Are we all narcissists? I don't think so

This post resulted from comments I made on YouTube videos about the subject, which somehow evolved into longer chains of thought that I felt might have some value on this blog. It's easy to come up with examples - hundreds of them - of how the narcissist in the family manipulated, damaged and vampirized both friends and enemies, ate their young, and attempted the kind of dominance usually only equalled by totalitarian political leaders.

My sister the narcissist (13 years older than me) did something so inexplicably awful that I still have trouble wrapping my brain around it. She wrote my mother's obituary, imposing her own agenda on it, for my mother was on her deathbed. 

I was not in my mother's obituary. I had been stricken off the record and, according to that document, had never been born at all. 

As cruel and indifferent as my mother could be, I do not think it was her idea. It was my sister's ultimate act of malignant jealousy and hatred of me, an attempt to literally "unmake" me. Of course I was devastated at first, but then I had this thought: no matter what my kids did, even if they were murderers, even if they murdered ME, in no way, shape or form would I ever even think of striking them from the record, because they are MINE, my beloveds, I birthed and raised them, so this malignant hatred was NOT transferred to me. 

It did not happen by itself, as you can imagine, but through years, and years, and years of therapy, falling into addiction, mental illness, suicide attempts, etc. - BUT, somehow, always coming out the other side. I showed the obituary to my adult daughter, who snorted and said, "That says everything about HER, and nothing about YOU." She also said, and I liked this, "Don't give it another thought." In other words, don't let this nasty lie rent any more space in your head! Garbage is garbage and should be thrown out. I couldn't have said it better myself. 

As a P. S.: a high school friend phoned me and said, "I am sorry to read about your mother, but why aren't you in her obituary? Was it some sort of oversight?" I said, "no, it was quite deliberate," and my friend was so horrified she couldn't speak for a while. And people squabble and complain when they are left out of the will! But that attempt to erase my very existence turned out to be pretty laughable, after all. I managed to have two wonderful kids who also turned out to be wonderful parents. That doesn't happen to someone who never existed, does it? I don't think so.

Narcissism has lately been exposed in the popular culture as never before, but suddenly it has become too prevalent and is being rendered meaningless. If everyone is a narcissist, then no one is a narcissist. It's like saying "we're all geniuses" and other absurd generalizations. Human beings are far more complicated than that. Nor is it inevitable for narcissism to beget narcissism down the generations. It CAN be stopped and rooted out, but only if it is recognized and no longer tolerated. 

I know a lot of wonderful, even selfless people, and I married one, even while being exposed to hateful narcissism in my childhood. We gravitate towards who we are ourselves, or perhaps (in my case) who we would like to be. I know people who grumble "there are no good marriages," but inevitably their own relationships are chaotic. People I know with stable marriages are puzzled by this and always say most of their close friends have good marriages.

But the problem now is how easy it is for a narcissist to exert influence over others on a mass scale. A narcissist can very quickly attain world prominence on social media and become an "influencer" (incubus/succubus) and thus wield enormous economic and even political power (Kanye West for President??) on a global level. And you do not even have to spend a cent to do it. Twitter is the great equalizer.

Meghan Markle is a chilling example - she is now called "the most talked-about woman on the planet", and I agree, there are mainstream news items about her every day now, in which she is usually shown in a totally benevolent, humanitarian light. She has cultivated "friends" who are so well-placed (Oprah, Gayle, Ellen, Elton, George and Amal, etc.) that she almost cannot fail. If she rises to political prominence as she seems to want to, God help us all, we will have another Trump on our hands.

When I watch true crime shows like Dateline, it shocks me how often the victims of horrendous violence will say "I forgave him". I do not like the current emphasis on what I call the "forgiveness agenda". Supposedly, you "MUST" forgive the people who have wronged you, even if they have murdered your children, or else you will be filled with anger and rage and bitterness for the rest of your life. 

People who say they have done this are treated like living saints, and it creates pressure on others because it becomes a "should". I disagree. To survive and ultimately thrive, you've got to get away from malignant narcissists, escape with your life, and concentrate on reclaiming yourself. My therapist said about forgiveness: "Don't make an issue out of it" - in other words, you do not HAVE TO do anything! No other person has the right to dictate how you heal yourself, because it is an absolutely sacred process known only to yourself and whatever the healing agents are in your life.

What actually happened over many years and even decades of struggle is that I went from total disgust and contempt for my abusers to a kind of measured pity. I DO feel sorry for these people, because they are truly pathetic human beings. I cannot imagine anything worse than being that sort of person, even if they are not the ones who suffer most. Nor are there any of those kinds of people in my current circle, nor will there ever be. 

But this hard-won pity is NOT the same as coerced forgiveness, which is NOT necessary to avoid a lifetime of bitter rage. Don't let anyone pressure you into something that feels wrong to you! The "forgiveness agenda" may well be yet another attempt to silence you, because people are profoundly uncomfortable with your pain and anger and don't want to hear about it. Their motives are entirely selfish. People have largely lost the ability to bear witness without judgement, which is what all wounded people/all people need. "You must forgive" can just be another way of saying "don't talk about that any more." It's cowardly, selfish and not what is called for. I am not impressed by it. But pressure to forgive is sanctified and bulwarked by basic Christian principles, which makes it even more potentially powerful and even deadly. 

In my own former so-called-liberal Christian church, we struggled and wrestled with the concept of forgiveness as a "must" in Christian faith. If you can't forgive, the myth went, then you are not a true Christian. You must at least "try", struggle and strain, and reproach yourself continually if you can't do it. It was very important not to feel "comfortable" in our faith. It was work, and I now see it as thankless work and a waste of energy and time. We were even told "God will only forgive you if you forgive everyone else," which is an abomination and the most coercive idea I have ever encountered. It's one of the more insidious forms of religious abuse, and I somehow tolerated it for fifteen years for the sake of "belonging".

If God does not play dice with the Universe, as Einstein claimed, then God doesn't force people into uncomfortable and unhealthy patterns through coercion or "guilt trips". The Christian God no longer makes sense to me, and I feel if there is any benevolence at all in the Universe, it must come from us and travel from heart to heart. God's grace, if you want to call it that, is lived out through those difficult acts of compassion which force us to stretch beyond our own little universe of closed thoughts and wrongheaded ideas.

We cannot wait around for Big Daddy to fix things, or even fix us. Jesus at least tried to get this across, but no one seems to have heard him. The hardest thing in the world is to bear witness to another's pain silently and non-judgementally. Don't say anything, for once! Don't even think anything. Don`t try to fix it. Just sit. It is what 12-step groups attempt to do, usually imperfectly, but they at least try. To bear witness often means to just not bolt out of the room, or make all sorts of frantic attempts to get the person to shut up and follow THEIR hidden agenda. How rare it is, and I believe it is the only key for human beings to truly help each other in a world full of anxiety, stress and daily predictions of doom.

I loved two men

There are strange, strange things that happen, things so inexplicable you can only understand them after years have gone by. The camera zooms away, or zooms upward, so that more and more of the picture is revealed.

I loved two men. Loved – that’s the wrong word. It wasn’t a sexual thing, I swear, because both men were known to be gay. They were also arrogant, fiercely intelligent, and possessed of a certain social and media-related power. They were tin gods, in other words, and how I could have remained so attached to them, for so long, I will never know.

Maybe I was flattered when they allowed me to sit at the edge of their bright circle of influence. Maybe. I certainly courted their attention, and got bits of it, crumbs. When I was about to walk away in rage or dismay, I’d be tossed another crumb.

Where do I start? The parallels between these two just came to me tonight. It seems incredible I never saw it before.

For one thing, they’re both dead. They both died of sudden, violent, catastrophic strokes, literally dropping in their tracks. They were not young, but neither were they terribly old. Before they died, they both said and did things to me which now make me gasp at the level of casual cruelty.

Paul was my teacher, so many years ago now it seems like another lifetime, another universe. It was back in 1991. He taught anthropology at a community college in a small town, a strange thing, because I was to find out later he had two Masters degrees and a PhD. If he was so brilliant, as he seemed to think he was, why was he stuck in this backwater?

The Anthropology of Religion wasn’t about religion at all. It was mostly about Haitian voodoo and the power of certain plants to paralyze and zombify – for the great zombie tradition comes from Haiti, where death can be created at will, then revoked with a snap of the fingers.

I was enthralled. In the classroom, this man was charisma personified. He just seemed to know so much. When I saw Paul do mediumship at a spiritualist church, I was enraptured. I had never known anyone like this, a veritable sorceror, and he was actually allowing me to sit at the same table and talk about the same subjects. More or less.

How I stayed friends with Paul through the years is simple – I put in virtually 100% of the energy. Had I let it drop, the whole thing would have fallen apart. Why was I so desperate? I don’t understand it, looking back, except that I wanted some of his zombie power. I already had power of my own, but I didn’t see that then. Whenever it threatened to show itself, Paul would summarily clap it down.

Meanwhile, another friendship – this one really not a friendship at all, but a correspondence, for I never actually met the man. Call him Lloyd, because that was his name, so we might as well use it. He had been drama critic at the local paper for a thousand years or so, then music critic, more or less staying in the same job for all of his working life. Not turning left, not turning right.

As a critic, he could deal blows and thrust his sword with a nearly-indifferent cruelty that was sometimes breathtaking. It was enormously entertaining for people to watch Lloyd eviscerate other people – a blood sport. When they themselves were the subject, their enthusiasm withered somewhat.

One day, wanting to entice him or at least attract his attention, I sent Lloyd a column I had written in my local paper – what was it about? Elizabeth Taylor’s visit to Eaton’s, I think – and to my surprise, I got a very nice handwritten reply, quoting some lines from my column and saying he was going to steal them: “I only steal from the best.”

After that initial contact, it wasn’t as if we passed notes in school or sat around the campfire roasting weenies. As I said, it wasn’t a normal friendship. We never had coffee, never even talked on the phone. But the correspondence went back and forth for more than fifteen years. Mostly forth, for if I hadn’t kept it going it would have immediately died. I don’t know why I let myself in for such treatment, but I did.

In both cases, the connection waxed and waned, but there were bright moments. Occasionally Paul the medium acknowledged that I maybe-just-maybe had had some valid psychic experiences of my own (but more often than not he dismissed them as “dangerous” or “just a fantasy”). Lloyd sent me Christmas cards – yes, he really did, handwritten, cheery things that you would never know came from someone most people perceived as a heartless Scrooge.

I will cut to the chase, because this could become book-length. There was a breaking point in each case. I had lost touch with Lloyd after he finally retired from his only job, tried to leave a message on a blog he was keeping, and heard nothing. Then suddenly – and this was unlikely, because he hated technology – there he was on Facebook! Stupidly, I messaged him and said, “I hope this gets to you.”

What I got back was, “This was a mistake. I’m not on Facefuck, so you can go fuck yourself. I hope this gets to you.”

I spent considerable time spinning around in confusion, telling myself maybe it wasn’t really him (it was), and then – one day – receiving a kind of vindication when a friend of mine – OK, a psychiatrist – said, “It’s well-known that this man is the most sarcastic, vindictive, narcissistic, selfish, ruthless, heartless. . . “ – and on and on. OH! I thought I was the only one, and here this man’s patients – apparently more than one – had been seared as well. In fact, maybe that’s what sent them to the psychiatrist.

I can’t remember ever being that angry, but I had a plan. Paul had taught me all about it, in The Anthropology of Religion. I wasn’t trying to do harm – of course not. My plan was to show Lloyd  the error of his ways, to hold up a mirror or a magnifying glass, and to make him feel even a degree of the pain that he had caused other people. I had no idea if I was applying the principles correctly, so I winged it, using Haitian music, a great deal of jewelry and beads and crosses, candles, incense, dance, and written statements of intent. Silly, really, but  I just had to do something - he had just told me to go fuck myself! I thought he was my friend, or my "something" at least. When I made the doll it seemed extreme, but what is a doll but a toy, an effigy, a likeness? This wasn’t him. The person I was trying to reach was probably unreachable.

So what happened? Exactly nothing. So that was that. I filed it under "useless attempts to get someone's attention". 

Fast-forward several years, and the news came (in the paper he used to write for) that he had suddenly died, and his life was gone. The saddest thing was realizing that his colleagues (most of them dragged out of retirement for comment) had to awkwardly scrape together nice things to say about him. I didn’t react well and posted something pretty harsh on my blog, which I took down when I realized it was hurting people who had cared about him.

But suddenly, now that he was gone, he was this bon vivant, this sparkling wit, this Oscar Wilde of the Lower Mainland, and far from hating and fearing him, performers had lined up to receive his vicious barbs as a sort of badge of honour. Right. Others said he had wasted himself and should have written for the New Yorker or some other publication that mattered. The saddest thing of all was when someone said that after working with him for 25 years, no one knew a single thing about him – where he was from, if he had a family or an education or any working experience prior to his decades at the Sun. Outside the office or the concert hall, he was a cipher.

My anger fizzled out in pity. My mojo seemed ridiculous, which I suppose it was. I had not affected the outcome of this strange, sad story. But stranger still was what happened years later, and that’s the thing that makes the hair on my scalp prickle. Paul’s death was so similar, it was downright eerie.

Paul too was celebrated in his tiny circle, but his wit was known to be cutting. He seemed to love busting people down to size. Like Lloyd, he had his limited little fiefdom, and stomped away from the spiritualist church he had founded when the other members didn’t want to do things his way.

He lived far away by then, and we had an on-off correspondence, but when I excitedly began to write to him about some information I had received about George Gershwin, at first he seemed supportive and almost enthusiastic. I sent him several documents about how friends and family members had actually “seen” him after his death – a dire and restless death, the kind that sometimes leaves behind that unhappy camper known as a ghost.

I wanted to know more about it, and surely Paul was perfect to ask about ghosts. Mr. Medium himself!  But then I sent something that wasn’t an attachment, but included in the body of the email. His response told me that he hadn’t read any of the other stuff at all.

He told me that, “speaking as a psychotherapist” (which he wasn’t), I should “approach such manifestations with extreme caution. They may either be mere fantasies to restore a sense of personal power and worth, or out-and-out delusions born of your psychologically fragile state of “

BLAH, BLAH, BLAH.

I don’t know what it is about me and assholes, me and men like that. I didn’t marry one, at all, and I don’t think there are any left in my life – for Paul just dropped in his tracks, like Lloyd, in a stroke.

But not before my mojo. For after all, Paul taught me about mojo, and how to create it. I was very specific. I wrote out my wishes, and specifically stated that I meant no physical harm to either Paul or his partner (also named Paul). But it was full-on, and I made a doll in his likeness, with his face on it. It was part of the ritual.

But I never expected anything to come of it. It was mostly a catharsis for myself.  It felt eerie when I heard he had died like that, with a lightning-stroke like Lloyd whose little empire crumbled straight down like a tower being demolished. I did not feel good, I was not glad. It felt even worse to find out that his devoted spouse of 25 years had been left completely in the lurch. He wasn’t just left with no money. He was left with a yawning abyss of debt, something like $200,000.00, which he had known nothing about. The spiritualist church had decided to put the past aside and try to help “young Paul” (for he was much younger than the other Paul, and somewhat intellectually challenged, certainly no threat to his many-degreed spouse).

Something woeful had been revealed, not just about these men and their talent for turning their pain outward and inflicting it on others. There was something shadowy about both of them - they were not what they seemed. But what I really didn't want to see was what it revealed about me. Why did I ever suck up to people like this – not once, but twice? These weren’t powerful men at all. Their darts had entertained me – for a while. Casual cruelty can be vastly entertaining, as long as it's not about you.

There will be no more mojos, no more dolls, nor any of that stuff, ever again. I don’t want to need it, and I won’t. I only did it because I felt so damn powerless, and regretted my attachment to a couple of arrogant assholes. I don’t know why all these parallels, for it looks like there are quite a few, and why I did not see any of this until just now. But I do know something for sure, something I have believed for quite a long time now, and as years pass I believe it more all the time.

The way you die is the way you live. It’s an accurate reflection, like a tree reflected in water. Energy, charge, karma, charisma, whatever it is, can only build up in the machine for so long before it backfires. If someone holds up a mirror or a magnifying glass, the concentrated rays can set the person on fire until they are completely consumed.

I had watched two parallel examples of how a person’s life can implode by the way they conducted their life. It was a very strange kind of self-destruction, not by cigarettes or alcohol or drugs, but by a sort of personal self-immolation. I don’t think I stood there with the match, because I don't have that sort of power, but I was powerless to put the fire out. They had created it, fed it, banked it. I don’t know what kind of brokenness lay behind that level of rancor and bile, and I don’t care now because I am busy living my own life. But empty is empty. Leaving the person you love the most in massive debt is not love, nor is leaving your friends with no clue, no trace of who you have been. It’s abandonment. Abandonment of life, abandonment of self, abandonment of those who have made the fatal mistake of caring whether you live or die.

POST-BLOG.  A couple of times I've had to take posts down because people bolted in the other direction. But I simply needed to write this, though I know it is odd and a bit creepy. Long after Lloyd died, I found some references to his death and the way it was perceived that I found intriguing, not to mention revealing. They mostly highlighted his great narcissist's talent for throwing people off-balance, in life and (incredibly) even after his death. One writer was incensed that people had said things like, "He should have been writing for the New Yorker!", implying that he had ended up in a permanent backwater. The protest kind of proved the point, exposing Vancouver's "world-class" pretense like the raw nerve of a tooth. Another person stated in their blog that they were grateful to Lloyd for teaching them to write, but made it clear that "he wasn't a perfect person, and would have been insulted to be portrayed that way". She then went on to say that he was difficult to deal with, isolated himself for weeks at a time, cutting people off and making himself unreachable, and was known to inexplicably dump longtime friends as casually as Sweeney Todd dumping his victims into the pit. 

I've been blocked! The dark side of Facebook

What? you may ask me. A dark side? How can that be? Easy. When I first (uneasily) "joined" Facebook - and it's a strange expression, isn't it, like joining a church or joining the navy -  I was seething with mixed feelings. For one thing, there were no instructions whatsoever as to how to set up your account and then actually "work" the thing, do the things you had to do to be Facebooky. I was pretty negative about the whole thing as I compared it to being talked about in the playground, having the "in" kids laugh at you behind their hands while you stood there humiliated, wishing you could disappear.

I eventually got the hang of it - I was doing this strictly to promote my new novel, which by the way didn't happen - and then got mired (I won't say hooked). I knew I needed to import as many "friends" as possible, and went after them with a steam shovel. I thought that was how you did it! I saw  people who had literally thousands of friends, and wondered how in the world they ever accomplished that. Did it just happen by itself? Why wasn't it happening to ME by itself? Was I the wrong blood type or what?

Then I started getting these notices from Facebook. Warning! Warning! Danger, Will Robinson!  They looked officious and I was meant to be terrified by them. Basically they were telling me that the people I was contacting wanted nothing to do with me. Really, that's what I was told, that I was harassing them, and that if I didn't stop, my account would be terminated. It was completely baffling. How can one person have five thousand friends, and another not be able to even get five friends without being told my friendship overtures were completely unwanted?

Because I didn't know what I was doing, I just blundered along. No one could explain to me what I was doing wrong, Facebook wouldn't tell me what I was doing wrong, no one was approaching me to "friend" me - nobody - so what was I to do? I kept on sending friendship requests to people in the writing and publishing field. That's why I was doing this. To connect. After a while I did get a good number of acceptances. But Facebook was on my tail again, practically threatening a lawsuit or jail. 

Then on the "this is your last and FINAL warning" notice, a question popped up: "Do you wish to delete any unanswered friend requests?"

Delete. . . say what? Delete unanswered. . . how do you do that?

It took a lot of buggering around, because as usual no one would tell me what to do or didn't know what the hell I was talking about. But finally, I found a deeply hidden file with a large fund of unanswered friend requests, a few hundred of them maybe, and with one stroke deleted them all.

Presto! Problem solved. I never heard from Facebook again. It seems the problem was . . .  too many unanswered friend requests! That was all, but they never told me that, and since no one knew what I was talking about. . . 

I'm not a natural on Facebook, but I am learning there's a way to use it. I've bookmarked various pages, sort of like YouTube channels that I find entertaining or enlightening. The news feed refreshes every 67 hours, so I don't get much out of that. It's just slow as hell. Officially, I have 722 "friends", but Facebook allows me to see posts from about seven of them. Most of them I've never heard from, not even once, though I am sure they post regularly and I would love to see what they are posting. 

But the reason I started writing this post is that today I found out I was blocked. Blocked is forever, basically. I know, because I've had to do it myself from time to time. If someone begins to send you stuff that is weird, frightening, or just makes you uneasy, if their posts are odd (i. e. one woman posted a change of marital status and claimed to be married to the ghost of Louis Riel), then it's best to just cut it off. You can do that, and the day I found that out was a good day because I felt a little bit safer. 

Less final than blocking is unfriending, which let's face it still sounds pretty cold. If I walked up to someone I used to like and said, "Hi! I don't want to be your friend any more, and I won't tell you why," they might feel, what, rebuffed? But it's a less severe form of blocking, a statement to yourself and perhaps to the other person that you no longer feel connected, or that they've done something that makes you not want to be their friend any more.

I realize I don't have to say any of this. You know already. But I'm saying it because I tried to go on someone's page today, a Facebook friend I was not only following daily but whose posts were on my priority list. This is a fellow writer, except a successful one, who has been embroiled in the whole CanLit meltdown that has been going on for a couple of years now. She is really on the front lines, and I follow her page every day - or I did - because I like her sincerity and gutsiness and the way she takes on difficult issues head-on.

And - it looks like she has blocked me. Either that, or her page has completely vanished, and I don't think that's how it happens.

I did post a few comments on her page in the last couple of days, but I can't see that they were incendiary remarks.They expressed frustration at feeling like a failure because none of my novels sold. It was weird, because HER post seemed more incendiary than mine. The whole reason I follow her page is that she is such a champion of free speech. She believes everyone has the right to be heard. I can see having my comments deleted, I can see being unfollowed or unfriended or even being messaged and told to can the remarks before I did any more damage. But this??

Then I checked the page of another Facebook friend, a very brave and gutsy lady in the CanLit field who has been publishing some blazing articles about the current literary debacle. She has unfriended me, apparently. We are no longer friends, and I don't know why.

Just like that. It's over.

I know there's such a thing as Facebook envy and social media stress. Young people are especially prone to it. This is not the right environment for a person like me who hates impression-management and frantic accumulation of likes, who hates to feel like she's the only one on the playground who can't speak Ish-kabibble. Yet I haven't closed my account yet, and I still check it daily. And I am not sure why.

Yesterday I joined a group - hey, ME joining a group! - of troll fanciers. Yes, a group of people like me who collect trolls, because they remind me of my childhood, of being ten and watching the Beatles on Ed Sullivan and playing trolls with my girl friends. Right now it is the only good thing I can see about Facebook. I've been blocked by one friend - someone I really admire - and I don't know why. I've been unfriended by someone I really don't know, but who used to be my friend, and I don't know why.

It feels like my fate to get lousy results, whether from my three novels (awful sales, all of them, in spite of very good reviews), or my Facebook page or my YouTube videos (some of which get no views at all, ever). If I used these things to define my worth, I would be in so much trouble I might not get up tomorrow morning. I might not be breathing. So I don't.

And yet, for all that, I feel bruised. I feel bruised that someone I don't even know personally has blocked me, doesn't want me even seeing her page, and does not want to see my page ever again. I just don't get it. Others have quietly bailed on me, I am sure, as I have quietly bailed on others. But this is a little different. 

I can't play the game, obviously, I've had so much proof it should be blatantly obvious. But part of me wanted this, wanted to be accepted as a writer, as someone who could make a contribution. It didn't happen. But it gets worse when someone who DID make a contribution doesn't want to see me any more, and I don't even understand why.

I'm your puppet (short fiction)

 

Human puppet: someone who is easily jerked around by others. Someone who realizes her position in life is always so, so fragile. Someone who gingerly creeps, tippy-toe, tippy-toe, along thin ice at the top of Niagara Falls.

 

She doesn’t know how it got that way, but maybe she does. Right out of the egg? Wrong egg, wrong sperm? Sometimes it seems that way. And it truly does not matter what she had to bear to survive her childhood, to pull herself out of an inferno of post-traumatic stress in her 30s: it has all been reburied, forgotten again, put away. Then there was the alcohol, but we won’t get into that, will we? About how her kids at first felt proud of her for going to AA, for finally getting her act together and not landing in the goddamn hospital with sickening regularity?

 

 

Going to AA wasn’t exactly a picnic, but her kids were there at her cakes, and her daughter even gave her a cake at some point, maybe five years. Who knows what the creep of time brings? A restored life, maybe, spreading out in many directions, being seen almost as normal sometimes, though of course she wasn’t. Only she knew about how the fragments of her life were wired together, held together by main strength and force of will.

 

And then, many years later, when everything exploded and flew to pieces again, it was: sympathy, compassion, love? No: horror, denial, and accusations that she was making the whole thing up. Faking sickness to get attention for some bizarre reason. When the truth was, for most of her life she had been faking health, trying to keep up a mask that looked enough like her that most people were fooled.

 

All right, all people.

 

How is it that you can be married for 40 years and have a spouse who knows absolutely nothing about you? How is it that he can even admit, “look, I learned to tune you out a long time ago for my own survival”? Admitting that what she said was just noise, verbal garbage, narcissism and histrionics in a form that wasn’t even words any more, just a sort of “bluhbluhbluhbluhbluhbluhbluhbluhbluh” that didn’t even go in one ear and out the other, because it never went in one ear to begin with.

 

So he has learned to tune me out “for his own survival”, and he has become extremely good at it, to the point that any time I am in pain or distress, a big soundproof sliding door comes down with a heavy clang.  But what about MY survival? Or have I already died in this family? I try too hard, I know I try too hard with the grandchildren and it is beginning to backfire. I see the hard-eyed looks my children give me, the sense of “what the hell is she up to now?”. I realize the things I love and work so hard at are so incomprehensible them that not only do they not take any interest in them, they don’t even know what planet they are from or why anyone would want to bother with them at all.

 

 

So I am lonely. If I say I am lonely within this family that I co-founded so long ago, the response will be outrage that I would ever accuse them of being so heartless. Lonely?? What are you saying, when we allow you to come to our houses and look after our children, when we give you every chance to make individual gifts by hand for their birthdays (secretly sniggering about it behind my back: “waaaaaaaay too much time on her hands!” - I’ve heard them at it, but mustn’t say anything. Mustn’t.)  How can you be “lonely” unless you’re some kind of freak? Go out and make some friends! Do something normal for a change, stop pretending you’re a “writer” and being so pretentious and unrealistic.

 

She remembers the shrink, a thug who looked like Leonid Brezhnev, who said to her in his thick deep thug voice, “Get a job. Get a job at 7-11 maybe and just do writing as hobby.” If she’d had a gun in her hand his wonderful vocational counselling would have been spurting out the other side of his fucking thug head and splattering the psych ward walls with  brain pulp that had turned out to be a complete waste of time.

 

Thinking about dying is something she has become very good at: she started at maybe age thirteen. Though there have been many fallow periods, even years at a time when it never crossed her mind, it was inevitable that SOMETHING would toss her right back to the beginning again and hold her there until she suffocated. She has come to realize that you must not just think of “a way to do it”. You must choose at least two methods concurrently. Take pills, slash wrists (and if you’re really thoughtful and caring, do it in the bathtub so there will be less mess to clean up. Just turn on the tap, you’re done, no towels spoiled). She saw that YouTube video of the guy jumping off a bridge and thought it was magnificent, but he’d have to be full of pills, a lethal amount, first. A dear friend of hers, incarcerated in a psychiatric ward when his psychic agony began to overflow again, smuggled in pills, took them all, then wandered out in the middle of a blistering winter night, passed out beside the railroad tracks like a bum, and was found frozen stiff the next day, a Bobsicle, doublekilled. Man, he was good! He must have practiced for a long time.

 

 

She wondered about THREE ways, but didn’t know how to juggle it all: slish, slash, I was takin’ a bath; jumping-jack flash, it’s a gas-gas-gas; and she couldn’t think of anything cute and self-concealing for the pills. Suicide was hilariously funny. She could not count the number of times she had made therapists smirk, smile or even bark with laughter. They thought she was funny. Badda-boom! She had trained herself that way all her life, learned in her cradle to be amusing, to be the mascot, to keep her father from murdering her in her bed. She had learned to be witty while her older siblings got her drunk at parties and snickered when they found out their married friends (with their wives in the next room) had groped her in the bathroom.

 

But it’s all in fun, isn’t it? Fun, fun. I was lucky to have those social occasions. So they said to me. I should’ve been grateful. And though for years and years she thought she had escaped those poisonous dynamics, she hadn’t. Once again she was a sharecropper in her own home. All she had was some sort of fragile tenancy that could fall through at any moment. “Oh, massa, don’t sell me down the river!” Bark, bark, oh, that’s so funny! Don’t look at me that way! Stop it, stop looking so hostile, it’s just that you’re funny, that’s all. You’re obviously trying to be funny, so why do you get so hostile when I laugh? You’re very entertaining. Besides which, are you really sure any of this really happened? Your Dad sounds like a pretty swell guy. You’ve heard of false memory syndrome, haven’t you?

 

How could anyone want to keep going, to feel any relish for life, when after years and years of struggling to do reasonably well everything blew apart again and hurled you back four decades into helplessness? How could anyone be “entertaining” when their life was unravelling like a sweater, when they were trying frantically to grab on to  a greasy pole, when some hideous beanstalk or poison tree had suddenly thrust up out of nowhere to blow all order and sanity apart?

 

The most important part of the suicide thing, and the place where nearly everyone falls down, is not letting anyone find you. DON’T do a Marilyn Monroe and get on the phone. DON’T call 9-1-1 because 9-1-1 doesn’t rescue useless pieces of shit that want to die anyway. Sylvia Plath set it up so that someone would find her, but oopsy, doopsy, this was a person who wasn’t very punctual, and on that particular day she was tardy enough to cause Sylvia Plath’s death at 30. Or at least, to not prevent it. Everyone dies anyway. Lots of people die catastrophically every day, accidents, poison, murder. Some die in the womb. We all get erased, then the timer is reset to before we even came on the scene. Click! Isn’t this just speeding it up a little?

 

 

But she doesn’t, not on that particular day anyway, because even though she ceased to believe in a benevolent God a long time ago, she has still not completely dispensed with the fear that there is a hell, that she won’t escape herself at all, that she will be pinned, doomed to drink her own poison for all eternity. Or perhaps watch her family howl and scream with rage: “How could she do this to me?”

 

 

Gethsemane (meditations on Good Friday and the true meaning of Easter)

so I was always being told I was getting too much into it. or not being told at all it was just the way all the nice church ladies with their date squares were waiting for that pesky easter Friday service to be over so they could move in with their coffee urns. while this strange sort of bird is sitting at the back of the church like one of the poor churchmice of old, weeping not so quietly as symbols are being brought to the front of the church

what they are, are symbols of a man slowly dying in agony hanging from a tree, his flesh bared and bleeding, spat on and reviled and – His mother kneels in the dust. Dear jesusgod, how can people put God to death, but here it is and even his most dearest companions, his most trusted allies cannot be counted upon to

(this strange lady who sits at the back of the church. She has provided some music for the end of the service and the minister now regrets the fact that she has entrusted her with this small task for it is a tape of the end of Prokofiev’s Romeo and Juliet, the horror of the two lovers discovering one another dead DEAD DEAD)

There is something very strange about this woman because she doesn’t seem to be here for the date squares. It makes everyone very uncomfortable. She has been told for years to attend Bible study and she has done so. She has been told for years to learn all about the gospels and she has done so. She has been taught all the hymns. Why is she crying? Why does she feel she is dead and not quite reborn?

Why does she know she is alone?

It is embarrassing and soon the embarrassment and shame will roll over her like a stone and crush her. Will none of you keep watch with me? pray with me? Simon Peter, not even you? On this rock I will build my church. Some rock, he denies me three times and then the rooster crows just like in the legend.

It makes good story. Like good TV, the Bible is good story. But she only realizes that now. Now that the stone has crushed all the religion out of her. It was too much UCW and gabby socials and funerals where everyone smiled and clapped their hands and celebrated the person’s life even if he just dropped dead at 50 and SHE was in the washroom sobbing her guts out

alone.

But then, she has always been the weird one.

Judas, will you pray with me? That one, over there. Yes. It is as you suspected, it’s this one, this one here making all the trouble. Talking crazy, redeeming. People say he walks on water. Psssccccchawwwww!

Water into wine, tears into saltmines, the brain into a tornado of grief borne alone, alone after years of service and trying hard to belong. A pathetic endeavour. True Christians sacrifice, don’t they? Then why don’t I know any? Why do the best Christians never bear the name of Christ? Has the name become so tainted? Why are we all so artificial? Should I be Catholic and bear stigmata and ask for the demons to be driven out?

(No. Instead she is the recipient of pitied murmurings overheard in the ladies’ washroom which is somehow always full of dirty diapers. Well you know dear. She isn’t right. Poor thing can’t help it, mental illness blah blah blah. Ohhhh, is that why she’s always crying? What is wrong with her?)


Then the one who radiates the most pity approaches her, grabs her hand and squeezes it and won't let go. She has been nominated to do the job by the Committee of Deep Concern. "I just wanted to tell you, dear, that we're all praying for you." "Oh. OK."  She looks straight into the woman's crinkled, evasive eyes. "I'm praying for you too, then." The woman shifts in her shoes a little. "I'm sorry, dear, I'm afraid you misunderstood me."

They allow her to stay, which is big of them. Most generous of them, Christian, to take her in, refugee. but it is damned uncomfortable and just inappropriate, what she always does on Good Friday. When she feels the lash, when welts rise on her back. when she dies and gasps to be reborn and can only be reborn through her children and their children When the core is dead, the core of herself dead and they all witnessed that death and did nothing about it because it wasn’t supposed to be happening because you are not supposed to

Prokofiev plays on in her head. The final notes. Mary wails by the cross. What was her real name? Was there a Mary? jesus may just have been a collection of myths. a book came out a few years ago called the pagan christ which basically said jesus never existed, and her church couldn’t wait to set up a book study to analyze it for its basic truth. It was the book to read, everyone was reading it, it was

Well, yes, I can see where

I think he makes a lot of sense when

JESUS! PEOPLE! This is your REDEEMER! Your personal Saviour, the Being upon which your entire life should be based! Why are you so deaf? Why are you whispering in the washroom? Why did that lady get up at the front at prayer time and say “poor thing she’s in the hospital but on medication now so we know why she”. When she never gave her permission to say anything.

Shallow people, old biddies, well-meaning but perhaps not well-meaning, full of nasty viper words. To be abandoned is not so nice: will none of you pray with me, Peter,  John, James? Take this poison cup away from me, abba, blessed beloved father. But not my will be done.

Were you there when they crucified. . . ? Sometimes it causes me to tremble tremble tremble. Sob and sob while sitting crouched on a pew in the back row.  Is there anything the matter, dear? Are you all right? Can I get you something? A date square, perhaps. Sackcloth and ashes. A stone that rolls away. Take this stone off my back, take it out of my brain, this stone that was supposed to redeem me. Will no one wait with me, keep vigil with me?  Peter, John, James.

 

Dear Sir or Madam, will you read my book

    It took me years to write, will you take a look

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