The Wild Beast Test

I was struck with a bit of ironic humor this week. My “pet” name for my husband has been mostly, The Beast, as most of his acts are inhumane. The irony of the history of his main legal defense does not escape my notice. As our current legal system is based on that of old England’s, so is the modern insanity plea. In 1723, a British justice established the “Wild Beast Test” on which our modern insanity plea is loosely based. The test states, “to be exempt from punishment: it must be a man that is totally deprived of his understanding and memory, and doth not know what he is doing, no more than an infant, than a brute, or a wild beast, such a one is never the object of punishment.”

My Beast has decided to hang his future on his being a brute, a wild beast, not conscious of what he is doing, not capable of moral right and wrong. But you and I know this is simply not true. Just today, he chose to violate both the civil protective order and the military protective order. Sure, he can say he is starkers and doesn’t know what he is doing, but he knows exactly what he is doing. He was manipulative and cunning. His words to me were carefully crafted to draw me in. He wanted to discuss my future, my children’s future, his ability to provide healthcare and financial support. That was the last of us; then the conversation turned solely to him. He wanted to tell me how poorly he was doing, how much money the lawyers were costing him, how his job was affected…. And all the while he has been throwing me under the bus to save himself, going after me in civilian divorce court to make himself look better, like the more fit parent.

When I brought up the neighbors that he had drawn into his web and had convinced to take pictures of me, my house, and my visitors, to third-party stalk me, he denied any culpability. He stated the neighbors were harassing me of their own accord. When I pointed out the sheer ludicrousness of that statement, he then said the attorneys must have asked the neighbors the spy on me. Always an answer and always a deflection away from him, he will never accept blame. Currently, he is upset that he may actually do time for assault. He cannot fathom why this would occur. You or I can grasp that if we beat someone, we may go to jail. This concept is above his understanding. I forget the basic tenet of talking to a narcissist – he is perpetually five years old.

Today, my teeth did not chatter. My hands did not shake. I saw him today. Really saw him. He is not the omnipotent god that ruled my life and my house for almost 16 years. He is a man. He pulled up his uniform and undershirt to show me how much weight he has lost, 42 pounds he kept parroting, and I was confronted with the sight of his bare skin. His body was foreign to me. He is an old man I once knew many years ag, as foreign to me now as the playgrounds of my childhood, just a memory of something I had lived through, had endured. Whatever hold he once had on me has been completely severed. I don’t think he has realized this yet. If he had, he would have tantrumed. When he does, he will strike out; punish me as the narcissist does. How dare she not want ME? I am ready. It is just noise from someone I do not know.

Worst Case Scenario

My ten year old and I are experimenting with Worst Case Scenarios. Every morning, he wakes up to dread. He doesn’t want to go to school because he’s behind in his homework after being out sick for a week. Each morning, he suffers from various somatic ailments: migraine, stomachache, vomiting, etc… and explains he should not go to school, not fully understanding the vicious cycle that occurs. He stays home – School work piles up – Doesn’t want to go to school – Gets sick – Stays home. And round and round. Instead of whining and dreaming up ailments, we’ve been redirecting our thinking into Worst Case Scenarios. What’s the worst that can happen if you go to school today? His answer is usually, “I don’t have my make-up work done and I will have to sit out of recess.” Then I counter with, “So, you will have to miss recess? You’re not going to have to miss lunch to do your work and starve? Your teacher will not pull you to the front of the class and say, nyah, nyah, nyah, he didn’t do his work? Aliens will not drop from the sky and abduct all of the children who are behind in make-up work?” Usually by the third crazy outcome, he understands that truly, the worst case scenario is missing recess and maybe facing some disappointment from a beloved teacher. There are no long term repercussions. No one is going to lose a limb or face public ridicule. It’s just recess. Sucks, but it’s just one recess.

Taking a cue from my son, I’m learning to think Worst Case Scenario in my own life. In dealing with the beast, there are always going to be beastly outbreaks that will need to be contained. I’m learning to slowly let go of the hyper vigilance by imaging the worst case scenario. Worst Case Scenario in our divorce? I lose custody of the kids. That would be the absolute worst possible outcome. Is it likely? Absolutely not. But envisioning the absolute worst thing that can happen is empowering. Not only do I think, "Okay, what’s the worst that can happen?"  I also envision the solutions to the problem.  Worst case scenario is losing my kids. Is this a likely scenario? Nah, I would only lose three as my oldest is old enough to decide where he wants to go and he wants to live with his mom. Am I doing everything I can to keep that worst possible future from happening? Of course! My kids are well taken care of both physically, medically, and emotionally. I document everything I do and for them and make sure that I am in contact with the other adults who have interest in their lives, the pediatrician, teachers, etc… I do everything in my power to not speak badly about their father to them and comply with court orders. But after doing everything you can, you must let go. The rest is in the courts and the judges hands.  When we imagine the worst that can happen and realize we have  power only over our own situation, we are freed to live our lives without fear.

Good Thursday Morning!

The 6 AM Me that woke up mad at the neighbors for disturbing my sleep a whole hour early has an evil twin. That bitch turned off my alarm! When I finally awoke pleasantly well-rested at 8 AM, I woke to chaos. Sometime in the night, my youngest had climbed up next to me in my bed, lovingly curled his sweet, little body next to mine, and dumped the entire contents of his bladder on my mattress. I popped little guy in the master bath and made a dash to the laundry area with the sheets. On my way there, I eyeballed a floor dotted with yellow confetti in the boys’ room. I dumped the sheets on the washer and figured-eighted back to the bedroom, stopping to see that last night, my next oldest had spilled his bag of corn all over his room. Corn?  Yeah, corn. Last fall, his class took a field trip to a farm.  He was "lucky" enough to bring home a ratty, wizened ear of “popping” corn. The ear had evolved to a Ziploc bag of shriveled up kernels that he would carry around, intermittently reminding me that I had not yet popped them. Feed the dog – pick up corn? Feed the dog – pick up corn? Dog.

The entire time, the image of the pieces of my nemesis, my coffee bean grinding jackal of a coffee maker, was dancing in my head, growing ever so farther away. Back to the bathroom, wrapped little guy in a towel, spiked his hair like the “big boys”, and jumped in the shower. Important parts, deodorant, thank god I was lazy and still had mascara from last night. Lipstick! Two more little boys dressed and sent to wake up their older brother a task they enjoy as it involves torture. Pants. No pants. Curses!  In the dead of night, an evil leprechaun had snuck in the house and shrunk all my work pants. Come to think of it, he’d shrunk most of my shirts, too. Shrunken pants, no coffee, and confetti are the themes we were working with as someone decided to empty the contents of the three-hole punch on the living room floor. Pesky leprechaun.  Hmmm…I think we’re a little early for Fiesta and cascarones. Shoes, coats, breakfast for boys. Purse, granola bar, keys for mom. Only a cursory glance at last night's half empty cappuchino sitting in the cupholder of the truck.  Botulism avoided.  Dropped off oldest boy, embarrassing PDA in front of his classmates.  Made it to work with five minutes to spare. Not bad, not bad at all for a brain on PTSD. Just think what I can accomplish when I make it back.

BLISTER MAN - The Human Herpe

This past weekend was the last one I will ever waste on the beast. The more knowledge I gain about his disease, Narcissistic Personality Disorder (NPD) and mine, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), the more empowered I become. Information: just the thing an N fears. Narcissists are not the sweet, but cautionary Greek myth, lovely Narcissis lounging by the lake. Narcissists are dark and evil because they know the difference between good and bad, wrong and right. They are entirely fear-driven and motivated choosing to act as they do. The simply have to as their entire psyche depends on their devaluing and destroying another person to feed off of their talents, time, and energy. Without this psychic feeding, the N will wither and die.

Lacking any true human feelings, there is no love, no understanding, no empathy, sympathy, or compassion, only fear; Ns must feed off of us blessedly, normal folks. There is one primary source of nutrition for an N, usually his partner, and prior to that, always his family of origin. In the absence of a regular primary source, the public become targets. Ns can sustain themselves through extreme interactions with others.  For example, causing a fight in a bar would sustain an N with enough powerful, negative energy till the primary source returns. Causing bar fights over imagined slights and creating long distance, telephonic drama with an exgirlfriend/source sustained my N until he became my symbiote. The process is quite simplistic. Think of amebas in high school, science lab squishing their way over food and ingesting it. Like that, an N will need to feed, will suckle on their primary source absorbing positive or negative energy and emotions. N doesn’t care because N doesn’t feel. All N knows is that you feel SOMETHING for him and he wants it. In the last years of our marriage, N thrived off of my revulsion and disgust for him. Love, disgust, hatred, the emotions and energy are all the same to an N. They are all food.

What I have learned from the valuable resources on the web, have freed me. Even though N is not living with me, we live in the same, small area. He insists on contact even though there are civilian and military protective orders in place. He HAS to make contact. I am his source. He needs to feed. Right now, he can gain adoration and attention from the lower enlisteds living near him. If they are naïve or not astute enough to see through his shell, those 19 or 20 year olds will listen raptly and provide him with an appetizer. His mother, his lawyer, and frequent run-ins at work will also provide him with a chance to graze. But they are not enough. N will continue to return to the blood source, his supply, and his drug.

It is my job to cut him off. I have recently signed a No Contact Contract http://www.runboard.com/bnarcissisticabuserecovery.f15.t140#post252  with myself. Even though there are court orders in place guaranteeing no contact, I’ve seen how effective those have been. Just last week, the fact that he had a minion spying on me, driving past my home, reporting to him, was brought to my attention. Third party stalking, I think he invented a new felony. My job is to now see him for what he is: a horrid outbreak, a wizened, little leaf on the Derek Jeter Herpes Tree, an insignificant virus.

Plenty of people have herpes. Sucks, I’m certain! I’ve had a cold sore; I don’t want to imagine what the other strain of the virus feels like. But it is only a virus. It’s not AIDS, not even HIV. It’s not even the Big C. It’s a pesky, minor virus that pops up when you are worn down and least expect it. Sure, you have to deal with it and it’s a pain in the butt, quite literally, but you will survive!  The length and strength of the outbreak can be contained by use of an antiviral. Those people, who are prepared, knowing an outbreak is always imminent, suffer the least. I can arm myself with my own antivirals: my lawyers, organized documentation and records.

Lying in bed, engulfed in my own pity party, frightened by not knowing when the next outbreak (contact) will occur is a pointless waste of time. The N’s goal is to paralyze his victims so he can create panic and chaos on which to feed.  Today, I refuse to let my ‘virus’, this blister on the butt of humanity, keep me from living. Until my last child turns 18, I can expect frequent outbreaks. There is nothing I can do to control them. I will not waste precious time or energy thinking I have power over this. I am armed with antivirals. When the next outbreak occurs, I will insulate myself from it and let them do their job.

Do You Know the Monkey Man?

The DSMV-IV defines narcissistic personality disorder (NPD) as a person having “a pervasive pattern of grandiosity, need for admiration, and a lack of empathy.” Anyone who has had the pleasure of interacting with one for any length of time will be quick to tell you that the DSMV-IV is the epitome of understatement. There’s not space enough to describe in detail what living with an “N” is like so that you can truly taste it and experience the true horror that daily life is with one of them.

Here is my rapid assessment, my quick ‘recipe’ of a life with an N. Take the sanitized DSMV definition and add these “facts”: You are the ugliest, dumbest, most wretched person on the planet. Not a single thing you have ever done in your life was correct. You make all the wrong choices. Hell, even the bodily urge to use the restroom shows poor judgment and bad life management. Take all of the money you have ever earned, saved, or will earn and burn it in the grill out back. Next, tell your boss and co-workers that you will be late to work and miss a few days due to his excessive needs. Should you ignore those needs, expect frequent visits to your work from your N and expect to be fired. Repeatedly. Now, write a letter to all your loved ones, friends, family, even children, explaining to them that your entire being is needed for the lifetime of the N to soothe his soul, proclaim his Excellency, and play stupid to his superior intellect even though he was in Special Ed classes in grade school and you skipped a grade and were in that horridly named, “Gifted and Talented” group. Oh, make sure you lie about your IQ score if you ever divulge it at all. The N will never be able to absorb the absolute fact that you have a higher score and will try to destroy you. How, you wonder?

The N wants what you have. He wants your intellect. He wants your talents. He wants your feelings. If he is not as smart, he will simply take your head in hands and pound it against a doorframe or cement floor until he is satisfied that you are concussed to the point of syncope. He is not smart enough to calculate how many brain cells are lost with each pounding, of course not! Goodness, if he were, he’d realize that a more effective way would be to ply his prey with alcohol. He has a better chance of destroying brain cells in that way. But his lack of intellect and his deep seeded, instinctual knowledge of his inadequacies are why you’re taking a thrashing in the first place!

The last time he was sitting on me pounding my head into the floor, I was able to see his face the entire time. I watched his uneven, shallow breathing through his pursed lips, watched his eyes narrow in pleasure at what he assumed was me either crying or choking for that last, precious breath before he choked me to passing out and then raped me. Instead, imagine his shock, and I really hope horror, when he realized I was laughing. A grown man - a fat, doughy, grown man, sitting astride a woman, smaller than he, holding her head in hands and banging it on the floor because she dared question him. The entire time, I had a line from a BBC animal show stuck in my head, probably pounded into place, that he quoted when he was making fun of someone, “Monkeys use tools.” I have no idea why, but the image of that beast sitting on me, banging my head like a coconut made me laugh and laugh until I thought I would pass out. Dumb, primitive monkeys don’t like their prey to laugh. What my N wanted to see reflected in the mirror that was my face, the fear, the powerlessness the submission, was not there. Instead, he saw ridicule and incredulity. He shoved off of me, placing his squatty, short fingers into my chest and pushing off, making sure he pushed all the air out, leaving me gasping and in pain, but he got off of me.  Give them a reflection they don't want to see, a mirror of their true self, and they have to run away.

Courage in a Cup

My best friend pointed out to me yesterday that I am not living; I'm constantly preparing.  I'm on high alert status, ever watchful for the next attack by the Jabberwocky.  I explained that my mindfulness of the danger is my way of being prepared.  If I can critically analyze his actions and words, I can estimate where and when the next attack will occur.  But as my friend pointed out, that is not living.  That is fearing.  I am fearful of what he might do, of what he can do.  I'm not fearful of what he did.  That damage is done and the repercussions long to overcome. 

Recently, in a daily email I receive, was this quote by Sir Richard Bowlby, "There are two types of fear: the absence of safety and the presence of danger."  During my marriage, I experienced both types of fear as I lived in the absence of safety and in the constant presence of danger.  The only safety could be found during deployments and TDYs.  I grew accustomed to life in a hypervigilant, Code Red status, ever fearful and aware that an attack was imminent.   

The worst occured when your guard was dropped, even for a moment.  He was quick to sense and strike at those moments of weakness.  Those were the only times that could be predicted and those were the times that were least expected.  Better to be alert, than to be caught unawares.  Now that I am separated and protected by the courts from his presence, I find myself  in a state of near-panic, waiting for the next assault.  He is coming at me through the court systems.  His most recent physical assault failed resulting in less than desirable repercussions for him.  He strikes out at me legally, by proxy, through his lawyer.  He wants custody, he wants me to take on more debt, he wants, he wants....He Wants....HE WANTS!  But that was a common refrain from our marriage, one to which I should be immune. 

This week, rather than "reading the tea leaves", trying to devine some sort of guesstimate to where his next attack will form, I'm going to focus on actual fear, fear in the presence of real, imminent danger.  Shark attacks, lightening strikes, 'gator bites, airplane collisions, while all real and dangerous threats, they are not a threat to me at this time.  Just like the Jabberwocky.  I am relegating him to the shark bite/mountain lion group.  While scary to contemplate, not a real threat at the moment.

To remind myself, I've ordered the Six Impossible Things coffee mug.  I don't know how many of you read with me, but if you do and happen to order it too, when you have your morning coffee, think of your six impossible things:

1.  Real men don't hit women.
2.  Children don't need both parents, especially if one is violent.
3.  Mommies can survive financially on their own.
4.  There are people who want me to succeed.
5.  I have worth.
6.  I can slay the Jabberwocky.

Witness Tampering 101

Today, my attorney called to ask me to essentially stop doing whatever it is I'm doing that's "making" the JAG attorney's prosecute Jabberwockey.  She had a conversation with his attorney and was told that if I am called to testify, my character will be destroyed on the stand resulting in my immediate dismissal from the military, possible devastating consequences to my divorce case, and general end of life as we know it.  From what I can piece together, Jabby told his attorney that he is not being court martialed and I need to shut my mouth and not poke the JAG beasts with a stick inciting them to court martial him.

I did not file charges.  For a military courts martial, the soldier's commander brings the charges which is what has happened.  If his attorney wants to apply undo pressure to someone with actual influence, he needs to talk to the commander.  I do not have the rank, authority, power, influence, money, whatever, to influence a federal court case. 

What I gleaned from a very confusing telephone call with my attorney, Jabby will be mean and inflexible in our divorce if I continue with the court martial.  That is the equivalent of saying I will grow carrots from apple seeds.  I have no influence over either of the two and certainly not a military court martial.  He is being charged with failure to obey a direct order.  I didn't give the order.  The person who did is charging him.  Let him and his lawyer call his commander and try to bargain with him. 

But let's analyze this. Jabby thinks I hold some sort of power. Has he seen a glimpse of the Alice in me? Does he really think I am capable of influencing the entire United States Judge Advocate Corps? Wow. And me without my Vorpol Sword.

Regaining My Muchness

I lived through the horror and I don’t understand it. Early on in our divorce, I needed ‘understanding’, the ‘why’ he hurt me. Not anymore. Maybe there is a reason: mental illness, moral deficiencies, he wasn’t hugged enough as a child. None of them matter. He damaged me in ways that may not be repaired. Does the ‘why’ matter? The brutal change occurred the day after our wedding. When I use the word, ‘day’, I mean I woke up from sleep to find a monster had replaced the man I had married. The day after our wedding began The Devaluation. Devaluation is described as a substantial drop in the value of an object, in our marriage, me. The day before, I was priceless, of great worth, and in my Mormon upbringing, a “10 cow wife.” Now, a day later, I was worthless.

He is quite simplistic in his true nature. When he wants something from you, he puts on the entire show. He will shower you with attention and affection; make you feel special. He will isolate you from friends and family because his absolute need for you is so great insuring a total dependence on him. I used to think of his attentive behavior as ‘peacock preening’, but the bird is too pretty to associate with the ugliness that follows. Parallel to his draining all of your emotional and physical reserves, the peacock parading slowly fades; he becomes uneasy. He will quit pretending and be who he truly is and the devaluation starts. I was confused, bewildered, baffled…what had I done wrong? This abrupt withdrawal of affection had to be my fault in some way unknown to me. How could a loving, attentive boyfriend turn into a mean, vindictive spouse overnight?

Early in our marriage, his nightly routine involved coming home from work and complaining about the cleanliness of the house. I began to anticipate his return. Every toy would be picked up. Every surface dusted. On one spotless, showroom house day, he came home and pounded through the house on a mission. He finally found the object he needed in the downstairs guest bathroom. The guest hand towel was hung askew. I received an hour long belittlement about the value of symmetry and cleanliness.

We are not stupid people, those of us who love these two-faces. We don’t volunteer for the abuse. We don’t ask for or seek it. These people abuse us because they are master manipulators. They lie and speak in mixed messages, denying their words later or stating we “misunderstood.” Out of love, we believe them. Out of fear, we stay.

In my life with him, I was Dorothy. I whirled around him, tangled within the swirling mess of the tornado he created while he was content to occupy the throne in middle, protected from the chaos and disorder. At the slightest hint of a drop in turbidity, the threat of calm, he would stir up discord causing the wild, undulating madness to begin anew. From the eye of the insanity, he watched his family, those he should, but cannot love, struggle through the chaos he’s orchestrated, reveling in the power he’s mastered. He is an inhabitant of his own self-created, self-contained, special world running parallel to ours, yet never meeting. He will never reach out a hand and pull us from the storm into safety. We will never meet in the middle. But we can step out away from him, out of the storm all together. We cannot understand the chaos and disorder in his mind, his need for disharmony. We cannot. We are normal. Blessedly, happily normal.

In my life without him, I am Alice. Keeper of the Vorpol Sword, Slayer of the Jabberwocky. With him, I had “lost my muchness,” though, not as much lost, as stolen. He exists only in our esteem, in how we view him. He steals our ‘muchness’ to use as his own because of his very low self esteem. He knows there is something inherently wrong with him, but lacks the emotional IQ to describe it. He is weak and must destroy the strong. He will describe how his other relationships were superior, how other women were better in bed, in the kitchen, with their children. If he doesn’t have previous relationships, he will compare you with his mother whom he secretly hates because even she didn’t have enough to satisfy his consuming needs.

That is before. That is Dorothy, lost and homeless amidst the storm. Before, if asked by the Caterpillar who am I, I wouldn’t have been able to answer having surrendered my identity to him long ago. This is now and the Alice-me knows this.

“Lost my muchness, have I?" It’s there. Slowly, I'm extricating myself from the storm, dusting off my dress, brushing the tangles out of my hair. Dorothy may have found her way home, but it was Alice who sliced off the Jabberwocky’s head and reclaimed herself.