Rejected Again

Rejected Again

My mother is dying. She has been dying for as long as I remember, but now; she is really dying. A dying malignant narcissist sociopath is said to be one of the most dangerous kinds of people that exist. To that I reply, “Then you never met my mother.”

Dying narcissistic sociopaths go on a rampage when they are dying. They are envious of your talents, your health, your age, your everything; and they want to take it from you. It belongs to them and you can’t have it because they deserve. How dare you rob them of the very things they desire. They will take your life given a half-second of opportunity. My mother again, came close to succeeding.

A few weeks ago I ended up in the psychiatric ward of a local hospital suffering from emotional exhaustion. I just couldn’t stop crying. The badgering from my MNPD mother tossed me to and fro and around and around. Spinning head? That hardly begins to describe what was going on in my head. The force of an F5 tornado may be close. I spent 7 days there with my mom throwing fits and demanding to talk to my doctors, my nurses and anyone with which she could play the concerned and worried victim mother.

I get out of the hospital to go into the storm and spend 3 days with my mom. I prepared myself. I was armed with God. The last day of my stay we went to the Cancer clinic together. My MNPD mother was in so much pain having the bone biopsy done. She had to lay flat on her back on an ice pack for 40 minutes to allow the puncture in her spine to close up. She was tossing around unable to stay still. I climbed on the stretcher and place my one leg over hers and cradled her head in my arms and stroked her hair to help her with her pain. We both fell asleep. Being with my mom IS exhausting. The nurse came and woke us up 40 minutes later. She said it was the sweetest thing she saw and that we must love each other very much. My mom said, “Well, she IS my daughter, of course I love her. With all my heart.” I, in the meantime am thinking “if you only knew”.

That moment. That 40 minutes is one on the most precious 40 minutes I spent with my mother in my 60.5 years of life. That cannot be deleted from my mind. I will treasure that until I greet my maker. Forty minutes that I would not give up for anything.

The next day she in the hospital with a heart attack, pneumonia, and a urinary tract infection. The following day I go to see her with a photo she wanted, and a rosary from my sister. She refused to see me. No reason. Just no. Then the nurse said she didn’t want my gifts. That I could take them home. Not wanted. Me, or gifts. Rejected. Crushed. Like a bug. Nothing.

My mom used to tell me to go kill myself. Then she said if I didn’t that she would. I learned to want to die without her saying the words. I wanted to die. Again. All over again. And again. Insanity.

For some reason my MNPD mother wishes me dead. If I take my own life then it is murder by proxy. She has successfully navigated the walls of my defenses and has convinced me that there is no other way. The pain becomes so great that I can no longer live with it. I don’t want to die, but merely to have the pain cease. Logic is gone from my brain. You cannot discuss anything logically with a sociopath. It will become so twisted that you will never find your way out. The tangled mess of the trail will tighten around your neck until you stop breathing. I felt like dying yesterday but I did not harm myself as has been my practice. I had the thought but no intent as I did when I wrote the following poem in 2013.

Living to Die

Today is the day I live to die
Waiting for Morpheus as I close my eyes
Hoping to shut them for one last time
Peace at last, quietly divine.

But day breaks in and I open my eyes,
Today again I live to die,
The trail of my tears evaporated
Veins on my arms lacerated.

Today  is the day I live to die.
Empty eyes turned to the sky
Arms outstretched above my head
“Take me now for I’m already dead!

My shattered heart beats the lie
Today again I live to die.
There is no tomorrow left in me
Just today when I cease to be.

Today again I live to die
Scream out loud with a primal cry
And tug at the chains that shackle me.
They keep the victory of death from me.

Is my eternal rest nearby?
When every day I live to die?
My blood has dried, my tears are dry
Your aim was true, I’m dead inside.

Today again I live to die,
To look for the light on the other side.
To take this darkness away from me
The shell of who I used to be.

Katie “Vinjette” Kristoffer 2013

I don’t need to die for my mother. Jesus has already been the sacrifice for her and for me. What she wants me to believe is the lies. Only Jesus can save me and he already paid the price. My death will not make my mom happy for she will look for her next victim. Only Jesus can save her and he already paid the price.

Romans 5:8

But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.

I have made many mistakes along the way. I get them pointed out quite often, but the end of the stick is not so sharp any longer and doesn’t hurt as much as it once did. The point doesn’t pierce me as it pierced my Lord who was nailed on the cross. He paid the price for all my mistakes. All my sins. Everything. I don’t owe my mother, my children, my spouse, my friends, or anyone; anything. It’s all been paid. In full. I thank my Jesus for his wonderful gift which I accept fully. My mom rejected my gift but I will not reject the gift Jesus offers. I too, hope my mother accepts his gift of amazing love.

1 Timothy 1:12-17

I am grateful to Christ Jesus our Lord, who has strengthened me, because he judged me faithful and appointed me to his service, even though I was formerly a blasphemer, a persecutor, and a man of violence. But I received mercy because I had acted ignorantly in unbelief, and the grace of our Lord overflowed for me with the faith and love that are in Christ Jesus.

The saying is sure and worthy of full acceptance, that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners - of whom I am the foremost. But for that very reason I received mercy, so that in me, as the foremost, Jesus Christ might display the utmost patience, making me an example to those who would come to believe in him for eternal life. To the King of the ages, immortal, invisible, the only God, be honor and glory forever and ever. Amen. -NSRV

We're All Lost

I was talking to my MNPD mother on the phone yesterday. Our relationship has had another bump or mountain in our road. I say “our” because we really are on this road together to find a place of healing and love. My mom received the devastating news last week (I think it was) that she has bone mets. She survived a bout of thyroid cancer in the late 1980’s and the doctor’s believe it has metastasized to her bones. The prognosis is not good. She was put on time release morphine which she takes 4 times a day, and 2 days ago they doubled her dose. She sounds pretty loopy when I talk to her, but much calmer. So now I have this difficult mom, who has been dying with her heart problems, and now definitely is dying with this new glitch. Her time is likely short and it will be painful for her. A real contradiction of feelings for me. Part of me is glad she will have pain like she caused us, but the empathetic person in me can’t bear the thought of her suffering. I cannot bear anyone suffering or being in pain. I have had thought such as “Karma is a bitch”. Yeah, it is, but who am I to talk when God’s word clearly states that all of us have sinned and fallen short of the glory that is Christ Jesus. I am certain that the word “all” includes me. You see, I have sinful, unkind thoughts directed to my mother as I still have unresolved anger.

Perhaps my anger is justified, but what does that mean? By holding on to it, it diminishes me as a person and causes me to feel and sometimes act hateful. I have come to understand my mom a little better and I am sad for her. She holds on to so much bitterness about how things should have been, or as she says “That’s not the way it was supposed to be.” She would say that over and over about anything and everything we talked about. Finally, one day I asked, “Well, how was it supposed to be?” Her answer both surprised me and saddened me. At the age of 79 she was still angry about her first husband and her dreams for their life together. In her words, “We were supposed to be a family. We were supposed to have a house, and celebrate birthdays, and Christmases. We were supposed to have happy memories of vacations together.” My dad and her broke up when I was 10 years old. My mom was 28 years old. So for 50 years she has been angry that things weren’t the way they were supposed to be.

In addition, she is angry at her mom. Sounds familiar, doesn’t it? Well, she does have every right to be angry at her. Her mother failed her in many ways, just as she failed me and I failed my children. You live what you know and what you have learned. That is why I am smarter now than when I was 20. She is angry that her mom treated her the way she did and failed her. When I ask why the answer is, “because, that’s not way it was supposed to be”. I felt her deep emotional pain and understood what she was saying, but at the same time it was so sad because she has never been able to move from that pain.

I got a little annoyed at hearing her say repeatedly that she wished things had been different because it wasn’t the way it was supposed to be that I reminded her of what my despised stepfather used to say all the time. I used to say, “I wish you weren’t so mad all the time”, “I wish I was better”, “I wish I was perfect”, “I wish I could make you happy”, and the list goes on. His reply was always “If wishes were horses beggars would ride.” That made me so angry. What did beggars have to do with my wishes to not be beaten or abused.

So, I reminded my mother of this, so I could be as kind as my stepfather had been. I was angry and was feeling as sympathetic as she and he had been in my childhood. She sounded wistful and replied “Yes, he did say that didn’t he? He was so cute.”

Cute? Really? I blurted out “Really? I wish the freaking horse would step on his head and crush it! I hated him and I hated him more when he said that!”

Mom, for the first time in my entire lifetime of knowledge of her was very calm. It must have been due to the morphine coursing through her veins. So very calmly she says, “You will not talk about my husband in that way. You will not disrespect him in my presence. He was a good man who provided for you and gave you kids many things you would not have had. You will respect him.”

I sat in stunned disbelief at what I just heard. My MNPD mother, even with her morphine had shown her true colors again. It wasn’t about me. It was about what she wanted in life. She wanted a provider, she wanted a house, she wanted things. She got them through this person, even if it wasn’t the way it was “supposed to be”.  I again felt beaten and humiliated. My mother had just told me to respect a man that molested me. I was nothing. I was lost. She was lost in the ‘supposed to be’; in her dreams that she never realized. My pain was nothing because hers was greater and she was so lost in it.

I retorted, “He molested me! I have a right to be angry at him! You should be angry at him! He touched your daughter. It should not have happened and I will not speak kindly of him. Not ever. How dare you even ask me to respect him. He was a child molester!”

She said, “I know, because you told me, but you should have told me then.”

So it was my fault. A beaten, abused, intimidated, broken child who was threatened almost daily with death was at fault for not telling she was being sexually abused. I know my mother. At that point in time she would not have believed me. She never did. She would have beaten me until I told her the truth she wanted to hear and then she would have made me apologize to him and hug him and kiss like I meant it. I want to be physically ill. I want to scream at the heavens for my justice. Yet I am not sick, and heaven sometimes feels silent.

We are both so incredibly lost in our pain and our suffering. May God reach out and heal us both.

But even though we all have strayed and lost our way at times, we can live in the knowledge that our sins are forgiven.

Isaiah 53:6 (NIV)
We all, like sheep, have gone astray, each of us has turned to our own way; and the LORD has laid on him the iniquity of us all.

And he will find all of us who are lost.

Luke 19:10 (ESV)
“For the Son of Man came to seek and to save the lost.

I Have a Right To Tell My Story and to Use any Material that Reinforces the Veracity of My Story

Life, goes by with little markers that seem almost unnoticed. I quit smoking 5 years ago and the day went buy with a mention. In the beginning one day was a huge deal. A week, monumental! A month, well that could be worth a steak dinner. Your children pass their landmarks with cakes, candles, photos, and gifts. We pass the year marking the seasons and special days like birthdays, Easter, Christmas, Holidays, doctor’s visits, another year of life after my husband had his device implanted. Day after day march by in perfect formation and timing.

Another marker went by yesterday that I wish had not. The last time I self-harmed was November. I made close to a year. I made it 9 months. I fought it for 2 days and the succumbed. The emotional pain became like the steam escaping from a pressure cooker. It had to be released by the self-harming or I might have done worse. For me it is a non-event and brings about enormous relief, but does leave me with shame and self-loathing. I don’t hide it anymore but show someone. This time my husband who just put his harms around me and hugged me tight. No blame, condemnation, or accusations. But he can’t understand. How can he when I don’t.

There was a dialogue on a local FB site and they were asking about the use of cursing. I do not believe in cursing, escpecially the F-bomb as they call it. I said as much and attached an article from a Christian book about Profanity and the moral decay of society. I was flamed. Harshly. Told that if I practiced love I would be better. I was told to “get a grip lady”, and other things. It wounded my soul as I know I am a very loving, caring, and extremely compassionate woman. Too much so at times. I started to unravel. Why did I post it?

Well it talks about welfare and people not caring. We lived in small towns where many lived in welfare. I have many cousins whose parents were on welfare. Husbands were drunks. Mothers drank. Their existence was horrible. Many of their homes were hovels. Why would they care? 6 kids in a two room shack with no plumbing. 4 kids in a two room shack. Coal and wood stove. My mother was cruel. Others were cruel too. Some didn’t care and let their kids roam day and night. We were taught to steal. Anything was fair game. Anything you had and we didn’t have was fair game.

Men came day and night, and parties. We saw our mother and aunts in the act of sex. The husband or boyfriend came home and took it where he wanted it. Even if she said no. Even if all the kids where there. A drunken father would bring the bar home and sell his daughters to the drunks that wanted them. Would ask his boys if they wanted a try. Many were sexually active before 12 and married before 16. We saw men jumping out of the windows of my mom’s house and my aunt’s and cousins houses. In my own family there are six kids with the potential of 4 different fathers. I saw aborted babies pulled out of the toilet

Most of the girls were sexually abused by the time they were six years old. They were abused by brothers, sisters, fathers, grandfathers, and strangers. To escape the horror they would get pregnant, run away, take drugs, get drunk, get married. And the cycle would start again, but it would be worse. So much worse. It breaks my heart to know how worse.

And words. It’s a lie that words will never hurt you. It is such a lie. When the F word was said it was always connected to harm and danger. Strangers having sex with woman saying “I’ll F*** you if I want to you f*ing b****!” My mother swinging the conveyor belt and scaring my body with bloody welts say “If you weren’t f****** guilty you wouldn’t be f****** crying .” Only when I quite crying out of exhaustion or because I was at the verge of dying, would she stop. Belt buckles wrapped around the neck and teeth knocked out “You f***** asked for it”.  Always harm. Always anger. Never safe. Never funny. Never just a word.

This article mentions this. It goes on to mention disobedience of god’s laws resulting in crime, murders, car jacking, rapes, theft, homosexuality…..OOPS!  God and sexuality in one sentence. What a religious bigoted hater I am. Sad. I have two brothers who are homosexual. Scott Peck, MD writes in Children of the Lie he writes that the scapegoat son of Malignant Narcissist Psychopath mothers are frequently unable to have relationships with women. When I asked my brother he said he “F***** hates women”.

Hatred? Bigotry? Inability to Love? Are you kidding me? I don’t hate the people who did this to my family. I am not a bigot, I love everyone including the impossible ones. Oh course you must be kidding. I love my brothers with everything I have to love. He knows what happened. I know what happened. My brothers, sisters, cousins, all know what happened. The poor kids in my neighborhood and my mom’s neighborhood know what happened. Gosh, some of the kids took part in the wife swapping parties.

Someone is outraged because I posted hate? You need to be outraged because it is truth and it goes on far more than you know. That is the outrage. Not the mention of God or homosexuality, or the behavior and moral decline. I have looked into the eyes of men and women who have just given up and have no hope. You leave them a bag of oranges and they neither look left nor right nor at you to acknowledge you. Why? Because they know it doesn’t matter. Tomorrow they will be gone, and then what. So many nights I went to be hungry. Many nights a mead was macaroni with just margarine. If we were luck we had macaroni with ketchup.

I escaped. So many don’t but don’t get angry when I speak my truth. It might not be pretty, but I lived it and I have as much right to tell my story as anyone else. Much more right.The words written blamed and accused me for being something I was not. They caused me to panic. In my mind I feel the beatings. I feel the fear. I feel the hatred. I panicked and took down my posting and then was accused that I had done it because I knew they were right. My mother would say that when I stopped crying because I couldn’t cry anymore. I reached out to everyone I knew how encourage me. Then in the middle of the night my mother’s voice came to me “You now, you’d be better off dead. Everyone hates you anyway, and it would be better for you to do it than for me. You will be sorry if I have to do you F**** waste of space.” In the morning I slashed myself. I don’t know how many time. I have a road map to my pain.

My God weeps for the poor and calls me help them.

Psalm 10:14

“But you, O God, do see trouble and grief; you consider it to take it in hand. The victim commits himself to you; you are the helper of the fatherless.”

Psalm 12:5

“‘Because of the oppression of the weak and the groaning of the needy, I will now arise,’ says the LORD. I will protect them from those who malign them.”

Psalm 140:12

“I know that the LORD secures justice for the poor and upholds the cause of the needy.”

I hate this, I want it to stop, I don't want to remember, but I have to. I need to get better. I thank God for the people who "get it". The people who create fear in my, well I thank you too. It shows me where I still need to work on myself.