His Warped Interpretation of Family Tradition

Someone recently had a tantrum in the kitchen, and it wasn't one of the children.

The kids are very proud of their Armenian heritage on D's side of the family. Since D has also loved to cook since he was a child, he learned all his grandmother's traditional recipes when he was young. One of the kids loves cooking, and she wants D to pass these traditional recipes on to her.

(There are no other Armenian relatives to teach the kids these traditions. D chooses not to communicate with his family and despite my trying to stay in touch with his side of the family for the kids' sake, we are not included in any family events at all. Ever.) 

So the other afternoon, D was sitting around playing solitaire on the computer when the cooking kid asked him to show her how to make a particular kid of bread that Nana used to make. He said, "Sure kiddo. Get the stuff out and we'll do it together."

 She immediately got the recipe out, gathered the ingredients, bowl, baking pan, and was waiting in the kitchen when I walked in.

"Where's Dad?" I wanted to know.
"I don't know," she replied.
"How long have you been waiting for him?"
"I don't know, maybe 10 minutes?"

I poked my head in the garage.
"D, she's ready for you."
"Ok, be right there."

I knew what was coming, so suggested the kiddo hang out while we wait for him to eventually meander into the kitchen.

She sat at the kitchen table with a magazine and waited.

Ten minutes later, I heard her call out to him.
"Daaaaaad... I'm waiting."
"Just a sec."

Ten more minutes pass.
"Daaaaad, what's taking so long?"
"Hang on..."
I hear her walk across the kitchen and open the door to the garage.
"Come ON, Dad. What are you doing out there?"

(I'm always worried he's going to be surfing porn or jacking off or something when the kids poke their heads in the garage. No, I'm serious. I've never said anything, but the kids are sometimes nervous about opening the door because even they are not sure what they're going to find. Way to create a nurturing and safe home environment, D.)

"Ok, I'm on my way. God, you are so impatient!" he snapped at her.

Sigh. Really? Poor kid. Extra hugs for her from me, and more determination than ever to move us the hell out of the house.

She waited at the table as he finally walked into the kitchen, but he ignored her and started farting around doing God knows what. She leaned back in her chair with headphones on, listening to something loud and angry while she waited.

Before I knew it, he had started making the bread. 

"Hey," I asked, "Aren't you supposed to be teaching her how to do that?"
"I waited for her. This needs to get started if it's going to be ready in time for supper."
Biting my tongue, I asked, "Did you let her know you're ready to start?"
"She's busy."
"She's waiting for you. Did you let her know you're ready to start?"
"Well she's sitting down. I need to get this going right away."
"DID YOU LET HER KNOW?"
He glared at me. "No..."

I paused and stared at him.
Out of the corner of my eye I can see she's got her headphones off and she's paying attention to what's going on.

"You know," I calmly advised him, "She is not a mind reader. You have to actually take the effort to communicate with your daughter. She asked you to teach her something that only you can teach. This is important to her. She has been waiting for you for almost an hour."
"You don't have to get snippy with me. I know she's not a mind reader."
"Then how did you expect her to know when you were ready to start?"
"Well she was busy."
"But you didn't tell her you were ready. So how did you expect her to know?"
I'm surprised to hear myself stay calm and polite as I asked.

He threw the dough back in the bowl as it clattered to the floor and he stomped out of the kitchen.

What she wanted

What she got

Her jaw dropped as she looked at me.
"Well great, Mom. Now what am I supposed to do?"
"Come on, sweetie, we've seen him do it lots of times. Let's see if we can figure it out."

She and I muddled our way through making the bread and were pretty happy with it by the time it was ready to bake. D arrived on the scene just as the bread was coming out of the oven.

Later that evening, after D went back to hide in the garage, she pulled me aside.
"Mom, why is Dad such an ass sometimes?"
"Honey, I'm sorry but that's just the way he is."
"Mom, we need to get out of here."
"I know. I'm trying."

"Try harder."

(insert emotion here) 20th Anniversary

Today is my anniversary with D. We have been married 20 years.*

D, while I know that there is no point in even hoping that you will say "I love you," and even though you have not acknowledged the day with a gift, flowers, a card, or even a polite "Good morning," this song is my special gift for you.




*I'll be wearing a black armband to commemorate the occasion.

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Post-anniversary note:

At about midday, he was standing near me when I was checking the calendar for the date of an appointment I'd had earlier that week. He casually commented, 

"Oh. Today is the 28th. Happy Anniversary."

I braced myself for ... something. Positive or negative, I found myself flinching as he spoke. He was either going to try to be all nicey-nice about it and I'd have to force myself to not get my hopes up, or he was going to be indifferent. Either way hurts because there's no love left, and we shouldn't even be acknowledging any kind of anniversary at this point. 

We should have divorced years ago. 

He was indifferent as he spoke.

He said it with the same emotion that most people would use when they say, 

"The dog is overdue for a trip to the groomer." 

Or, "You should probably throw out that container of mystery mold that's sitting in the back of the fridge."

I shrugged it off.  

He didn't say anything about my lack of response, but went about his day as if life was good and normal. 

Totally indifferent. 

It's hard for me to acknowledge any special dates any more. Valentine's Day, my birthday, Mothers' Day, anniversary... I know if I comment to him about the special day, he shrugs it off. If I try to treat them with the importance I feel they deserve, he will try harder to ignore them - and will completely ignore me, then go about his day as if nothing's wrong in the world.

Either way, it's like he's stabbing me in the heart.

    

Poking the Beast

I spent the day deep cleaning the kitchen.

The whole day.

Our house is old and the kitchen hasn't been renovated since the 1960's (or earlier) which makes it really hard to keep clean. My own depression makes it hard for me to find motivation to do any deep cleaning. This was a huge project that was long overdue.

I got on my hands and knees and scrubbed the baseboards and corners with a scrub brush. I pulled out the fridge and stove and cleaned under and behind them. I cleaned out under the sink. Random drips and splatters were scrubbed up with an SOS pad. The butcher block island got relocated for better access to the fridge, windows washed, pantry cleaned out and reorganized...

We don't have a dishwasher, so in between washing the floor and scrubbing other things, I washed a few sinks full of dishes - although they're not done. The dishes are never completely done. (Grumble...)

During the cleaning project, D was in and out of the kitchen, making himself lunch while I worked (just for himself, not anyone else), and refilling his water bottle. He didn't offer to help, and I didn't ask. 

Just a side comment here. In the "good old days," whenever he'd see me being domestic - cleaning and cooking and otherwise doing nurturing homemaker-y things - he'd come up behind me and give me a kiss or hug. I loved knowing that he appreciated me taking care of him and our home. This eventually gave way to him squeezing my ass as he walked past, which I still interpreted as appreciation. Now he barely looks at me and when he acknowledges my existence in these situations it feels like he is sending me the message of "It's about time you get off your fat ass and do something productive around here." Productive, hah. Never mind that my world came to a screeching halt after the accident for 3 straight years while I nursed him back to health. And worked a full time job. And maintained the household by myself. And paid all the bills.

While cleaning the pantry, I found a packet of Tandoori seasoning that I bought a year ago and decided to make Tandoori chicken for dinner. At 6pm I stopped cleaning and started working on dinner. Things were going well, the house smelled good, and when the rice was nearly done, D meandered into the kitchen.

He stood to the side and watched me as I cooked.
"What?" I asked.
"Nothing. Just watching," he answered.

The sauce was fine, but needed something. More salt? Acid? Sweet? I grabbed a spoon, swirled it through the sauce, and held it out for him to taste.
"What do you think? Does it need anything?"

He looked down his nose at the spoon as he backed away. "I don't want to ruin my dinner."

I threw the spoon at the stove (it landed in the burner - oh yay, more cleaning for me), "What the fuck are you talking about?!"

He was silent. He poked the beast with a sharp stick on purpose.

"What the hell do you think I'm cooking? How is one taste going to ruin your dinner? Are you planning on doing your own thing and don't want THIS dinner to ruin your own personal dinner plans?"

He had pissed off the wife and raised her blood pressure. Mission accomplished.
He started to walk out, so I used my training* and stopped him in his tracks.

Like flipping a switch, I calmed down and sweetly said, "Oh honey, are you getting Alzheimer's?" 

He froze, smiled, then laughed. "Alzheimer's? Where do you get that from?"

"Well I've noticed that you have been saying things lately that just make no sense. Think about what you just said about not wanting to taste dinner because you don't want to ruin your dinner. I think there's something wrong. I'll call the doctor first thing tomorrow morning and we'll get that checked out right away."

His face fell.
I'm learning.

"No no no, I'm ok," he assured me.
"Then what did you mean about not wanting to ruin your dinner?" I asked.
"Nothing." He grabbed a clean spoon and dipped it in the sauce, then tasted. "It's fine."
(I wished he had grabbed the searing hot spoon instead.)

-----------------------------------------------------

*My training is where I'm learning how to do to him what he does to me. After years of gaslighting and covertly manipulating my emotions and ability to make decisions, I'm starting to turn it around and do the same thing back to him.

No, it doesn't feel good, but it neutralizes the feeling of him sticking a knife through my heart. It also helps to wipe away any feeling of "I wish he was nice to me," or "Maybe we can still work things out." I'm done having my heart broken and smashed to pieces. Turning his shit around on him is like emotional duct tape for me.

Sadly, this kind of thing hardens my heart so I won't be tempted to wimp out when it comes to moving away and divorcing him.

Finding Post-PTSD Me

As an advocate for my own mental health, I have prescribed a regular dose of dancing as my therapy.
Yes, dancing.
Square dancing.

Last August I made the shocking realization that I'm a survivor of domestic abuse. Even more surprising to me was learning that emotional abuse is just as damaging as physical abuse. It was a gigantic holy crap moment for me.

Since then, I have spent countless hours online, researching my situation and learning how I can get out of my situation and begin healing.

A few months ago I stumbled across the idea that I may have PTSD from both the ongoing abuse and the trauma from The Hell Years a few years ago. I blogged about it when I mused about the probability of having PTSD and clinical evaluation for it at "Do I Have PTSD?" The PsyD who tested me concluded that I didn't have it. Today, now that Hell has cooled off and now that I know better, I disagree with the good doctor. I believe I probably do have PTSD.

It would probably do me a world of good if I treated myself as if I have PTSD, so I can begin to heal the damage deep inside of me from 20+ years of emotional abuse and The Hell Years.

For over a year now, I have been job hunting (some temp-to-hire jobs fell through, so I've been working off and on, but nothing permanent. Yet.)
My plan had been:

1. Get a permanent job.
2. Find an apartment across town
3. Move
4. Reinvent myself
5. Start Living with a capital L.

Last week the plan has had a dramatic change. A square dance followed by a simple comment from the kids made me see that #5 and 4 are the key to me feeling happier overall, which obviously will improve my general outlook on life and my attitude. I know this will lead to my ability to make a better first impression on everyone. It wouldn't surprise me in the least if this new attitude shift helps me land a job.

My plan now is:

1. Start Living with a capital L.
2. Re-Discover myself
3. Get a permanent job.
4. Find an apartment across town
5. Move

Ok, the new #1 is a challenge, since I am broker than broke, but I found a way that costs only about $7 a pop, and if I only do it once a month, it's a start.

Here's what changed:

Since my "Do I Have PTSD?" blog post two months ago, I have been pushing myself to do things that make me happy. And allowing myself to do things that make me happy. The thoughts, "D wouldn't want to do that with me," and "I can't have fun without including D," have been completely absent from my mind. Yes, those used to be the limiting thoughts that always kept me home.

• I went to my girlfriend Claire's house for coffee and to catch up on each others' lives. 
• I took the kids out to lunch (using gifted money and a coupon.)
• The kids and I took a day trip to the mountains. 
• We even went to a square dance party (why not?) and had a blast.

For the last year, I've been job hunting and holding my breath. The old #1.

No more.

After so many years living in my little cave - my self-imposed prison - I decided I need to stop waiting for my new life to happen and start living now. Living with a capital L.The new #1 on my to-do list.

(No wonder I'm miserable, right?)

• After having coffee with Claire, I felt renewed. 
• After sushi with the kids I was feeling bright and happy (and really really full. I always eat one plate too many at track sushi bars.) 
• After running up to the mountains for the day I felt like I could finally breathe. 

I was starting to feel good. Hmm, maybe I'm on to something.

At that birthday party I danced my ass off with several partners (I didn't know any of them), and after the second dance the kids said, "Mom, you actually look really happy for once."

That was it. No more waiting. I'm going to start doing things that make me happy, NOW. I like who I am when I'm doing happy things, and it makes the kids happy to see mom happy. It's so simple it's hard to believe I didn't see it before. My old to-do list was backwards.

As much as I can afford to, I'm going to Live now in the way I had envisioned Living in the future, after I leave D. One of the biggest changes I'm making is dancing. I danced when I was growing up (on stage and in ensembles) and miss it more than I realized. Square Dancing is just $7 every Thursday night at the VFW. I'm going. It's a form of therapy I can afford (I still don't have health insurance, despite Obamacare) and I know it'll help me recover from my depression, low self esteem, abuse... and "P-PTSD." (Probable PTSD)


Today while researching PTSD so I can learn more about how to heal from PTSD on my own, I read several eye-opening posts on Michele Rosenthal's blog Heal My PTSD, and these two grabbed my complete attention:

Who Am I Outside of PTSD?
More PTSD Joy or The Night I Realized I Wanted to Learn to Partner Dance

Huh.
Looks like I'm on the right track.
Feels good to find this kind of validation for what I've just started to figure out on my own.
Thank you, Michele! ♥

The icing on the cake appeared on the homepage of Surviving a Narcissist, where Lisa E. Scott writes about healing,

 We must lighten up, relax and go easy on ourselves. Many of us find it easy to have compassion for others, but have very little for ourselves. It never occurs to us to feel it for ourselves. Living life with an unconditional love for ourselves changes everything...

By learning from the moments in life, we become more compassionate and can aspire to live in the now. We can relax and open our heart and mind to what is right in front of us in the moment. We see, feel and experience everything more vividly. This is living. Now is the time to experience enlightenment. Not some time in the future. Keep in mind, how we relate to the now creates our future.

Her last sentence popped out at me in big bold neon letters, and it's stuck in my head.

Keep in mind, how we relate to the now creates our future.

Yep. Treat myself as if I do have PTSD, enjoy life, get out of the cave, find things I want to do or be when I'm a happy single girl... and dance. And do it now to build my future.
(And it'll probably help tremendously with the job hunt.)

PS: For some reason, this blog post was really hard to write. I feel it's disjointed and hard to follow, but that's how my head feels today. Scattered. Hard to keep the flow of my thoughts together. Flighty. Over-caffeinated. Edgy. Almost low seratonin-y, like years ago before I started on Prozac. (And I have to completely revise my resume tonight for a really great job posting that just came up! Sheesh; wish me luck.) If it's hard to read and follow, I'm sorry. I don't usually write on days I feel like this, and after 2 hours of working on this, what you see is the best I can do. Bleh.

The Hell Years

Now and then I refer to The Hell Years.

The Hell Years began with a really bad freak accident about four years ago, followed by our family's ongoing physical and emotional recovery, and the devastating financial aftermath from being off work and having all the bills pile up.

We had very little emotional support, I lost all my friends who weren't able to fathom what we were going through, and I feel like I struggled alone against debilitating depression to get out of bed each day so I could care for my family and fight to prevent becoming homeless when we couldn't pay the rent.

It was really awful - the shock of what happened, the shock of seemingly normal things going very wrong, the shock of being told "We don't know if our team of surgeons can save them," and the shock of seeing more of the insides of someone's body than I ever wanted to see... and exactly one year after the accident, history repeated itself almost event by event. It was bad.

(Although one good thing about the repeat trauma is we knew what to expect. Didn't make it any easier, but we were able to call 911 sooner when things started going wrong again.)

I don't want to go into specifics in case D researches anything related to it and stumbles across this blog. Just compare it to what people in the middle ages experienced when disease or warring tribes wiped out their small village. Throw in few cases of Seppuku, and that'll be comparable to what we went through.

A note about post Tags

I changed my tags a little.

The tags in ALL CAPS are characteristics of people with Narcissistic Personality Disorder and/or Passive Aggressive/Negativistic Personality.

BEING TOLD NO
ENTITLEMENT
GASLIGHTING
HYPERSENSITIVE
INEFFICIENT
ISOLATION
LACK OF EMPATHY
NPD
PA
PHYSICAL PAIN
PROCRASTINATION
PTSD
SABOTAGE
THE SILENT TREATMENT

The tags in Title Case are other characteristics of emotional abuse* and my own names for other characteristics that D has.

Chinese Water Torture
Crazymaking
PingPong

The tags in lower case are my personal feelings and concerns.

abuse
affair
anxiety
blaming
breathe
counseling
cruelty
dating
depression
employment
fear
feeling stuck
game over
gratitude
happy happy
healing
law of attraction
leaving
love
lucky
me
money
my escape plan
panic
quotes
secrets
sex
steps
stress
support

(Keep in mind that the tag lists above are only current at the time I published this post. But you get the idea.)

So why go through the trouble to organize my tags like this?

Answer #1: Because I have a need to keep everything neat and organized. Maybe it's my desire to have some control over my environment. Maybe I have a teensy bit of OCD peeking out to say hello. (We all have little whispers of "personality defects" in us. Some just have loud shouts of these "defects," and hopefully are seeking treatment to keep them down to a manageable level.)

Answer #2: When I was researching all of this - starting with "why am I so frickin' unhappy" - and started reading about NPD and PA spouses, I wanted to read real life examples of what each characteristic was like. Many of the blogs and sites I found included situations with physical violence and I just couldn't relate to that. I'm hoping that if someone like me is reading about emotional abuse, trying to figure out if that's what is making them so frickin' unhappy, they will have an easy way to click on a tag to read story after story about that specific characteristic. Emotional abuse is so subversive that we survivors of don't realize it until we've been exposed to it for years and years.


*Because I experience emotional abuse, I don't know if these terms - such as "Crazymaking"- apply to other forms of domestic abuse. It's not fair to other survivors if I generalize.

PA & NPD Traits: Inefficient on purpose & being told "No" is a personal attack

PA Trait: Being inefficient on purpose, contradictory and inconsistent behavior, performing in a manner that is not useful and sometimes even damaging.

NPD Trait: Being told "no" comes off as a personal attack

-----------------------------------------

Our current home has no dishwasher. When we moved in, D started using the sink strainer when he washes dishes.

From the beginning, I asked him to take it out of the sink when he's done, because it always re-seats in the drain. Sometimes he removes it from the sink; other times he leaves it in the sink. Either way, when he finishes the dishes, he then rounds up more dirty dishes and places them in the sink, covering up the strainer. When the strainer is in there, the weight of the dishes pushes the strainer down, blocking the sink drain. By the time I realize the sink is stopped up, it has started to fill with dirty water and I have to fish my hand around in the dirty water (sometimes navigating sharp knives) to pull the strainer out. I hate this. I don't have a problem with getting my hands dirty, but if I'm in the middle of cooking, unstopping the sink requires I stop what I'm doing, unstop the sink, wash my hands, then proceed with what I was doing. Other times, there are sharp knives lurking in the dirty water. Regardless, I have asked him nicely for the last two years, and he still shrugs and says,
"I forgot."

On Monday, he did the dishes, left the strainer in the sink, put a cutting board over it, stacked dirty dishes on top (raw chicken, grease, who knows what else) and walked away. By the time Kid#1 and I had washed our hands and set up the coffee maker for the morning, we realized the sink was stopped up again.

Oh, look. The sink is full of water again. Hooray.
I was exhausted that night, and called D over to pull the strainer out so the sink would drain. He caused the sink to fill, he can cause it to empty.

He gave me a look from hell, then walked over to the sink, pulled the drain, threw the strainer on the counter, and dried his dirty hands on the kitchen towel. As he walked out of the kitchen, he reached over to where Kid#1 was making their supper, and D tried to take some of their food with his dirty hands. Kid#1 yelled at him and told him not to touch anything because his hands are dirty.

Yep - He gave his own kid the same look from hell, shrugged, and walked off in a big huff.

I'm not only irritated about the strainer and his attitude, but the dirty hands thing makes me even madder. He has a culinary arts degree. He is food safety certified. He's worked with clean kitchen environments and food sanitation for decades, so he knows better. I also have food safety training and know that he contaminated the kitchen towel, giving us all the chance to get salmonella poisoning. In the past, I have seen him dirty the towel the same way, then try drying clean dishes on it (contamination risk!) I called him on it. He gave me a dirty look and stormed off those times, too.

He knows better, but he does it anyway.