The following is something I wrote before but didn’t have the bravery at the time to share it. It’s repetitive in the details of the story I told in the Snakeskin grand finale but it also has some other details in it that could possibly be helpful to other victims of this abuse.
Essentially stuff about being a victim. The sticky confusing reality of it. No one wants to be a victim and those that do, are usually playing the victim roll from a place of manipulation. However with NPD abuse it’s the very denial of the fact that you’ve been victimized, is what perpetuates it. It’s a difficult thing to accept on many levels and I think in this case, there is yet another layer for male victims of this abuse. It would seem the opposite of masculine to claim to be a victim at all, but that’s not the case and it’s really not the case when considering narc abuse. Quite the contrary. It is only from accepting victim status that we can even possibly begin to move beyond it.
I think it’s particularly hard to accept that that abuse was mental and someone not only beat you in a mind game, but they literally destroyed you in one and to the point where you weren’t even fully in control of yourself but rather puppeted by something excruciating. Something that some of us happen to be set up to take. And set up specifically to not notice or to be blind or to even crave. It really is sick. I’m fighting for my life and my mind in this blog and hopefully I’m fighting for others as well. I really pray to God that I am.
Here’s the old unposted post. Namaste.
Ps. Before I go further I want to say that opening up about my own dark sides of this I feel is also essential. If I’m gonna tell the story, I’m gonna tell on myself. Don’t get being a victim of Narc abuse confused with me claiming saintliness. I’m far from that. Less far than I was then. But I do want to say, tho I owned up to speed habit during my time with the psychopath. I want to clarify that I had defeated that for a significant period of time before the snakeskin incident. I wasn’t all the way sober yet but was mostly that way, and pursuing healthy choices at that time and studying, recovering and healing. I was testing whether or not I could drink lightly and was having success with it on vacation (but that’s easier than real life) until the Snakeskin thing happened. That’s not to say I think I can drink now. I’m quite happy being 100 percent off the drink and don’t plan on changing that equation for a long time if ever. And as I said before, I think prescription based drugs are mostly nonsense and soul stealers of the worst kind. So won’t touch them with your pain, if that makes sense.
The tramadol I bought there, at the airport was a fear based move I regretted even as I handed over the wad of pesos but honestly, they did end up a kind of dark godsend as they helped me thru the massive blow I was soon to receive.
Here goes the old thing.
I got on the plane from mexico flying to Atlanta. Already deep into a bottle of duty free tequila and a couple hundred Mila grams of tramadol that I had made a sad tradition of getting at the airport pharmacy everytime I left. Mind you I had arrived at the airport in good shape. Not planning on getting particularly sauced at all. But then I had the conversation with my mother. I had gone to mexico to meet an old flame and participate in a peyote ceremony somewhere in the wilderness with a couple of good natured shaman. In fact in my way to the airport I was in great spirits and feeling empowered and rejuvenated. I had displayed this on social media. Still proving to some imaginary world that I was ok and still proving to myself that very thing.
To unwrap how a single conversation with my mother could take me from that blessed and blissed out state of near hippy levels of gratitude and a take it easy flow to winding up in handcuffs and beaten by police in Atlanta. Losing valuable studio equipment and my flight back to New York. Instead I was locked up in a cell and left and the mantra ringing in my head. This is your family. This is your family. For anyone who has an aversion to a victim mentality. I understand your point but understand this. The nature of narcissistic abuse is that the victim is made to feel responsible and if born into it also groomed to be made and to feel responsible for his or her own abuse. So in many situations when one pulls a so called victim card, you would be correct to call bullshit but not in this case. In this case the very opposite is true. A victim of this type of abuse only begins the long road of accepting full responsibility by first realizing the depth of their victimization. In the case of narc abuse claiming your victim hood is an intensely brave thing to do. So intensely brave infact that hardly anybody does it unless they are completely destroyed first. Hard I guess to claim bravery when you’re shattered into a thousand pieces which only stick together in the shapes of fear and shame. And the four corners of guilt. The person who ultimately really introduced me to a hard core psychopathic discard. Lives just over a restaurant near where my sister lives and not far from me. Many months before my drunken Atlanta lock up this psychopath brought me to my knees. I was near dead and psychotic and really could not hide that fact and even screamed about it to a select few. (Way too many but the learning was just about to begin) my sister took the vulnerability I expressed from a place of true panic and despair and she gouged me with it. I was soaking every ounce of information from YouTube and beyond and I was posting info to protect myself (supposedly) from a smear campaign. This served to infuriate the narcs in my life of which there were far more than I could have known. But now know makes sense when you factor in the grooming to serve and be oblivious. Coupled with or because of a Life maybe not going as well as it should. A drug habit formed in the influence of giving up control to a psychopath. Again saying this is not way to avoid personal responsibility but rather the road one must take to finally claim full responsibility. One can be a victim of a crime and not be a victim in life. One can claim responsibility and at the same time remain clear on what went down. This disease operates in the unconscious dark. It’s for this reason and many others that it becomes important to write down your story. The fog of life aims to submerge it as it should into the foggy happiness of good tidings to come. Especially without the toxic sources around to bring you down.
So I was down. And unable really to defend myself. I noticed who kicked me. I had changed my ticket from mexico. I had intended to miss my mother’s birthday. Who had at this point displayed irrefutable signs of NPD abuse towards me. She was the last in my immediate family I held out hope for. In mexico I became soft hearted. Something about the peyote and the hope that I could get back what never was. My mom texted me as I was walking thru duty free with my fancy tequila I had planned on sipping at home occasionally at that point still trying to act like I didn’t have to give up drinking entirely. That was coming. I responded to the text. “I’m at the airport now” smiley emoji I’m sure. I wanted the delusion to feel real again. I forget who called who at that point. Probably I called her. Feeling guilty I guess for even thinking of missing her party. So glad I was coming and gonna make it. And plotting on how to grey rock my way thru the narc attacks which would surely fly in my family.
On the phone my mom was excited even anxious to tell me where her birthday dinner was. Why tell me then? I was in Mexican airport. My sister knew where my psychopath lived. Which restaurant. I warned her where she lived because I honestly thought that my sister and her children could be in harms way. Anyone discarded by a psychopath knows the level of terror I speak of. I was being terrorized thru social media accounts. Embedded language the list is long and described in detail across endless clips on planet YouTube. I had never before called the cops on anyone else in all my years of, let’s just say , “interesting situations “but on this psycho I did from a hide out in Long Beach and then from a hide out in Malibu when the grand finale had just occurred. Now I’m realitively fearless. Then terrified. You have to have gone thru it to know why many wind up in institutions. There’s no way my sister forgot where I told her this restaurant was. She had to know the real fear and the real warning about the possible impending danger to her children. Coupled with the fact that the restaurant is basically the landmark of the neighborhood she lives in. My mom was dying to tell me where her birthday dinner was. I hadn’t cracked my bottle or the tramodol which I had lied by telling myself would only be in case of emergencies. Little did I know an emergency was coming. I went from a pleasantly stoned grateful hippy flying first class no less. The miles had built up. I was floating on a cloud basically. But all my mom had to do was tell me where they made the big dinner reservation I was flying home for. To put me in a cell drunk and handcuffed and beat up.