I don’t know but I just needed to get this out. I know it is a diversion from my therapy that all of you guys are helping me through, but this just annoys me.

I come from a family that always took its food seriously. We all cook mostly from scratch. And don’t ask me why, I somehow thought it would be a good idea to invite a bunch of people over to celebrate Thanksgiving.

It is the anniversary of the day that my life took a new turn. Thanksgiving 2011 was the day that my then husband had returned from his extended “business trip” to share the holiday with the family.  He was all sweet and charming to everyone and even made a huge elaborate drunken thank you speech about his amazing wife  (me) and how he would not be where he was if it were not for me. Later after everyone left, I got the real news.

So now I have invited way too many people, none who can cook to share this holiday. Hopefully there is safety in numbers. Last year was a disaster because I just broke down in tears crying. It was just my son and one of his friends.

I make pies from scratch. I like to use lard. Most years I have gotten it mailed to me from a farm in Pennsylvania (I live in California!). This year I did not get anything like that together. So I went out here in my health conscious environment to look for some lard to make some incredibly flaky pie crusts.

I live in the land of chicken sausage and turkey bacon. So when I asked for lard, I got a confused look as to what was I talking about. Then when they finally understood what I was requesting, you should see the looks of disgust that I have gotten. I finally got irritated and looked at the butcher and said that it was way easier to buy heroin in this town than it is to buy lard. And it is more socially acceptable.

I know about the heroin transactions because I used to park outside a McDonlad’s so I could piggy back on the wifi location. It was scary the transactions that I witnessed in that parking lot. This is not a slum area and it was less than a block from that Whole Foods where I got the disgusted look from the butcher.

So I know there are clinical studies etc. to say otherwise, but my mother (the Narc I write about) is 96, still drives and looks like she is maybe 75 years old. She grew up on pork fat. She told me stories about how before refrigeration, pickled meat was stored in the cool areas of the basement in crocks of lard. Meat was just scooped out of there and fried up with some veggies and potatoes.

And pie crusts were always made of lard.

I am a big fan of Dr. Mercola. He says that there are 3 types of people who live on this planet. The first group should only eat chicken and fish, little fat and endless carbs. The second group is the most common group who should eat a Mediterranean diet which is equal portions of everything. Then there is the third group and they should be eating lots of rich fat, meat, veggies and little to no carbs. I think I am somewhere in between  group 2 and 3.

I really do not adhere to this, but it gave me permission to take the plunge and eat fat. Now I eat less, I am satisfied and I never have hunger pangs or cravings. I even lost a little weight, but nothing to speak of.

I know that a lot of you may not agree with me, but it does work for me. I read this on the HuffPo.

Look at the comments. Hostility.

Everybody loves to talk about how they think diversity is important. What about diversity of thought and eating habits? Do we have to wait until someone we love to get on TV and give us permission?

I have been eating coconut oil for more than 20 years. I have always loved and craved it from the time that I spent living in SE Asia.  I could only buy it at a certain health food store for years. Same looks of disgust when I would ask for that. Now everybody can’t eat enough of the stuff.

Anybody still eat margarine?

Cigarette smoking is another one. I love when people feign coughing when someone dares to smoke within 20 feet of them and then they go smoke their vape pen. Smelling that gives me a headache.

I really don’t smoke, I had one cigarette last year, but I do not think that someone “is less than” because they smoke cigarettes. And why is it ok to shame cigarette smokers and be ok with people that smoke pot all of the time?

I still have an ashtray in my house, I am not sure if you can even buy them anymore in this state. But I keep it for those that drop by and want to imbibe.  I do still make them go outside, but I live in Southern California. It is never that cold.


My Greatest Gift in 2014

I was going to write that not much progress has happened this year, but after reading my posts, I realize that although my life may still be considered on the bleak side now, it has improved.

In spite my many struggles, I still have made some progress. I need to acknowledge that.

I know I have one big hole to dig myself out of and no one around to help. I also have to try and carry my son out too. And that has been the most difficult part of my journey. He has been a tremendous weight on my heart and soul. I cannot be angry at him, because I know he is confused and angry. I am too.

Since day one, I have assured him that “things will get better”, and I really believed they would, in the beginning. But it has only gotten incrementally better. All of this can be overwhelming for me too. I keep trying to assure him, but as this fiasco drags on and on, he believes me less and less. I don’t blame him, but I keep forging ahead. I don’t have a choice or an alternate route to go.

As you probably have already figured, the divorce is still going on with no end in sight.

2014 started out well, but things just fell apart on the way. I thought that things were really going to turn around. My X (I am just going to start calling him my X for practical reasons, My Someday To Be X is too much to type even though that is who he is realistically) was finally paying the court ordered spousal support and I was getting more hours at the part-time job I got. Although it was not a lot of money, it felt like a windfall to me. I was finally able to afford high-speed internet and put a tank of gas in my car once a week.

Before that, I was writing on my computer at home and saving it on my flash drive and uploading everything at the library. I have lost count as to how many flash drives I left at the library. They all had personal info, divorce info, and even Social Security numbers. This is another issue that I will have to deal with somewhere in the future.  It is just not a priority now.  As far as the gas, I was almost always running on empty. I cannot tell you how wonderful it feels to be secure with more than a half a tank of gas to drive around in. I am still careful about where I drive, but I can get out a little more.

I brought a roommate in. She was someone I sort of knew around town. She was team mom for a football team that her son and my son played on in middle school. Through the years I would occasionally run into her around town and we would always say “let’s get coffee” but it never happened. I had run into her again in 2013 and told her about my divorce.

At the end of 2013, she called and said that she and her son had fallen on hard times and asked if she and her son could come and stay in my spare room. It was the holidays so how could I say no? I told her that when she got a job, she could start paying rent. She agreed.

It was nice to have the company when she moved in, I shared my “war stories” with her and she told me about the problems of being a single mom and her problems with her mom.

I thought I had found a kindred spirit when she had complained about her mom. Her mom is a very wealthy woman and would not take her own daughter and grandson in. The way she talked about her mom, I thought, sounded like a typical narcissistic mother.  So here I am, thinking I am rescuing another victim from narcissistic abuse.

In January, she got a job. She kept telling me that she would pay “next paycheck” and she kept coming up with a vast array of excuses as to why she could not come up with any money.

Eventually I found out that the reason that she fell on “hard times” was due to narcotics. My son had warned me, because he knew her reputation around town. Naturally, I thought,  because she was a mom, that it must only be something occasional. I can be so naive at times.

Eventually I caught on, I got to see it with my own eyes, she tried to say she “was drunk”.  But even I knew better. This happened in March and I just asked her and her son to leave. That was hard because I felt bad for the son. That was the main reason that I held out for so long. But I had to think of my son.

I cleaned up the horrible mess they left behind and out of the blue, I got a phone call from someone I knew who asked if I had a room to rent.

He said it was a man and asked if that was ok. I just said that I am ok with it as long as he could pay rent and that he not partake in any sort of substances. He told me that he was a dad with 2 sons that lived with their respective moms.  I was assured that he was a good man.

And he is.

Since he moved in, it has been great to have a strong male presence around my son. He works, has his own life, and he spends a lot of time with his own sons. But lucky for me and my son, he occasionally hangs out here and spends a little time with my son. That has been a Godsend for me. He is young enough to be cool for my son, yet old enough to know better.  His guidance is only occasional, but every so often I believe that whatever words he tries to convey, they are poignant enough to penetrate my son’s confused and stubborn head.

We even have had a few soulful discussions ourselves about doing the right thing. He struggles too, supporting his own sons. Because of that, it worked out well for me. He had to take a lower paying job and he chose to not go back to court and get the child support payments reduced. He was more concerned about his kids getting adequate care, so he opted to find a cheaper place (my place). As a mom, you got to love a guy like that!

I still tend to isolate myself so it is nice to have someone around occasionally to have these conversations with. Our schedules do not coincide, but we do talk once in a while and it is always great.

And he pays rent.

Of course my X has gone back to his sporadic payments for spousal support. But with the rent money and my part-time work, I have been able to maintain my lavish lifestyle of high-speed internet and a weekly tank of gas! I even splurged for Netflix!

It may not sound like much to most. But when you have gone without these little things for a year or two, then, you really appreciate them when you get them back!

I’m Baaack!

It is been almost 10 months since I have last posted. I had to take a break because my blogging on what had happened to me was starting to drown me.

Sometimes it is just too hard for me to visit these dark spaces. It just dredges up too much sludge from those dark crevices where my emotions reside. I had to contain them before they consumed me. I felt it was time for me to ponder more on my uncertain present and future than it was to consume myself about the past.

I did not even re read my posts or read any of the blogs that I had followed. I just deleted the notifications from my email as I got them. It all became too overwhelming. I just stopped everything.

I do not know if I am still ready to come back but I am somehow compelled to return. I cannot tell you how many times I have started this post and I end up having to stop and walk away, it is usually combined with a blindingly severe headache.  It is almost like some unconscious resistance that I feel I need to overcome.

During my absence I had to take my son to the emergency to have a MRSA abscess wound lanced. Because he is now an adult (19 years old), I could not just take him. I had to beg, plead, etc., for him to understand that he needed this to be done. There was no other way for this abscess to go away which was getting noticeably worse as everyday passed.  Finally my relentless pleading, chiding, etc. sunk in and he relinquished to seek medical attention. We went to the ER.

I do not know how many of you have ever witnessed a lancing, but it is pretty gruesome. For those curious, I am sure you could Google the procedure. It is not pretty. Even with a morphine drip and plenty of local anesthetic, it is excruciatingly painful. I sat there and witnessed it as I saw the intense pain my son endured in his face. He even teared up from the pain and he is not one to cry over anything.  After letting the anesthesia take effect, the doctor takes a large about 1 ½” Exacto knife like blade and pierces the wound and penetrates the ENTIRE blade in to the wound.  And as if that not enough, then the doctor proceeds to move that penetrated blade around in circles deep within the wound.  Eventually (it seems as though forever!) the doctor withdraws the blade and with it comes a purulent pus oozing out.  After that, my son was bandaged up and the wound finally healed. Now there is only a darkened skin patch that remains as a reminder.

Not to diminish the intense pain my son had to endure, I see my need to blog again as a type of symbolic lancing. I feel that I too have to gouge my spiritual wound to release more of its purulent pus infecting my heart and psyche.

I hope a lot of you have not moved on. I miss all of you and all of your support.

I am just starting to write my next post to catch you up.

Worried that YOU Might be the Sociopath?

This is my first time to reblog. I thought that this was too important of a post for anyone to miss.

After a lifetime of living with Narcissists, my mother, my brother and most of all My Someday To Be X, I have always struggled with my own self doubt. Even more so, I just buried my own feelings, stayed silent and endured.

Nobody wants to be accused of being a whiner or victimhood.


face in grassI slept with a knife under my side of the mattress in the final weeks before I escaped. I would have killed him if provoked one more time. I just remained as calm as possible in his presence.

Even the sound of him walking through the house made me cringe and wish him dead. I would hear him moving about the house, and I imagined him slipping on the bathroom floor and knocking his head against the side of the toilet. I thought about how much time I could waste before calling 911 to be certain he was beyond the point of being saved.

I had never wished anyone dead in my life!! But I wished death upon him. It’s why I had to leave when I finally left. I was becoming someone I no longer trusted or recognized.

I realized that I wasn’t living; I was dying.

In my…

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