Memories 4 to current issues

This one is personal and will probably bounce about a bit so bare with me.

    I think most of my regular followers know that I have been completely no contact with my birth family since October 14, 2022 when I finally cut off the last member of my birth family–my mother. The saga that lead to that separation is long and the final straw explained so much of growing up.

    Through my mother’s side: I am the first born of a first born, of a first born, great grandma would tell you I am the one who made her great–I wish I could have spent more time with her as that side of the family is a big mystery, like she appears, but I know not much of before her besides she worked in the circus as a fan dancer, and that is where she met great-grandpa.

    Grandma, looking back, showed every sign–and coupled with things grandpa said–of having Narcissistic Personality Disorder (NPD) of the grandiose variant. In the family dynamic my mother was sort of the forgotten child–not that she wasn’t also spoiled–as my aunt was born with a congenital heart condition, and by default became the golden child. Grandpa would be classed as the enabling parent–easier to just go along with what grandma wanted than rock the boat. Grandma didn’t want children as she had been embarrassed growing up being the eldest of twelve…let’s just say that I learned much later in life that lots of alcohol was involved in both of grandma’s pregnancies because grandpa wanted kids– and yes I know by today’s standards what that means about the lack of consent.

    My mother and father married near the end of dad’s enrollment in the Army, and from arguments I heard growing up he had wanted to make a career there. He was an Army Ranger that served one tour and passed on an appointment(¿Is that the right word?) to West Point because of my mother’s insistence and his fear of leaving me with her whilst deployed–a fear I never understood until October 14, 2022.

    We moved around a lot from birth to seven years old ending up in Washington D.C. when I was four and a half. I was “daddy’s little shadow” to the point I still get asked what branch I served in as I walk like a soldier and became dad’s defacto apprentice (Have I mentioned I am a Sith Lord?

“Always two there are, no more, no less, a master, and an apprentice”–Yoda

    During those years dad was sober, and I learned a lot from him. Some of my earliest consistent memories go back to around three years old–as mentioned in other posts I am cursed with an Eidetic memory–and many of those memories are of my mother beating me with most anything she could grab, flyswatters, switches, extension cords, you get the idea–to this day I have never owned a flyswatter or–willingly–a brown extension cord. She also leveled the same violence upon dad though his was mostly verbal and skillets occasionally–that’s not a joke!

    At six and a half years old my maternal half brother entered the world. I was told by my mother that he was my replacement many, many times leading to my parentification and dad’s drinking. I had to learn very quickly how to change a cloth diaper, feed him, wash him, pick up after him, and wash his clothes, as six months later my mother was again pregnant with my baby brother and on “bed rest” (that is in quotes for a reason) through most of the pregnancy.

    At eight years old I was going to school, mowing lawns, washing cars, recycling glass bottles, basically anything that let me earn some extra cash, then spent my evenings taking care of my two replacements–once they came home from daycare–all while cleaning the house, cooking dinner, and doing my own laundry. I knew even then that the only way out was with money. By the time both of my brothers were toddling around I was being left alone with them more and more especially on Friday nights and weekends. Dad worked extra hours and was on call a lot so it wasn’t too odd for my mother to go party at a neighbor’s or some friends across town and once dad was home for him to carry or assist her back home as she was too intoxicated/high to walk. It also wasn’t too odd for her to get him to leave with her on a Saturday morning and not return until nine in the evening all the while I was running the house and raising two toddlers–remember I was not quite nine when baby brother was born.

    Money was short growing up between dad’s drinking and mom’s obsession with high end clothes and shoes–the cause was more the latter than the former. In 1979 her suits were never less than $150 ($670 today according to an inflation calculator online) and her shoes were never less than $75 a pair ($340 today) on sale–I know because I was dragged along on most of those trips--someone had to carry things.



(Imagine 14 pairs of these or similar in your closet!)

    She had enough of all to go two weeks without wearing the same suit twice. Now figure in that wardrobes are seasonal and my mother’s weight fluctuated wildly. None of her jewelry was less than 22k gold and mostly chains (About $200 each today). Add in monthly hair appointments at $40 each ($180 today) on top of all that. I now know that all of that was potential indicators of Grandiose NPD and worse than I saw out of grandma as the entire family suffered for her image–in disclosure I had overheard a therapist reference her NPD once but at the time I had no idea what they were talking about.

    Food was a scarce commodity growing up and that is why I worked as much as I could whilst saving everything I could as well. I’d walk to the store, buy myself food, stop at the bank and deposit the rest of my cash, then go home and hide the food. None of what I bought was probably good for you, but when supplied food is limited you buy what is stable, available and cheap, lots of potted meat and saltine crackers, graham crackers, peanut butter, and evaporated milk. To this day I live with food insecurity and eating disorder issues, but I manage that insecurity, and with therapy I have no issue now splurging on a decent meal out for myself–still not over $20 for the meal before tax and tip.

    I was drug along to mom’s Weight Watcher meetings (among other weight loss establishments) and was at a point put on the diet myself. I was not that much overweight at the time–think growth spurt weight, but the actual cause was insulin resistance as the diabetes I live with was already there and intentionally ignored after it was found. I was constantly told how fat I was by her–a self image I still carry, and deal with daily even though I am not that far from ideal weight now. I still have issues looking at myself in the mirror and not seeing my flaws or my remaining weight. I get that there are a lot of people with this issue so I’m not trying to downplay their experience or up play mine–the dysphoria is there though and at least I know it. Like many people with eating disorders and body dysmorphia who I see in the mirror versus what others see is very different, I’ve had to do a lot of work to come to terms with this, but I still have occasional issues with binge eating or trying to skip meals because I “feel” fat. The old adages “I am fat because I eat, and I eat because I’m fat” or “nothing tastes as good as skinny feels” are sayings I really do understand very well.

    Doing the housework meant my own room suffered, and as punishment my mom would suddenly have time in the middle of my school day when she was supposedly at work–need I mention she could never hold a job more that two years–to go in and literally throw away most everything as she “couldn’t stand to see it”, even though my door was always closed–and usually locked. This meant she missed work to come home and destroy my life. I had a full size bed that like most girls was more than half covered in a collection of stuffed animals and one day I came home to find all but one–that she had made me–in trash bags on the front porch. Once she threw something out it was final, so basically six to eight stuffed trash bags of my things just gone. The only items safe from her purges were things given to me by dad or grandpa. This continued well into my teens and to be blunt shit really hit the fan when she found what I thought was well hidden collection of women’s clothes. That was the final bit of trust I had started to recover, gone and a deep hiding of who I am beginning–a hiding that caused me a lot of problems for many years. I was threatened with conversion therapy among other things at the time and even then I knew it was not something legit or that you wanted to go through.

    Dad would buy me model planes, I’d build them, and my brothers would get in my room and throw them to “watch them fly” then I’d get beat by mom for complaining about them destroying my things. I had the beginnings of a model railroad set up that dad and me were working on. My half brother destroyed it at three years old while my mom was “watching him” and again I was punished even though the set up was in a normally locked spare room and I was not home. One of those engines today is worth several thousand dollars and wasn’t cheap back then–it was a gift from grandpa.

    From age nine to thirteen I attempted to end myself four times. The fourth try is why I know there is a creator as I was severely reprimanded and sent back with a warning not to try that again, and is why to this day I am pretty sure my main guardian spirit is the Grimm Reaper–that’s yet another post on its own really.

    Just before I was 13 I had $1,200 in my savings account (just shy of $4,000 today). I went to make a deposit and all but $1 was gone. My mother was the co-signer on the account and had withdrawn it all. The reason stated was to keep the house out of foreclosure, but four months later we lost the house and dad had bailed on us anyways. I’ve never been really sure why mom and dad separated, mom will say it was that dad had an affair, but the problem is mom like most people with NPD is a pathological liar, and master manipulator so I can’t really be sure. I never once asked dad as honestly I kind of saw the reasons–she abused him the same as me, both physically and mentally, she withheld affection, she had multiple affairs and one night stands so yeah, I can kind of see dad’s side. I have never seen that money again, never been anything said about it being returned, just silence; if it really had kept the house from foreclosure I wouldn’t care, but it didn’t and it just feels like yet another lie to cover her mistakes.

    During losing the house mom tried to move us into several very fancy apartments within D.C. I can vividly remember one was on the eighth floor, massive windows that let you see quite a ways across the Potomac and into the city proper, I remember her being told several times that she didn’t make enough to rent the units she was looking at and she wouldn’t look at lower cost units–those were “beneath her”–her words not mine. As a result we wound up going from D.C. to the Ozarks via her mom, dad, and her sister very quickly–and angrily–coming to get us. We wound up for a while in the smaller towns where my parents were raised living with grandma and grandpa and eventually settling in the suburbs of St. Louis.

    Mom and dad separated three times before he passed away. The first time was when mom became pregnant with my half brother–this is kind of a “duh” moment. The second time was in 1983–and I was blamed by her very violently. The third time was 1995–I couldn’t be blamed because I was away from home with two kids of my own. Mom was in and out of my house a lot during that third separation, and it added strain to my own marriage. Mom has never once taken credit for her actions in those separations, but instead has attempted to rewrite history as her being a saintly, angelic, sober, and non-promiscuous person who was wronged by dad. *insert retching sounds here and pretend I’m holding a trash can with my face in it*

    Mom somehow became Once Wife’s best friend, everything was shared between them as I learned once me and Once Wife were separated and mom would routinely if not daily tell me things from my marriage that she had absolutely no business ever knowing–a lot of my marriage issues were caused by broken trust–that too is another post. When I met the young lady that would eventually become Once Wife (OW) my mom could not stand her, she’d constantly warn me that OW would baby trap me, that she was the “wrong social standing”–like we had any *insert very loud eyeroll here*. She was constantly trying to get me to walk away from OW especially once we were engaged. Just before I was married it was like a switch flipped and the two were best buddies–the fact my son was on his way may have had something to do with that–doting grandmother act loading in 3…2…1.

    So I mentioned the family dynamic of mom, her sister, grandma and grandpa, and like most narcissistic households growing up had its hierarchy too. I’m not sure how to describe my first six years…mom’s punching bag maybe? I was the first grand child on mom’s side. Grandpa bought me large Tonka and Ertle heavy equipment toys as soon as I was walking–he worked on heavy equipment for the state highway department–dad was large trucks, tools, etc…yes those two spoiled the little Tom Boy that I am.

Hmm, do I need a back hoe for the Kubota? 😁

    Some of my stuffed animals came from dad’s mom, some from mom’s mom, some out of storage from mom’s childhood, and I had an Easy Bake oven by four years old.



    After my brothers were born I became the scapegoat, blamed for everything, my fault, your fault, nobody's fault I got blamed for it. The scapegoat aspect even followed me to school and any half baked thing an equally abusive teacher told her in second grade was believed and that followed me until we moved to St. Louis–there is a really big reason I don’t think teachers should ever be allowed to talk to each other at any time, for any reason, anywhere, and touching a child in any way that is not for keeping them safe should be automatic assault charges and prison time. That teacher's accusations lead to me going through a long battery of psychological and medical exams as she was determined to prove I was in the 1970s parlance “retarded”. All that was proven is I had a high genius IQ and was mechanically gifted. Half brother was sort of the forgotten child and my baby brother became the golden child–gold leaf on a piece of…(you can fill that in yourself.)

    Mom was a subscriber to the old adage “children are meant to be seen and not heard” and she viciously enforced that if they had company. Mom would plan Christmas parties growing up, where I made a large amount of the food, and was supposed to be present, but silent as that was easier than losing a small chef…the 70s were really weird.

    So what led to my walking away? The last conversation I had with her I was honestly sitting on my bathroom floor contemplating walking into the side of the next passing freight train as I was spiraling from issues with Jobe. Mom had called and the first words out of her mouth were:

    “I gave the inheritance money to your brother as he needed it more than you did.”

    This was four months after Once Wife had left, two months after Jobe was supposed to have moved up, my life had/was falling apart around me. I had debt out of my ears, payments I really could not afford, blood pressure that was dangerously high, as well as blood sugar in the same range. The money didn’t matter at that point because it had been gone for most of a year at that point but she had promised me I would get it. Baby brother spent it on building a “garage” that within six months was collapsing because he had no idea how to build one–nor did he even need one as he is supposedly disabled. Two sentences later is when I was told:

    “You wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for your dad stopping me and Brenda making the trip to Oklahoma.”

    Apparently Brenda knew a Doctor who would perform an abortion even though it was illegal in both Texas where mom and dad lived and in Oklahoma except if necessary to save the life of a pregnant individual. Brenda’s husband told my dad about the planned trip and that is why I am here today.

    As I noted earlier, learning this explained so much of how I was treated growing up as she never wanted me in the first place. The learning was also not helpful considering my mental state at the time. I hung up on mom, blocked her number, and tried to reach out to Jobe who was using silence for who knows what reason–she is childish that way–and wound up calling my son. When I say my kids are why I am still here I mean it.

    Now I understand via back channels that the state may be stepping in with mom and baby brother. Apparently, baby brother has become abusive to her and is intercepting her conversations. Mom apparently also has some form of dementia–years of substance abuse catching up to her? That means the state may end up locating me as my middle brother has a felony record for financial crimes. It means having to explain to a state worker that I have not spoken to her in three and a half years and why. I would rather they appoint an unrelated guardian than have dealings with that part of my life. I don’t want to mess up years of therapy, and finally having a level of peace with no desire to end things. To me she passed away on that October evening and I’d rather it stay that way. Maybe that sounds cruel to some, but it is where I am now. I have grieved with the knowledge of why things were how they were and I see no point in returning.