I’ll Not Be a Gentleman

Yesterday was Mother’s Day, and I pray you all had a great one-mine started out precariously, and it proved that no good deed goes unpunished.  Indeed.

In a moment of weakness, compassion and dumbassery-I asked my MIL if she would like us to join her on Mother’s Day-at her church.  Actually, my husband brought the notion up last Sunday-and I told him I’d pray on it-only to find that he had been joking.  JOKING.  Unfortunately, it was too late.  My heart got the better of me, and I set plans for 9:30 a.m.  We would be meeting in the strip mall that held her place of worship (Dwain and I called it The Cult) thirty minutes prior to the service.

Dumbassery at its finest.11156399_828561477221503_5855406605992417646_n

Anyhooser, Dwain was none too pleased with the news, but I held my ground.

“What could POSSIBLY go wrong?  We’ll be in church, sort of,” I stammered.

You have to understand a few things before I go on.  My MIL is a narcissist with possible Sociopathic tendencies.  She can scream at volume eleventy hundred with the best of them, and at one point in fact-she locked herself in the bathroom on my husband’s 35th birthday because his WIFE was taking him out to eat.  The histrionics were impressive, but I’m no longer intimidated.  Things have become manageable between us, as I take no shit and she knows this-she knows better than to mess with the likes of this girl.   Everything turned around the day I stood up to her-any attempts to bring me under her control have failed-and with my new strength I laugh in the face of danger, daily.


So the cult, I mean church fills up to maximum capacity.  I have to admit, between the praise music and the guest (a Christian comedian who had us in hysterics) my husband and I were truly enjoying ourselves.  We sat there for two hours, no major faux pas-I did spill my Kombucha on a stranger, but nothing major-patiently awaiting the blessing.

From the corner of my eye, I see the veneer on her face.  It has cracked, and the pieces are falling all over the place.  She was even drinking her water in an angry fashion, which made me pee myself a little, but thankfully I was wearing a carefree panty liner.

What’s wrong with my mother?

“I don’t know, why don’t you ask her?,” I reply.

Dwain, still mildly petrified of his mother, shook his head in definitive protest.

Before I could even ask, the tirade began.

Well, I’m not even going to clap for him.  (The comedian)  I wanted my pastor to be here (he was on vacation) and the real praise team (he was on vacation) to be here. And…”

I quit listening.  A seething rage began from the depths of my being:  I held it in, but I could feel the monster within, pushing and prodding at my insides-he wanted out, and in the worst way.

I stand outside in the semi-hurricane and wait for my husband to pick me up-which he does every Sunday.  The wind is blowing people’s umbrellas inside out, I think I hear a woman scream, where the HARRY is my husband?  I re-entered the church four times before I finally stormed out and to the truck.  I open the door…

“What the FUCK?????????????????????”

I scream these words at volume coxswain, and sit my ass in the seat.

“I was on the phone with your son.  Sorry.  And by the way, there may be people in upstate New York who didn’t hear you.”

“DRIVE,” the monster says.

“Just fucking DRIVE.”





False Alarm

I am attempting to get my bearings, as what I have just experienced has left me sickened, without hope or desire.  I am shutting down.  I indeed shut down two days ago, when the latest Holiday loomed, as I had recently let my mother in law know that we would not be attending their Thanksgiving festivities.

And, as is the case with all narcissists, my husband has taken my dread of the Winter months to a new low.  A kick below the belt.  He achieved his annihilation of me by telling me that I had ruined his holidays because I am a selfish brat.

I am out of here, and for the life of me I cannot figure out why I kept forgiving, praying he would change, never hurt me again.  And as per usual, there would be promises made, promises broken.  You see, narcs want your attention-when they don’t get it, they think nothing of the getting the wrong kind of attention.  In all actuality, I was having a peaceful and meaningful day.  The hot shower pelts felt so good on my aching body.  I decided to dress up and even put on the dreaded makeup.  I looked forward to going downstairs and watching the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.

I played Pandora, played with my kitten, even a touch of Chanel No. 5.  I got into the word, and asked for forgiveness for my attitude over the last few days. The lack of food over the last twenty four hours had been a fast of sorts, I supposed, resulting in a clarity and spiritual peace I hadn’t felt in months. I was feeling content, and didn’t mind the loneliness.  As I stepped into the living room, my husband stepped out.  I went upstairs, he came down.  I was thinking he needed his space.  I worried that he was feeling guilty, as anyone would after treating another human being like he did.

Jesus, please speak to his heart.  I don’t want him to hurt.

I went to check on him, and that’s when I was accused of ruining his life, his family, our churches and friendships.  His eyes turned black, the vitriol unnerving.

He did feel guilty, but he projected that guilt on to me, his wife of 30 years, during a time when she was incredibly vulnerable, teetering on the edge of admitting herself to Philhaven.




As we argued, I could see it-the Jezebel spirit, alive and well.  I am voiceless, still sick, haven’t had a thing to eat in days.  My blood pressure goes nuclear, along with my rage.  When I am injured, I am eerily capable of pouncing back-with the force of an untamed Lion-yet today, it was different.

Today I fought back with facts.  In the past, the gaslighting-at the hands of some of the most proficient narcissists know to mankind-I would be confused, caught off guard with the projection.  I was depressed, anxious and my PTSD was triggered each and every fucking time.  I would lay in bed for days, punishing myself when I was the one who needed self love and nurture.  My nature is one of love, compassion and fierce loyalty.  I can be irrationally Irish at times, cripplingly sad at others.

Today was not that day.

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As weak and fatigued as I felt, the lion roared.  Armed with facts, my faith and a raging migraine-I spat back better than I got.

 I have no family, not a soul to spend the holidays with.  I get morbidly depressed at this time of year, and you are fully aware that I will not spend one more moment with abusers.  Yet you care for me by completely ignoring me for two days, while I languish in bed with the flu and withdrawals?

You are blaming me for the actions of your son, who almost put me in a psych ward, and I am to fault because?

Did I hold a gun to your parents’ heads, making them neglect and abuse me; treat me like the most insignificant part of their life?  Did I ask your parents to tell rumors to the neighbors, so I could anticipate the shunning that followed?

I am betrayed and forbade to enter the kingdom of peace.

I don’t know what lies ahead, none of us do.  I will not be a victim, that train left the station, I will fight back with all I have in me.  If that means leaving him for an apartment in the country, just me and my dog, well then?

I pray He will grant me the strength.

I pray that Dwain will open his heart, and listen to the God who loves Him.  I pray for better, brighter days ahead~


David Byrne Has Taught Me Well


I have just spent the last two days in bed, and not on purpose.  I wrote about Thanksgiving and other holidays that have pushed me into a despair that has no name-no adjective would give it justice.  I miss my parents, I miss the friends I’ve loved and lost, I miss the days of wine and roses.  And for me, those days were in the eighties, when I was inexplicably drawn to New Age music, punk and grunge rock.

I led a sheltered life and did not rebel until my twenties, after learning that getting straight As, doing my best and loving above and beyond my call of duty?  I was disgusted, depressed and alone.  My good deeds did nothing for my self esteem, but music was different-music gave me wings.

One evening I heard The Talking Heads in a dance club.  It was a tribal call of the most insane kind-I didn’t know what I was listening to, I only know I wanted more.  I bought every 8 track, every LP, and began a life long love affair with the man who spoke to me, even loved me through each and every beat.

It was 1983, and the produce guy at Genuardi’s had a crush on me.  I wasn’t interested, but we did talk for hours about bootleg music, Elvis Costello and the occasional mainstream tune.  One Winter’s day, as I approached Greg with my Walkman, I saw what could only be described as a shit eating grin.

“Hey, you have got to hear this, it’s the Talking Heads newest…full concert, I am smitten!,” I hollered, realizing I had forgotten to take my headphones off.


Hey, Michele, how would you like to see the Heads, front row, at Emerald City?”

Greg went on to tell me the concert would be a bit over an hours drive, but as he talked I heard nothing, only the beat in my head and the wonder that this was really taking place.  I jumped into his arms, and told him, yes, yes, YES!!!  I was not disappointed, and yes, he did score front row seats.  In a state of pure delirium I pogo’d, screamed and relished in the ethereal talent of a man I now knew to be the king himself, Mr. David Byrne.  While I made beady, goo goo eyes at him (he paid no mind) his bass player, a female, smiled and looked me up one side and down the other.  This went on for most of the concert.  Looking back?  I should have flirted with her, and maybe a stint backstage would have manifested.

Hey, I was young.

So, your thought cloud reads:  so what did Mr. Byrne teach you?

David Byrne taught me to enjoy the crap out of my differences, the very same ones that set me apart from my peers.  He taught me that being yourself pays off in the sense that at the end of the day?  You are content in the knowledge that you have made your own mark on this world, and not a single soul can take that away from you.

Recently, I discovered David has Asperger’s Syndrome, and finds it incredibly hard to do fame.  I loved him even more when I discovered this as I am on the Autism Spectrum.  It all made sense, in an ethereal way.

Thank you, David-for teaching me that no matter who you are?  Express yourself, especially if it irritates everyone in the Tri State area.


Life During Wartime


This ain’t no party, this ain’t no disco, this ain’t no fooling around..

I saw a video this morning that kind of, sort of, somewhat saved my sanity.  Her name is Polly, and I had subscribed to her two years ago, while up in the mountain cabin we call our second home.  We don’t own the cabin, but our friends are generous enough to allow us free reign, and for that we are incredibly thankful.  Here’s the thang:  I didn’t remember following her, and I saw her in a new light as she was doing vids on The Great Awakening.


What is the Great Awakening?

Many people mistake this movement as a blatant political statement geared towards wiping the planet of liberals:  I caution you not to fall for that, as this movement does not discriminate exclude anyone, of any denomination or political affiliation.  Quite simply?  We have been lied to, manipulated, and poisoned-literally-by the people we were taught to trust.  Once you go down the Rabbit Hole, so to speak, you cannot unlearn what you are faced with-and afterwards?  After you are AWAKE (I believe God chooses when and if we are to awaken, and frankly?  It has been an ongoing process: it begins where Elizabeth Kubler-Ross left off-you will grieve, you will deny, you will bargain and in the end?  It is up to you to decide what your heart and soul are telling you.




A purpose driven quest to get to the truth, no matter the cost.

In my case, as in Polly’s, I lost my family.  Everything I thought I knew fell away.  At first, I was screaming the facts at anyone who would listen.  I made mistakes.  I wept daily.  And to this day I am alone in my fight, to be a seeker of the God’s honest truth.

I don’t try to red pill anyone any longer.  You can use this information in any manner you choose.  I don’t write on it very often as I am still working on a way to begin a blog under an assumed name-my life is no longer my narcissist’s business, but she is loathe to understand this concept-and reads my writings daily.

I pray we can all come together, as a nation, as a people, as God’s children.  For only then will this bitter war of words and flesh end; for the good of all nations under our mighty Savior.

Say brave things-you have a roaring Lion inside of you, and he is begging to be heard.


Hatred and helplessness during recovery from narcissistic abuse

In my darkest hour, God sends me to a blogger who gets it-the dehumanizing, the self hatred, the pain.

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I want to be honest with you guys, I still have feelings of hatred towards the narcissists that have made my life miserable. It’s not always there but sometimes a sudden flashback, a situation, a realization comes and I can feel it – this visceral “I hope you die the most miserable death” hatred.

I have been trying to figure out why it’s still happening. This hatred is obviously strongest towards my mother. But a thought of any of the narcs (and their enablers) that I had to deal with can bring this hatred up.

I have been trying to figure out why I still cannot be complete zen about them. Why I still feel they can emotionally affect me, after all the self-work that I have done.

Humiliated love

Hatred certainly, in my case, is broken, humiliated, trashed and betrayed love. I can’t even describe how it makes me…

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I’m About to Break

Twenty four hours since I last wrote in this blog, still no medication, no relief.  Only that is not the problem du jour.  No, it is the soul suckers that surround me.  I asked God yesterday:  how much more can one person take?  His answer?  It isn’t over ’til the fat lady sings.   And oh, how right He was.

I have been emotionally and verbally abused since childhood:  if it wasn’t my mother, it was my peers or my sister.  Once I married Dwain, he joined in, and after so much time, his mother became the Hunter.  I feel as if the life force has been sucked right out of me, and as I sit here, withdrawals and the flu combine to make me want to Google how to load a gun.  I can’t take one more crack in my veneer-it will be deadly, all consuming and final.  Of this I am sure.

I forgive too much.  I love too much.  I trust too much.

What made me think my narcissistic husband would change?  Did it surprise me when he turned it all around on me today, as any narcissist worth his salt will project, project, PROJECT.

“So, you don’t have anything to say to me?,” he asks his fragile wife.

He goes on about how he waited for three hours for my medicine (Manheim is 30 minutes from here, but my husband works in this town) and even though it was he who hung up on me, screamed at me, and left me high and dry to suffer alone?  Apparently it is my fault; even though I knew none of this was going on.

So sorry to write when I am on the edge of the precipice, but what else is there to do?

I am utterly alone after standing up to the scary monsters who think they can run or ruin my life by controlling me emotions.

I will not be a victim, not anymore.

Although my deepest wish is that the earth would swallow me whole?  I am quite sure that this will not be the case.

People like me were born to suffer.

The.  End.




Holiday Hell 101

Just back in from transferring my succulents and fighting with CVS.  I swear to God is there anything worse than trying to deal with these people?  I would have gone to my regular pharmacy, oh actually I did.

“Yes, I’d like to refill my Suboxyne.”

Please read the sign, Michele.

I read the sign.  Not satisfied, I asked just what in the Harry was going on.

The Feds came in and closed us down.  We can’t fill any narcotics or antidepressants.

What the serious fazuck??

I guess I can cross McElroy off of my list, but I had been retrieving my scripts there for over twelve years.

I can call it in to the CVS on Broad Street, if you’d like.

All I could think of was how much I hated CVS and all of my past experiences there.  The holidays are approaching and I, well, I hate the holidays.  I am overwhelmed upon waking, and truly didn’t want any trouble with the robotic sheeple that pose as employees in CVS pharmacies.

I laughed at myself.  What could possibly go wrong?

I told my golden that I’d be right back and ran into Hell on Earth.  I stood there for five minutes before I was acknowledged.  I was then given the third degree, a prerequisite for filling a script for an opioid receptor.  After waiting for ten more minutes, I was told they didn’t have it-in a manner that say, ‘go away kid, you’re harshing my mellow.’

I didn’t back down until the woman with the narrow eyes and haughty grimace acknowledged my question:

Are there any CVS in the area that DO have Suboxone?

And with that I was redirected to Manheim, where my husband works.  He would pick it up at lunch, end of story.  But nothing is that simple with these people; it wasn’t long before I received a call from Dwain.

Honey, they don’t have it.  I called McElroy and they told me that the Lititz store has your meds.

I think I blacked out for a minute, but what I do remember is the anxiety attack triggered by simply trying to call the store.

I’m sorry, that is not correct.  Please give us your date of birth, then we will promptly direct you to a horse’s ass.  What’s that?  I’m sorry, I can’t understand what you’re saying…

It was hell on earth.

So, in that state of agitation I remembered that Thanksgiving is this week.  Ah, Thanksgiving-that time of year when my brother flies in from LA to do a gig that I can’t go to because my sister is a malignant narcissist.  Nope.  Can’t go to my in laws because my mother in law is a sociopathic narcissist.   I had asked her to leave my husband out of the mess that is our lack of relationship.  She lives across the street and ignores me ten months out of the year.  Then a holiday rears its ugly head and that bitch thinks she owns me.

She did not listen.  Yesterday, she offered to show Dwain the email I sent her, then blatantly lied about its contents.  I fixed that the moment he came home.  Now Dwain knows for sure that his mother lies like a bitch in heat.

Moral of the story?

Thanksgiving will pass, Christmas too.  You may be depressed, distraught even, because you have nowhere to go to eat turkey or open presents.  Please, trust me on this:  you will be a saner, healthier version of you if your integrity is intact.

Live an authentic life.  Don’t sell your soul for a dried out bird and pumpkin pie.