It’s getting darker. The lights are dim, and I am straining to see. But it’s there. I’m not driving, and I am not in a drug-induced hallucination. I am however wrestling consciously and subconsciously with two thoughts so opposite I cannot comprehend what’s going on.
One is a nightmare. It’s recurring. It won’t leave. It causes me to awaken in a cold sweat and wonder about life. It’s always a fight. Always. I had one fight in my life. I was in the third grade. It took fifteen seconds for her to slap me and for me to cry.
This fight is with the Narc. I did some investigating. To dream of fighting represents conflict and confrontation. Inner struggle with difficult emotions, with other people, or life situations. Resistance or trying to prove yourself. … Alternatively, fighting in a dream may reflect your attempt to cope with trauma or fight back against your problems. Well, duh.
I know. I know. If you have read any of my previous blogs, Soul-Crushing or 3 AM, I’m always sticking in something else that the Narc did or took or said to the entire West Boca Community about me. I’m a cross between Hitler, Mao Zedong, and Osama bin Laden. It’s just that nobody knew it when I was around.
But the biggest atrocity is, again, this is no surprise, she stuck it to me by telling my sons as often as possible what a piece of shit I am. Maybe at some point, they believed otherwise, but as for now, as they spend time with the Narc’s family, life is exactly the way she wanted it. “My family will always be there for you. Not his and certainly not him.”
You cannot share a life with someone for seventeen years and not know how they think. So, let’s go with the above being correct. It hurts. The pain is indescribable. I spoke with people from the area about it, leaders in the community, who met with me on several occasions, listened to me and decided the Narc was still standing, so they backed her.
You Can’t Go Home Again
Thomas Wolfe was correct; you can’t go home again. He wrote a novel of the same name. It was published posthumously in 1940. It tells the story of George Webber, a fledgling author, who writes a book that makes frequent references to his home town of Libya Hill, which was Asheville, North Carolina. The book is a national success, but the residents of the town had been unhappy with what they view as Webber’s distorted depiction of them and send him threatening letters detailing how they plan to kill him.
I am convinced The Narc’s final words were to anyone listening, “Whatever you do, keep him away from my sons. Mine not his. They hate him. Keep reminding them. He ruined my life and their lives. His mother was evil. His sister and brother tried to destroy me. Don’t give him his stuff and continue to tell both boys what a piece of filth he really is. It’s better they have no father than that monster!”
I am Soaking Wet
I cannot verify any of the above, but it is so vivid in my subconscious when I wake up in that cold sweat. My ex-wife had weekly sessions with the devil on how to be more evil. I don’t know what she charged him for it though.
smiling depression
So, there’s this other thought so completely opposite, I cannot comprehend why it’s seeping into my subconscious. I cannot go to a place in my mind allowing me to have happy thoughts. I’m not a victim but the Narc flipped between being a victim, being abusive, and being the hero.
Everything good I’ve ever believed about human beings is contradicted. Every thought I’ve had about loyalty, experience, and truthfulness is denied. Every trope I’ve heard about marriage, love, and partnership is hammered into silence. Every idea I’ve had about the human connection was trashed by the Narc’s behavior. She mentally drained me, leaving me devoid of happiness and what that could possibly be.
when music seeps into the brain
A few months back I was listening to the 80s station and on comes Longer by Dan Fogelberg. You know it. You’ve heard it. Without music, it’s a beautiful poem.
Longer than there’ve been fishes
In the ocean
Higher than any bird ever flew
Longer than there’ve been stars
Up in the heavens
I’ve been in love with you.
Stronger than any mountain cathedral
Truer than any tree ever grew
Deeper than any forest primeval
I am in love with you.
I’ll bring fires in the winters
You’ll send showers in the springs
We’ll fly through the falls and summers
With love on our wings.
Through the years as the fire
Starts to mellow
Burning lines in the book of our lives
Though the binding cracks and the
Pages start to yellow
I’ll be in love with you.
Longer than there’ve been fishes
In the ocean
Higher than any bird ever flew
Longer than there’ve been stars
Up in the heavens
I’ve been in love with you
I am in love with you…
I think about that poem, the words, and her. Her is the woman I have always loved. I’m always thinking about her so why is this any different? Since that day all those years ago that I saw her, I have been in love with her. The day I ghosted her, I loved her.
In the dream, we are walking on the beach. Both of us smiling.
I’m sure there’s no thought of me lingering in her memory, but somehow, I know I was at my best when I was with her. So, I went out of my way to destroy that relationship.
But there we are. Smiling and laughing with the waves splashing our ankles. Talking about the hear and now and the past and the future. She is looking more beautiful today than she ever could have in younger days.
Two hours of walking, talking, sharing pieces of ourselves to each other passed in what seemed like minutes. It had been years since she felt so at ease and relaxed. It was so comfortable.
The sun began to drop, the colors soft, pastel pink and orange and warm against the blue, cloud-sprinkled sky. Her olive-brown skin was glowing making her look more alluring than ever. And in her smile, I saw something more heavenly than the stars. Her beauty blinded me because it came from her heart and was reflected in her eyes.
She reaches for my hand and asks me to invite my sons over for a barbecue. She loves them and they love her. Of course, they do, everybody who knows her loves her. She’s regal in composure often illuminating an aura showing she is from a different era. A time when manners mattered. Her ambiance of supreme generosity and placid majesty is on display as we grace the golden sand, her aura today as is always the case is unsurpassed in grace and true charisma.
Feeding off the Pain
How does this dream seep into my subconscious? I married the Narc for the pain. At least, that is the logical conclusion I have drawn. I was tortured by self-hatred for most of my life. There were aspects of my life that I had a hard time loving. I am competitive but so internally tortured that I believed competition was to self-esteem as sugar was to teeth. Most people lose in most competitive encounters, and it’s obvious why that causes self-doubt.
But even winning doesn’t build character; it just lets a child gloat temporarily. This rational allows me to justify the ten years I coached my sons in rec basketball knowing we were going to lose. (We won three championships but in twenty seasons, I’m not sure I deserved to continue on the bench).
I do not look like Brad Pitt, I am terrible at math, and let’s not go near how I manage my finances.
As the years moved on, I did my best to hide these things. I was over-caring, over-helping, and over-accommodating to others.
I Own It
I did this to me. I did a great job of breaking me. I was not myself. I was myself when I was with her, in New Jersey, New York, and when she flew down to Boca. When we talked. When we were together at work or dinner. I liked being myself. It was comfortable but I had a need to sabotage that person. I needed the Narc. I needed to be insulted and mentally broken. It’s a world I was used to.
The funny thing is, I was the one doing this to myself. I was no longer a child living under my parents’ roof. I was no longer listening to those negative thoughts. (They were dealing with their own pain). I was away from hearing how untalented and unsuccessful I was. But I have become my parents. I have become my own worst critic.
What did I do in a past life or this one to warrant all this self-torture?
People have gone out of their way to hurt me. I am not driven to want to hurt them. So why this self-loathing? Why the misery? Why do I look in the mirror and despise what I see?
Do I want to be a mean, bitter, selfish, codependent man?
No.
Okay. So why the need for constant torture. I married the woman I was told to marry and that allowed my childhood back into my life. Whatever I did was not good enough. Does this mean that I cannot break free?
Maybe.
Can I allow myself even in my mind to be with this woman who makes me happy, who is the only woman I have ever loved?
No.
Am I chasing a dream I know can never come true just to add more torture to my world?
Yes.
Am I, for the first time in my life, talking to people who only want the best for me? People with a positive outlook? People who do not want me to fail.
Yes.
Can I take the reins from the inner critic? The voice of my mother. My father. The Narc.
Can I allow this dream to enter my conscious and put a plan together with it to achieve it?
Can I value myself as a member of society who has as much right to be here as others do?
The answer is Yes. Yes. And Yes.
However, the problem stems when I let my guard down. My brain will turn against me. It will reach in my memory and pull out every bad memory it can find – abuse as a child, failed relationships, etc. – anything to make me feel guilty. I will be tortured by my own thoughts.
What thoughts?
– I am a burden to my family/friends
– I have failed/disappointed my family
– No one really cares about me
– My sons are better off without me
– I am going crazy and there’s no hope
– It would be better if I weren’t around
– I would be better off dead
– I should probably kill myself
So, what now?
In every life, there’s going to be pain, joy, and everything in between. Your experience of your life and your brain are shaped by what you choose to focus on. You can torture yourself or choose better-feeling thoughts and memories. It really is that simple.
I am going to play Longer now. I am going to take the next three minutes and fourteen seconds and walk on the beach with her in my mind. And I am going to smile because maybe if I try this exercise every day for the next month, I can allow happiness into my brain.
On the other hand,…Nope. This time there is no other hand. This time let’s just smile while on that beach pulling out my phone and calling the kids with her.
Since I discovered Rock Bottom has a basement, it’s time to start walking up the stairs. One at a time.