Lies

It’s been two years since I left him, and one year since I was legally free of him, yet my head still reels from the lies I was told. I know now that most of his stories from his past came directly from movies, the most famous among them was the Dirty Dozen. Oh yes, he claimed, he, too was plucked from prison for a special mission in Bosnia. He even had elaborate tales about the “tests” he was put though and how he passed with his quick intellect and leadership skills. He even had convenient reasons there was no evidence of his association with the SAS: he was a “spook” and his “record was wiped.”

It took me almost 15 years to put together the facts: his stories changed over time, not because he was trusting me more and therefore telling me the “real story” (as he claimed when I confronted him), but because he couldn’t always remember his own lies. It wasn’t until we moved to Australia and he started telling stories to other people, stories about our shared past. I was there to experience the events; his stories were way more interesting than what actually happened. Sometimes I would be drunk enough to dispute his version of events. I always paid for my insolence. I learned, over time, he actually believed his lies.

I realize now how sad and insecure he really is; how he had to put me down to make himself feel better. He was excellent at establishing a sense of mystery by beginning a good, juicy story and then suddenly stopping because he had already “said too much.” I always believed the narrative, no matter how far-fetched it became. I wanted to believe it. I can’t say for sure whether I really wanted him to be that interesting or I didn’t want to believe I was married to a liar.

Although, I knew he was a liar. I’d seen his lies play out in our daily life. He lied to everyone. He lied to his ex, he lied to his kids, he lied to clients and bosses. He lied to people he employed. He lied to my family and to my friends; even to his own mother. At one point, I cornered him about the lies he told other people (I was feeling insecure about the stories he was telling me) and he told me that he never lied to me and I “should know that because we’re in a relationship,” he convinced me I was the only person that he didn’t lie to. I believed him because I didn’t want to believe he was deceiving me.

He would “catch” other people in lies, but I began to see he was setting them up. He was the master of the double-bind; placing someone in a situation in which any decision they made would be the “‘wrong” one. I know he did it to me, he told me as much. He called them his “litmus tests.” He said I passed. He said he had to do it when we first met, because after his last relationship, he had to be sure I was not like her. He said he didn’t “test” me anymore. I wanted so badly to please him and know our relationship was solid, I went along with the lies.

For our entire relationship, I believed his ex, the mother of his three children, was as “crazy” as he had painted her. I now understand he didn’t want the two of us making nice, I might hear something that put a crack in his shaky veneer. Well, the oldest daughter is getting married, and last weekend had her bridal shower. It was a wonderful event, set in a garden tea party atmosphere in a small, private venue. I was a little nervous going, as I would have to interact with her mother and we had only had negative exchanges in the past.

I arrived early and only the family and maid of honor were there. I knew them all well and was chatting with her childhood best friend and sisters when her mother came out of the kitchen and spotted me. I had planned to let her set the tone, it was, after all her daughter’s wedding and I didn’t want to intrude on her mom space. I was prepared to let her ignore me if that was going to make her more comfortable. She didn’t ignore me. She walked right up to me and wrapped me in a big, warm hug. We talked as if we were old friends. I soon realized we are old friends. We’re both strong women, who have been through the same war. There is no reason why we need to have tension between us. I am looking forward to the wedding, more so now the tension is relieved.

#happinessinavacuum #blog #blogger #wordpress #lies #liar #crazy #crazymaking #gaslighting #insecurity #stories #fantasy #mom #wedding #step-daughter #sisters #oldfriends #newchances #newbeginnings

Connected

My interactions with computers go back to the 80s. (I was under 10 at the time, my mom was attending the local college and hanging out with computer geeks). We had a home PC with green type across a black screen: I played “King’s Quest” and wrote programs in GWbasic. Mom got a Prodigy account and I had my first access to social media. I loved the idea that I could speak to a person and not know where they were or who they really were. The mystery excited me, I could hardly wait for the dial up tone to finish its squawking.  When I went off to college, I brought a computer with me, to stay connected to my friends and family. Mom and I communicated through a BBS and I’d write e-mail letters to my friends. I mean letters: there were no pictures, anywhere. It would have cost too much bandwidth!

I setup a MySpace account right before I moved out of state with my ex-husband. It was my main way of staying connected with friends I was used to spending a lot of time with and would miss terribly. Eventually, Facebook took over MySpace territory. Of course, the spouse was not fond of my interest in social technology. He especially despised early Twitter: when tweets were sent in the form of a group text. He didn’t like me being connected to people. Someone might get close enough to see through the cracks and he couldn’t have that.

When I first left him, I dove into social media. I had spend so much time restricting myself, while I was with him; he didn’t like me to be on social media “too much,” and he got to decide how much was “Too much.” Now that I only rely on myself, I developed something of an addiction. I knew I had arrived back at addiction station, because I found myself scrolling through the same list of posts over and over again, but not even really reading it. I wanted to change that behavior, so I made an equally satisfying replacement behavior: I opened my Kindle reader instead of my social media accounts. Before I knew it, I was reading when I was bored or waiting, instead of mindlessly scrolling. I didn’t fully retreat from social accounts, but if I noticed myself being “mindless,” that would be my cue for a change of activity. I also had to grow my resilience: gradually decrease the time it took me between noticing and acting.

Yes, I still post. Yes, I still check. I also started being more mindful of my use. I have a nice routine in my new place. All my things have places and they don’t disappear or get moved around by a drunk person (referring, simultaneously, to myself and my ex-husband). I cook what I want to eat, and I make lots and lots of herbal tea. I do laundry and I write. Sometimes, I watch Telly. The more connected to myself, the less I need to be connected to high volumes of people. I still communicate with, and often, to select people I love, my family (both born and made).

#happinessinavacuum #wordpress #blog #blogger #connected #computers #80s #kingsquest #prodigy #bbs #gwbasic #email #bandwidth #socialmedia #addiction #replacementbehavior #behaviormodification

Predisposition

It turns out I had a predisposition to being in an abusive relationship. The cliche is that we seek partners in the image of our parents, and I was, after all, a daddy’s girl. Because my coping-skill-of-choice was putting a rosy glow on all my memories so I didn’t have to be pathological, I didn’t realize I had anything but a perfect childhood.

My parents were loving and emotional. They were lots of fun, and we had many experiences together, rather than indulging in material goods (not as if we had a choice). I remember hiking and camping as a family when I was younger. I remember them teaching me important things. I had a tumultuous relationship with both of my parents, but what teenager doesn’t? It wasn’t until I learned about the Ace Study that I was faced for the first time that my childhood was anything but idyllic.

My father was mentally ill. He probably was before Vietnam, and believe me, what he took part in out there didn’t help. He also spent the rest of his life in fear of being diagnosed schizophrenic and avoided diagnosis and treatment. When he returned home from his 2 tours, he got a dog and lived in a cave in a canyon for a few years. Of course, this was just likely a cabin in Singing Springs. Dad was always one for Hyperbole. Mostly, he was a fun dad. He wasn’t a particularly mean drunk, mostly picking on my mother, so we didn’t notice much when we were small. We barely saw him, anyway, he would take off for weeks at a time, mom insisting he “had to work late.”

He was just as consistent when they finally broke up. Mom said she stopped telling us when he was supposed to pick us up on the weekend because she couldn’t stand our sad faces when he didn’t show up again. If he did, it was a “giant surprise.” When I hit adolescence, I decided I hated my mother and went to live with dad. I was 16 at the time, having recently acquire my license. He handed me his car keys and told me that I needed to be home by 6 (AM) because he needed to leave for work. I was left to my own devices with only these directives: 1. Be safe, 2. Call if you need help, and 3. Don’t ever lie. I was somewhat aware that the vehicle was not insured, but didn’t really understand the full gravity of that fact at the time.

His parenting style was basically to leave me alone, which was the opposite of my mother, and what I was rebelling against. We both lied to each other about our drug use, and I somehow managed to both stay out of legal trouble and remain alive.  I grew up fast, but I was far less mature than I led myself to believe. Like most teenagers, I thought I had it all figured out. Unlike most of my friends, I had the means to test my theories.

I fought a lot with my dad, I mirrored the relationship I watched him have with my mother. I even read my mom’s part in a live performance of a poem he’d written about their relationship. When I grew up and sought a partner to live out my fantasy of having the wedded bliss my parents missed out on, I sought my father’s effigy instead. I found him, and boy, did they hate each other, being too similar, of course. If I’d had anything resembling experience at the time, I would have taken that as enough of a deterrent. But I was in love and I was going to have my dream if I had to pretend it into being. As long as I had my rose colored glasses, I was on my way.

#predisposition #happinessinavacuum #blog #blogger #wordpress #writer #writing #mystory #ACE #adversechildhoodexperiences #electra #daddy #mentalillness #stigma #vietnam #ptsd #hyperbole #rosecoloredglasses

Close

He always managed to plant little seeds of doubt in my addled mind. The lies he told always contained a tiny kernel of truth. Just enough to throw me off the scent. I doubted myself: my own feelings, instincts, intuition. He was adept at manipulating my guilt. I learned to not talk to others about my marital troubles because after all, they were our business, not theirs. Everything was “us” against “them.” “Them,” was everyone else, including my family. I learned to only speak of the happy things, praise him and purport the legend of greatness. I was religious in my testimony.

Anyone I became too close to was alienated. It didn’t work with my close friends, people that had known me thorough adolescence or college (same thing), so we moved to another state. I did my best to increase my social circle and tried to make new friends. Despite his warnings not to “get too close” to people I worked with, I attempted some friendships. Of course he preferred my friends come to me, rather than me drive out to their place, flexing his guilt-manipulation muscle every time I thought about spending time outside the home. He systematically picked off all of the new people I tried to engage with simply being himself. His drunken behavior usually did the trick. If not, he would resort to outright insults. This would support his “us against them” theory, these people aren’t good enough for us if they can’t “take a joke.”

I was never alone, not really. I went to work, but I was expected to come home immediately after. If I stopped at the store on the way home, I would be berated for not calling. It became simpler to just alert him to my every move. He worked from home, so he was always there when I returned. If I wanted to go to the store, he would insist on coming along. Proximity was important to him. I was watched all the time. He had GPS trackers in the cars. If he happened to be out when I was home alone, he would repeatedly call. It wasn’t worth the backlash to not answer.

He didn’t hit me, but he didn’t have to. I knew what he was capable of. I knew he’d beat up his ex and split her lip. Of course he had some dippy reasoning for it that I lapped up like a hungry child. I wanted to believe my love was powerful enough to tame this wild beast. He didn’t have to hit me because all I wanted was to make him happy. His disappointment was worse than any slap to the face he could have given me. He reminded me of this distinction all the time. He had power over me in every aspect of my life. He didn’t have to hit me to make me comply. All he had to do was keep me close.

#close #lies #control #power #emotionalabuse #usagainstthem #powerandcontrol #emotionalabuse #emotionalviolence #gps #guilt #blog #blogger #wordpress #happinessinavacuum