Everything and Nothing

I've read that everyone we meet has been sent to teach us something. If that's so, I'm hard at work.

I encounter my father, in various guises, everywhere. I'm surrounded by narcissists--at work and at home. Hubby is so self-involved that I'm surprised he even notices I'm in the room. Sometimes I'm not sure that he does.

Stepson doesn't know anything about me. He never asks about what I'm interested in, what my life is like. He knows nothing about my childhood. Our conversations are always about him.

Not everyone in Crazy Land is a narcissist, but we've got more than our share. The Foot Lady, Crazy Employee, Owner, Loathsome, The Golf Pro--for all of them the world is a mirror.

If there's anything at which I'm expert, it's dealing with narcissists. Unfortunately, the way I deal with them is very unhealthy. Being highly intuitive, I'm able to figure out what they want and how they want it, then give it to them. Not so difficult, really. Generally what they want is validation; only preferences for the means of validation differ between individuals. I anticipate their needs. I hide my own. Or I believe the needs I have can't be met by other people.

I'm so chameleon-like that everyone thinks I'm like them, but I'm not, you know. There are a lot of things I have to fake. I don't know what occurs in non-catastrophic childhoods. It's as alien to me as living on another planet. It's such a strange thing, to try so hard to picture what "normal" (for for that matter, dysfunctional) childhood looks like. I won't ever know.

So what am I learning? Apparently, not much. I continue to live with a man who has an absolutely astounding sense of personal entitlement. At work, I shift certain characteristics to the foreground and others to the background, depending on who I'm with at any given time. I'm not pretending to be someone I'm not; I'm merely rearranging parts of my personality. Morphing into someone others find more palatable and easy to understand is probably one of those things I'm supposed to learn not to do.

At the moment, I think the lesson to be learned is to love myself, just as I am. That's a mighty tall order. I've lived my life, dedicated to figuring out how to fit in with everyone else, working on social skills, fixing the things that were wrong with me.

I've decided to stop trying to change myself into someone I'm not. What does that have to do with my dad? Everything and nothing.

Juvenilia

Since I don't have much to say today. I decided to post a poem sent to me from an old friend. I wrote it when I was 16 (so, you know, read it with compassion) after my father drove to a local city to see his 18 year old girlfriend, whom he had married 5 years previously. We were speeding along in the darkness, I was sitting in the backseat, hating him with a vengeance. I wrote the poem, in part, as a way to ignore him. So here goes:

Highways of Darkness

Highways in the darkness,
breathing wind like icy softness.
We are racing toward Heaven
or wherever we may be going.
My mind is like a ribbon--twisted and misleading
and it will take a new eternity
to untangle your mind from within it.
Perhaps it will unravel
when the light up dawn is upon us.
But until then the darkness is beautiful,
for we've never seen the light
on the highways of forever.

Mike Huckabee

I'm listening to a Mike Huckabee rally on CNN streaming media.

What do you suppose is going on in Mike's head?

Hubby Was Fired

Hubby lost his job on Friday. He was doing data transcription for the IRS, but wasn't able to meet the minimum production and quality standards. When I told him that he has to have a job, he went out the front door and sat on the porch steps until I left for a haircut appointment. Pouting. I guess I was supposed to tell him not to worry about it. He should just go ahead and sit around the house, doing absolutely nothing. I'll figure out a way to pay the bills, I'll do all the cleaning; he can relax and write another book.

It's all my fault, really. I should have been a lot less patient a lot sooner. I wasn't willing to deal with long term unpleasantness. As long as Hubby didn't hit me or bring another person into the relationship, my minimum standards were met. By the time I was too sick to keep up with things, doing nothing had become an ingrained habit for him. I'm guilty of bad parenting.

I spent a lot of time cleaning this weekend. It was nowhere near as much time as I need, but my stamina is still very limited. Luckily, I was able to meet my own production and quality standards.

I watched the final regular time seconds in the Mavs-Lakers game, then allowed myself to be talked into watching the overtime even though I knew how it would end. I hate Kobe. I also hate Mark Cuban. Ditto Jason Kidd. I'd be remiss if I didn't mention how much more I hate Isaiah than the whole lot of them thrown together.

I also managed to catch some college hoops, Georgetown vs. Marquette. Patrick Ewing, Jr. plays for Georgetown, so for this game, they were my default favorite team.

I'm still reading When Things Fall Apart by Pema Chodron. Perfect timing on my part. My backup read, when my concentration is too poor to devote to Pema, is called Acid Row. It's written by a British author. British writers are sometimes more than I can do. For example, the people in this book live on an estate, but that doesn't mean they're wealthy. "Estate" in this context means public housing. Who knew.

The new hair stylist didn't make me want to shave my head. That's more than I can say about my most recent stylist, Erika. Much like Dr. Sandbox, her fatal flaw is an inability to listen. The thing is, I'm not all that picky. After you've been bald, things can only get better.

I've already had two conversations with Foot Lady and one with Owner. It's 10:39 a.m. and I already need a nap.