud were sliding down its painted surface. I couldn’t stop shrieking with mirth. I kept pointing but he couldn’t see the mud and told me to stop making things up. “Look! Look! There! There!” I screamed in frustration, but I was still laughing. Then I woke up for real and was almost afraid if I looked at the door, mud would be on it. I was really awake this time, so there wasn’t. Relieved, I went downstairs for my Cap’n Crunch and orange juice.

Like I said, I was a weird kid.

Cluster B disorders are not cool.

Posted on December 20, 2015 by luckyotter

uncool

Although Cluster B disorders (the dramatic, emotional, erratic group of personality disorders), are largely demonized on the Internet by narcissistic abuse survivors, there’s another growing attitude online that’s pretty much the opposite–that having a Cluster B disorder somehow makes you an uber-cool badass.

This is a dangerous delusion. Take it from me, having a Cluster B disorder like BPD (in my case) is NOT fun. Nor is it cool. In fact, it really really sucks. 😦 Both for yourself and everyone else.

This growing attitude of “Cluster B coolness” I’ve been seeing more of goes something like this:

NPD:

This is what your narcissist is really all about.

The Myth: If you have Narcissistic Personality Disorder (NPD), you’re a self-confident, go-out-and-knock-em-all-dead, ambitious, and highly intelligent badass who Gets. Things. Done. Psychopaths are similarly glorified, but they’re basically the reason why everything’s wrong with the world and empathy is seen as a “weakness.” The narcissistic woman is regarded as a diabolical yet seductive Jezebel who turns strong men into whimpering slaves at the snap of her pretty fingers and who every other woman strives to be. The narcissistic man is regarded as a buff, handsome, masculine, virile, successful go-getter who all women melt for (and that’s how they regard themselves, of course).

The Reality: In actuality, if you have NPD, you’re a negative, selfish, deluded, demanding, envious, entitled, whining crybaby with no real sense of self who everyone hates (and who hates everyone) but are afraid to say so because it might set off one of your infamous rages or you giving them the even more crazymaking “silent treatment.” People are always walking on eggshells around you because you’re really so unstable, hypersensitive to criticism, and deluded by and drunk with your own “greatness.” You’re a sore loser too and can’t stand to see anyone else do well or get any attention. No one really likes you and you’re probably right that people are talking about you behind your back, but frankly you deserve it. Also, many narcissists are just plain stupid and have no emotional intelligence. As for their reputed skillfulness in bed, many narcs (especially the cerebral types) hate sex and can’t or won’t perform. Or, as with everything else, they only care about their own needs and to hell with yours.

BPD:

Joan Crawford had a BPD diagnosis. Is this sexy, alluring, and “quirky” to you?

The Myth: If you have Borderline Personality Disorder, some people think this means you’re a sexy beast or babe who’s alluring, unpredictable, passionate, always charming and “quirky”, and never boring. Your chameleon-like abilities to match the attitudes of those around you is seen as evidence of potential Oscar-winning ability. It’s always pointed out how many actors and musicians suffer from BPD.

The Reality: Let’s be honest. If you have BPD you’re emotionally unstable, volatile, almost crazy (the original term “borderline” referred to the disorder being on the border between neurosis and psychosis), out of touch with reality, unable to take a firm stance on anything (or conversely, switching back and forth between two extremes, which just makes you look insane) due to your terror of being rejected or abandoned, prone to be an addict, (drugs, booze, gambling, shopping, cutting, eating and/or dieting, other people), clingy, codependent, insecure, high-maintenance, and fickle. The borderline doesn’t really have a false self per se like the narcissist, but they can’t access their true self either, so they wind up “taking on” the attitudes and emotions of those who happen to be around them like some kind of emotional bodysnatcher (in contrast with true empathy, their feelings overwhelm them and are out of control), and they just plain overreact to every damn thing so you feel like you’re always walking on eggshells.

HPD:

You think you look seductive. Everyone else thinks you look like a clown.

The Myth: Although Histrionic Personality Disorder (HPD) isn’t widely talked about, its reputation is similar to that of BPD (but is really the stereotypically feminine form of Overt NPD): usually female, a sexy, seductive siren, dramatic, highly social, loves parties and being the center of attention, and is never, ever boring. You’ll fall madly in love with this bewitching seductress due to their many charms and their great looks.

The Reality: The real truth about people with HPD is that they’re insincere, emotionally labile to the point of being embarrassing (but their over-the-top “emotional displays” are largely an act), shallow, materialistic, and emotionally retarded. They often overdress (or underdress!) or are overly made up for an occasion, are sexually promiscuous, and are inappropriate in social situations, but they don’t care if you’re cringing in embarrassment for them because even negative attention is still attention and that’s what they crave more than the air itself.

ASPD:

Nuff said.

The Myth: So here we are at the juggernaut of the Cluster Bs, the baddest badass of them all, Antisocial Personality Disorder (ASPD). Often confused with Psychopathy (and often overlapping with it), the antisocial or psychopathic badass is a sexy and fearless rogue, unconcerned with how others feel about them, possessed of an arresting and penetrating gaze (actually a predatory, creepy stare) that makes you feel like they are really listening to you, determined to get what they want (whether it’s their latest kill or their latest corporate takeover) and never giving up or allowing themselves to be intimidated, by anything. They’re the Rebels Without a Cause, the self-confident Ferris Buellers, the Coolest of the Cool, the celebrated anti-heroes of novels and films socially sanctioned to serve as a receptacle for the Shadow Self that resides within us all. The ASPD badass gives us permission to mentally “act out” our darker impulses, without actually hurting anyone, and that’s why we all love serial killers so much, and why the Ted Bundys and Charlie Mansons of the world get more marriage proposals than any football or film star.

The Reality: The antisocial badass is really just a heartless and criminally minded horse’s ass, who has no capacity for empathy, isn’t even socially constrained by their need to impress others to garner narcissistic supply (because they don’t require any), and is frequently in prison or has a rap sheet the size of War and Peace. This is a guy (or gal) who will make your life a living hell, beat you to a pulp any chance they get and leave you in a heartbeat and not even remember your name.

If they’re high functioning, they’re the people who are responsible for everything that’s wrong in the world today and the reason why you work 3 jobs and can’t afford a vacation or health insurance.

If they’re low-functioning, if they’re not straight up criminals, they’re flabby, pasty Basement Dwellers who dishonestly leech off the system or their family members so they never have to work and spend all their time trolling Internet forums to get a rise out of random strangers. Just like my ex.

basement_dweller

Ah, what a studly, irresistably dangerous heartbreaker you are.

If you’re a psychopath or sociopath, you operate more like a machine than a human. Is that something we should be aspiring to?

So there you have it. Cluster B disorders are not cool. They are serious mental (and some believe, spiritual) illnesses, and they are pathetic. And let’s not forget that people suffering from Cluster B disorders are not happy people. In fact, most of them are pretty miserable. They are to be pitied (and avoided) rather than emulated.

A rebuttal in defense of Cluster B.

Storyteller.

Posted on December 17, 2015 by luckyotter

My therapist told me I’m a good storyteller.
This was one of the most validating things anyone ever told me. He likes my stories. I keep him entertained. I make him laugh and keep him on the edge of his seat.
Yay me!

Maybe I really could write that novel and keep millions entertained and become rich and famous after all. Why not? Its never too late. Hell, Grandma Moses didn’t become a famous painter until her 90s. There’s nothing wrong with being a late bloomer.

I always thought of myself as a pretty boring person and an even worse storyteller, because I didn’t think I had any stories worth telling. But I’m finding out that’s not the case.
We all have a story to tell. We’re all actors on this stage called life.

But feeling complimented isn’t really the reason I’m over the moon about what he said. It doesn’t matter if I have the capacity to entertain anyone. I don’t really care if I can make people laugh or keep them quaking in suspense or move them to tears. That’s not my reason for being here.

It means a lot because I feel like he cares. I keep him entertained because he cares about me or at least does a pretty good job pretending he does (but I don’t think it’s pretending). He’s very good at what he does, but more importantly, after four sessions, I feel like we have established trust and a good working relationship. He’s one of the few people who ever showed me any real empathy. I feel like I could tell him almost anything.
Except one thing.

I realized this week I’ve developed strong transference feelings. That’s supposed to happen in psychodynamic therapy. It’s like limerence but without the sexual aspect. I just want to be cared for and protected by him, as if he’s the nurturing and caring surrogate parent I should have had. These feelings can be intense. They replicate ancient attachments from early childhood. You’re supposed to work through them. Right now I just feel incredibly excited to be seeing him again tomorrow.

I know this euphoria won’t last. It might even become painful. I’m prepared for that. I’m idealizing someone I don’t even know. All he is is a mirror, in which I can see whatever I want–or see aspects of myself I can’t own yet. I went through this when I was 22 and wound up walking out on my therapist because I couldn’t handle the intensity of my feelings anymore. But I’m older and more mature now, and know a lot more about how this stuff works than I did back then. Therapy isn’t easy. It’s work, hard work, and I’m prepared to roll up my sleeves and get busy instead of slacking off and expecting to just suddenly not have any problems anymore.

He doesn’t know yet. I don’t know if I’m ready to tell him. He may figure it out even if I don’t say anything. Maybe I can tell it like a story.

Take your office Christmas party and shove it.

Posted on December 15, 2015 by luckyotter

Tonight I have to attend the annual office Christmas party, so I think it’s time to throw this rant up here again.

The article, which was written a year ago, states I have Aspergers, which for over a decade I believed I had but I found out I do not. It’s most likely my avoidant PD masquerading as Aspergers.

Lucky Otters Haven

Get out of my face with your absurd fake smiles and stupid Santa hats.

So tomorrow night is the annual office Christmas party. I will not be attending. It’s not like I have some high level job where my presence is expected or necessary anyway. I doubt anyone will even notice my absence or care.

As an Aspie, I have never been able to tolerate the forced upbeat perkiness and all the small talk and chit chat about nothing in particular that abounds at these events. Too much social input coming in from all directions overwhelms my oddly wired brain, causing it to short circuit. I wind up in a state of near panic and to compensate, I become mute to avoid reading a social cue wrong and say something out of context that causes people to look at each other knowingly and roll their eyes at my social ineptness.

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“Narcissist Apocalypse”

Posted on December 14, 2015 by luckyotter

Photo credit: unknown.

I want to share this fascinating article about societal narcissism from The Telluride Daily Planet I found via Sam Vaknin’s Malignant Self-Love Facebook page.

Narcissist Apocalypse
http://www.telluridenews.com/opinion/columnists/article_34238512-9e09-11e5-9aad-e33827f8673e.html
By David Brankley, Being There

Lately I’ve been intrigued with the topic of narcissism. Maybe it’s the current election cycle with its clash of giant egos, the sparring of would-be megalomaniacs. Maybe it’s the book I’m reading, “Narcissistic Supply: The Narcissist’s Drug” by Sam Vaknin.
Turns out its author is no psychologist, but his leading credential is that he is himself a narcissist, twice diagnosed by experts. Nevertheless, this book seems rich with insight into the condition, containing plenty of food for thought.
Narcissism is not a single phenomenon. There is the clinical form, recognized generally as a personality disorder referred to as Narcissistic Personality Disorder. Even that takes many forms. I wish I had the space here to describe them. They are all fascinating.
Instead, let me offer a simple definition. NPD is extreme self-centeredness. It’s characterized by an inflated sense of self-importance and a deep and overwhelming need for admiration. Lack of empathy is also present. The confident exterior of the narcissist is a false mask. Underlying it is a very fragile sense of self worth that is vulnerable to the slightest criticism. There is also a more general, less extreme form of narcissism that some call “societal narcissism.”

Read the rest of the article here.