A Work In Progress…


Many victims of NPD abuse struggle with Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (C-PTSD).   Whether diagnosed or not, if you’ve been in an NPD abuse relationship, you don’t need a diagnosis or someone to ‘crown’ you with (C)PTSD, you just know something is not right. You could be in the middle of something innocuous nothing particularly plaguing you when all of a sudden out of nowhere, a sound or a smell or the way the sun is lighting the sky somehow triggers this anxiety in you that you cannot control and all of a sudden this fear of impending doom, danger or death overcomes you.  I remember when involved with the narc this happening quite frequently and I could not figure out why on earth or how this seemingly ‘loving’ person could bring up such intense emotions…love and anxiety all at once in the same breath.  I remember going food shopping and having panic attacks in the snack aisle and I could not for the life of me pin point what it was about Doritos that triggered me…I had no idea I was suffering from (C)PTSD, I just knew I learned how to mask it well and nobody knew about my deep dark secret.  On bad days, I would just elect to wrap myself up in the cocoon and the safety of my home, and if I had no choice in the matter, learned how to use anger and rage to diffuse it.  I blamed it on hormones and PMS.  I thought it was a side effect of my disability, and sometimes I would spiral for a bit into a depression, but was always able to bounce out of it.  I reason now that perhaps I’ve earned my disability Fibromyalgia and CFS.  That is not to say that I believe the condition is psychological but that years of overtaxing my body with stress hormones, battling (C)PTSD and not knowing it, eventually my entire endocrine and nervous systems decided it was time to shut down.  One can run themselves into a rut which is why they say, stress is harmful…I floated around fronting for 30 some odd years before my body finally said:  “Fuck you!”  I was rendered permanently disabled at 35.

It is unfortunate that our mental health industry, and our courts are not up to par when it comes to NPD abuse issues and the psychological devastation, harm and assault it creates in hearts and minds of victims; it is even more tragic that we live in a society that can only measure harm in terms of broken bones and bruises; however, it is my hope that someday, we will get to a place where psychological harm is recognized as an assault as legitimate if not more damaging than a punch in the face.  In the interim, I have every faith that we can and will survive. We will overcome if even simply because we “will’ it so.

I prefer to look at us as ‘pioneers’ in a movement.  Each and every person whether they are recently victimized or have time under their belts and are now survivors, whether they write as a means of catharsis, or for the purposes of providing support, validation and education to the harmed masses, we all in some way by default are actively engaged in a movement.  I so pray that at some point, everyone who is using their gifts, talents and knowledge to raise awareness can one day unify in some form or fashion as it is with the unification and joining of such forces that I believe someday we will get our moment of justice…patience and perseverance are virtues.

I have read an article on PostTraumaticStressDisorder and it discussed various theories in terms of the disorder.  What resonated with me was the following:

“Another theory suggests that the intrusive memories, flashbacks, and dreams associated with PTSD result from an inability to integrate the traumatic experience into a person’s belief system about the world. Many people wonder why the traumatic event happened to them or to someone they love. But it might be this constant wondering why that leads to an inability to forget the event.”

For some reason, after reading this the phrase:  “Lack of Closure” kept repeating itself in my head.  I’d like to think I’m dealing with (C)PTSD and not hearing voices, I can attest I did not answer the voice so in most mental health circles, I think I am still on the ‘normal’ spectrum.  Nonetheless, this article kept replaying in my mind as I seem to have had a bit of a relapse and it was only recently that I could really see that I do have issues with (C)PTSD and how they have affected my entire life.

I’ve shared that I lost my father at the age of eleven to a violent crime.  A gunshot wound. My father despite his faults was my world; however, he did have some faults, addiction being one of them.  With this, I learned early on that my world was not resting on solid ground.  I begged him and pleaded with him to stop drinking.  He wasn’t a violent man, and in my adult reasoning, I can conclude he was self medicating vast amounts of pain…stories that as punishment his father would elect to have him kneel on uncooked rice with a gallon of water resting on hands at the ends of two outstretched arms and if he dared flinch he would be whipped. There were other stories of abuse, and somehow everyone continued to behave as if this was all normal and acceptable.  The other part of abuse is shame and how witnesses also are conditioned to practice the art of denial and shove shit under the rug. It was suggested that for whatever reason, my father was the black sheep of the family. It may have been earned but I often wonder if anyone ever developed the insight to understand the odds they were all up against. At least half of his siblings suffered from substance abuse issues. I don’t believe bad seeds are born, I believe they are made. I also think denial is a mother fucker. It is apparent to me that many addicts are self medicating, but within the world of addiction also lies a vast amount of pathology…some forms more sinister than others.  Nonetheless, my reference point of addicts because of the relationship with my father did not include the awareness that some addicts suffer from severe and abusive personality disorders which is why twenty-seven years later when I met the narc and he shared he was an ex crack addict I did not raise an eyebrow…my father was prior to becoming an alcoholic, an ex heroin addict. My career with drugs was short-lived. I tried pot twice in college. The first time nothing happened, the second time, I felt the need to puke my guts up…that was the beginning and the end of my drug career. I drank for a time, but when I noted a pattern that it was something I lived for on the weekends, knowing my familial history on both sides, I dropped the habit with a quickness. I did however, take to cigarette smoking, as a matter of fact, I was such a square, I was a closet smoker for a long time. Smoking gave me a bit of a buzz until it didn’t anymore, and before I knew it, I was addicted.

There is no doubt in my mind, I know my parents loved me…the best way they knew how.  Nonetheless, as I look back, it takes a lot of strength not to hold resentment and misgivings for how inadvertently they managed to successfully fuck me up.  I need to be raw here, this is not an occasion for rainbows and butterflies…the key to healing is getting it out with no shame and letting go of the shame attached to ‘what people will think.’  I am who I am, I had no control over what I was subjected to, just as my parents were also victims of abuse.  There are no generational curses, those ‘curses’ are evidence of lives gone wrong because there is a history of pathology in our ancestry.   Just like herpes, mental illness and abuse is a ‘gift’ that keeps on giving until someone decides to draw the line, abstain and refuse to give in.  At some point, someone gets the great courage to put the pieces together and decides the truth must come to light one way or another if any future generations are going to have some semblance of hope and ‘breaking the curse.’  It’s not fair that such defects in the human psyche exist, but at a certain point one must resign to the fact that shit happens.  It’s what you do about it that makes one stand out from the crowd.  The true test of courage rests in being able to call a spade a spade, even when fighting what that statement may bring to light about oneself.

Such a journey is not about pointing fingers, making excuses, casting blame but rather understanding the whys and the hows so that one can move on.  A therapist might be helpful, but if one has enough insight and can stand to be honest with themselves, personally, I am not sure if a pill can replace the healing that can take place when one is willing to dig deep and take inventory.  FEAR is a formidable opponent but the enemy is actually within oneself and it must be purged one way or another or it will continue to haunt and color one’s life.  (C)PTSD cannot be cured but it can be managed…my personal theory.   I can read and absorb information just like a therapist can and when you are going through life on a beer pocketbook, sometimes it is more prudent to do the work yourself and find your truth no matter how intimidating rather than rest on the professional opinion of someone who essentially is placing a diagnosis on you based upon a checklist.  I think everyone has their own personal flavor of crazy…it just gets dangerous when it reaches pathological proportions.  We all have varying degrees of quirks, but then there are some walking around with vats of disorder.  Those are the ones to run from with a quickness.  You cannot heal, help, cure or rescue anyone but yourself.  If one is going to truly heal from NPD abuse, one has to get real…face the demons and cut the bullshit once and for all and make an honest attempt at detoxing from delusions.

It is hard, it hurts and there is nothing glamorous about such a journey, but it is one worth taking as the other option is a slow spiritual and emotional and/or physical death.  One can rather easily succumb to such deep dark despair that suicide begins to look like a viable option.

My truth is I was born to less than perfect parents.  This does not make me unique or special and there are many who have suffered much greater than I have and for that I remain humble; however, when dealing with pain, pain is pain. One cannot measure whose is greater or less than another’s…it is pain and it hurts.  It damages, it destroys, it wounds it paralyzes it renders one defenseless until there is a pivotal moment where one has no choice but to look it in the eye, face it and defeat it…persevere in spite of it.

In doing the work recovering from NPD abuse, I’ve done my share of reading.  There is a reason why in my case I believe I was drawn to such an abusive relationship – this is a conflicting thought as I equally believe I was targeted.  If what we know about NPD and/or psychopaths is true, then I think two forces were at work…an inherent weakness in me that he sensed he could penetrate and feed off of.  It was my ignorance that led me down the path of being a victim.  I could not articulate, nor did I see how previous blueprints were in place that left me vulnerable.  I was conditioned early on to accept shoddy abusive behavior from as early as I could remember; therefore, what defenses would I have?  It is invalidating and re-victimizing to tell a victim they should have known better, where would such knowledge come from if it was never taught?  Yet, victims everywhere continue to be re-victimized by those whose ignorance thwarts sensitivity in understanding.  I’ve come to accept that Rome wasn’t built-in a day and so I don’t think this writing will be a groundbreaking opportunity to change the way society views victims of all forms of domestic violence; however, if this helps one person come to terms then I think it will at least justify a spit medal.

My area of expertise does not lie in being able to cite the traits of the personality disordered, nor do I have a desire to want to master that.  At the end of the day, I know the general criteria for various personality disorders, it’s part of recovery boot camp. Nonetheless, in layman’s terms I can sum it up in that we were dealing with some very dark Fucked up individuals.  If the mental health industry would get on board with that jargon it might be easier for the masses to absorb and perhaps we’d all be better off for it. We’d no longer have to pile through thousands and thousands of pages of documentation simply because our mental health experts are too lazy to take a few steps beyond their textbooks to get to the crux of what is ailing their clients.  Maybe they’d get skilled enough to understand that the only thing that helps is letting victims purge and act out their recently traumatized brand of crazy without judgment.  Maybe it would help if they themselves took a pill as I certainly have sat in a few shrinks offices where they proceeded to label me with some brand of bullshit when in fact, I’ve discovered in hindsight they’ve had no clue all along.  In one instance, I felt as if it was my calling to console the shrink after I let out all that I held inside…feeling no less better or arriving at a moment of clarity…the only clarity being the bill I received for services rendered which did little to resolve the problem.  I walked around wounded for years, and I wish to God I knew in my twenties what I know now…but as they say, better late than never.

The first time that PTSD blueprint was created was on May 15, 1979 when my father, who for as far as I could remember I loved with all my heart, but who also inadvertently trained me to walk on eggshells, fearing his imminent death due to abuse of alcohol walked home after being shot in the chest to say goodbye to me.  Recounting that moment in time all over again is almost surreal.  I remember my mother was out of work, laying on the living room sofa, perhaps depressed over the loss of her job and who knows what else.  I know it was about three thirty pm as I had just arrived home from school and we were having a discussion.  I was sitting on the living room floor, the console television on behind me, Days of our Lives was on the air.  The universe I presume always has a flair for irony.  My father who was no longer with my mother, was painting our dining room and he stepped out to buy some paint.  Despite their separation, he always had a set of keys to our apartment with him, as he always picked me up from school except for this particular day, so at first when the doorbell rang there was no real movement by either one of us to go answer the door.  In fact we just both sat there somewhat ignoring it.  Next I heard the buzzer ring but with more intensity, there was an urgency to it and of course, we figured my father was busting chops, he had a penchant for doing that at times…to get on my mother’s nerves, or perhaps he thought it was funny.  For example, whenever our bookshelf would get dusty, he’d write in the dust:  “DUST ME.” He’d do a lot of things that were a bit off-center, but there was an understanding between them and I knew despite the dysfunction, they both did their best to make sure that I knew I was loved even if it was a bizarre kind of love.  I can’t quite say I was abused even if some type of damage was done.  I think the problem lies in my inability to find intent to abuse even though there were actions that without a doubt were abusive.  I am not sure anyone gets through their childhood without some gripe of one flavor or another.  It sounds like a contradiction to say that I forgive, even if somehow all that did go wrong still haunts me.  I believe my mother suffered from PTSD.  I believe she’s been misdiagnosed and has struggled with all sorts of anxiety and depression.  I believe (C)PTSD is the culprit just based on what I know of her childhood and the extreme mental and emotional abuse that took place in my grandmother’s charge, coupled with a father that demonstrated his love by ensuring that the financial aspects of survival were in place but left two young vulnerable children alone to fight the complexities of life with little guidance.  Out of respect for my mother’s privacy, that is about all I can disclose, her story is her’s to tell but I can say that knowing what (C)PTSD does to people, her violent outbursts, her fits of rage, her uncontrollable temper which I was in the line of fire of most of the time was to a certain extent beyond her control.  I know she spent years in therapy, I know she has a diagnosis of depression which can be co-morbid with PTSD, and at one time I even suspected bi-polar, except she’s been frugal as all hell and I’ve never seen her get to any semblance of a euphoric high.  I am not a doctor to diagnose but if I had to diagnose, I’d place my wager on (C)PTSD.  Of course, being raised in this environment, it is easy to see how in a way, my script was written without much chance of revision…until now.

Returning to that day in May of 1979, the day my father was shot, I remember that as I was sitting there with my mother ignoring the buzzer.  We also heard banging of the vestibule door and a lot of voices screaming “Open Up! Open Up! He’s Shot!” For a moment, that still did not register I don’t believe my mother would have me open the door to something as traumatic as that had she had her wits about her at that moment, but we were in some kind of surreal trance, it happened so fast and I don’t think it registered.  I looked at her, she looked at me and I ‘dutifully’ walked to open the door.  I got up and buzzed them into the lobby. We lived on the first floor.  As I opened the door, about six or seven guys were surrounding him and I could not make out what they were saying because I went into shock right there….I just remember hearing all kinds of chaotic conversations, my father stumbling in through the door, my mother screaming “Call an Ambulance why did you bring him here?”  “Why didn’t you call the paramedics!” I don’t remember seeing blood, my last vision of him was a blur I blanked all of it out and I just ran straight into my mother’s room and screamed, just screamed – no words, just screamed but somehow despite all of this happening in an instant, I heard them say “He would not let us call an ambulance he wanted us to walk him home he said he wanted to see his baby before he died and as we were walking him up the street he was calling to his mother (who had died months earlier) saying ‘Momma I’m coming’.  I don’t know how long it took for the paramedics to come, I don’t know if they wheeled him out or if he walked out to the ambulance, I screamed and did nothing but scream for the whole time, I never saw him, I never had the chance to say goodbye, I hate that I was robbed of this, I hate that I was in shock, I hate all of it and I lived with this my whole life and you would think that by now re-telling would not have me well up on the verge of tears but even writing this I am sitting here in tears and I haven’t figured out if it’s anger, or pain, or rage or being denied the chance at justice.  The son of a bitch who shot him lived across the street from us and walked.  No one would come forward.

No one would tell me who the murderer was, I probably passed the piece of shit in the supermarket a number of times, there was this faceless piece of shit that stole my father from me and he walked. Where is the justice?  Where does a little girl go to find safety?  Answers? Peace? Protection? Comfort? The moment I dreaded, the fear I walked around with for years, my father’s imminent death was now here and there wasn’t a goddamn thing I could do about it except swallow it and now I had nothing.  Moreover, this nameless faceless piece of shit was still walking around, perhaps saw me in the morning walking to school and had a big ‘ol laugh at my expense…I might even have known him and greeted him.  To this day I don’t know who he was.

I hate that I could have the best therapy money could buy and the best pills my insurance will cover and this wound will never leave…this psychological keloid will never be removed…

There was a ‘rough’ family that lived around the corner from us. They had a bit of a racket going, maybe even full blooded psychopaths.  My neighborhood was close-knit and everyone knew everyone else and so everyone sort of lived and let live.  There was a spoken code, you don’t shit where you eat…dope fiends if you knew them, served as neighborhood security…crazy I know, but I never feared walking home late at night as I got older.  I recall shortly after the incident hearing whispers and talks when it was assumed I was asleep and I remember my mother sharing with someone that one of the ‘rough’ family members from around the corner offered my mother the opportunity for street justice since no one with any real power was going to step up to the plate on the legal front to avenge my father’s death.  I know this tale is beginning to take a turn and sounds like a ghettoesque version of Shakespeare meets Bruce Lee but it is what my reality was.  To my mother’s credit, she had the strength to decline the offer…when I was about fourteen, I heard a rumor that the murderer who was a gang member was found dead in an abandoned building up the street.  I hope it was them that did it, although my better judgment tells me they respected my mother’s wishes and that this individual essentially got what he had coming to him.

At some point during the chaos, I recall my mother finally coming into her bedroom where I stood screaming.  I remember her slapping me and me just hyperventilating holding back the sobs.  I could feel my ears burning and the force of the slap was a hot kind of numb.  I don’t know why and this part may be imagined, but she might even have had me breathe into a bag.  I don’t remember changing out of my uniform, I don’t remember how we got to the hospital, we had to have taken a cab.  But I do remember getting there, and perhaps my memory serves me as incorrect, but I remember my father’s brother coming to the hospital briefly to provide certain documentation but then he left, I don’t remember seeing him at all after that until the funeral.

I do recall my mother’s brother coming to the hospital and sitting with us.  We sat in the waiting room for hours.  At a certain point, my mother decided to go back home to check on the house. Given all the drama, for some reason she feared that someone might try to break in while we were gone.  I stayed in the waiting room with my Uncle and we just sat there in silence.  At about nine pm, the surgery was over.  My father was still alive at that point, and I walked down the corridor with my uncle and watched them wheel him into an elevator transporting him I presume to recovery.  Nothing was said, no information was shared, I just got to see my father wheeled from a distance to an elevator and my uncle and I returned to the waiting room.  About ten minutes had passed, actually ten minutes had passed because I remember looking at the clock and it read ten minutes after nine.  At that moment, the doctor called my uncle over and I felt this sense that my father was dead I felt something run through me it was a charge it could have been premonition, maybe his spirit didn’t flow through me, but I remember that sensation and when my uncle returned poker faced, I looked him dead in the eye and said:  “Daddy’s dead right?”  He denied it and told me everything was fine.  We continued to wait as my mother had not returned and we sat there in silence but I knew it was a lie, I knew my father was dead.

Shortly thereafter, my mother returned, and my uncle pulled her aside and there were some whispers going on between them, I then had both my uncle and my mother return poker faced…and we all rather robotically made our exit from the hospital.  No one said anything, we just walked down the ramp, through the opened parking lot in silence.  About a third of the way down the parking lot, my mother collapsed in tears.  I had never ever seen my mother break down.  This was a woman who was 5’10 with one hell of a temper, a bad ass for sure…who was reduced to a helpless child right there before my eyes. I took all of this in, but remained somehow removed.  It was if I was outside of my body witnessing all of this, and I watched my uncle try to console her.  She pulled it together enough to get to the curb where we hailed a cab.

Next thing I remember, we all sat in the living room my mother my uncle and I just sat there for a few moments in silence, the light from the dining room illuminating the living room.  My mother and my uncle looked at each other and my mother said:  “Your Uncle has something to tell you.”  Then he said, “Your father died.”  I felt nothing.  I felt numb.  I just took it in for a moment and immediately looked at my  mother who now began to cry again and I remember hugging her and telling her: “Don’t worry Mommie, we still have each other.”  But I felt nothing.  We packed overnight bags, and went home with my Uncle that night.  I don’t remember much of the next day.  I don’t remember talking or saying much, I don’t remember feeling. Everything seemed like it was in suspended animation.  It was as if my being were detached from my body and I could perform actions and speak when spoken to, follow whatever commands if any but I had no soul, I had no depth of feeling, I had no color, no hue, I was a walking shell.  I remained this shell throughout the entire ordeal up to and following the funeral.

I remember only one thing about that funeral.  I sat in the back of the parlor the entire time.  I remember my fourth grade teacher coming to the wake.  She sat in the back of the parlor with me.  I don’t remember anyone else there at all.  I remember her sitting with me and telling me not to grieve, that my father loved me, and that he was now always going to be with me.  I remember her telling me that he was sitting in the corner over his casket and was keeping watch over me, that he would always be with me and protect me.

I am remembering so many layers that existed before this, how I never felt safe.  How in some ways I always felt it was my job to keep everything on an even keel.  To not excite my mother to the point where her rage would be directed towards me and how to try my best to be extra good so that maybe, just maybe my father would stop drinking.  It bothers me that I can’t recollect a time between my mother and I where I felt I could be myself, where I felt safe, warm, protected, pampered, and somehow some way, I feel as if I learned early on how to be this perfect little girl.  Of course, my mother reminds me this wasn’t the case, I don’t know if it is invalidation, selective amnesia, but the truth is, I was not a bad girl, I learned how to occupy myself, I remember being very young and I presume my mother suffered from insomnia as I remember her rising rather late in the day on a number of occasions.  I don’t remember her working until I was about seven years old.  Again, to be fair, I can’t and I don’t fault her for anything that has gone wrong between us.  Fighting my own demons, I know how hard it is to fight to function barely enough to get through the day, and I believe she has beat incredible odds, I just think that by the time she became a parent, she was spent.  I know I wasn’t planned, I know that if she could escape having me she would, I know that by the same token she’s glad she had me, but she had no tools or experience from which to draw from when it came to the nurturing department.  I believe in her trauma, I became the ‘surrogate’ parent, the chore girl, and I spent a lot of time alone in isolation.  What saved me was that in my teens she allowed me to visit friend’s houses who did have normal families and it allowed for a respite.  I also had a grandfather who saw that my other needs were met in terms of the material and he and my uncle served as my ‘advocates’ when my mother got a bit too much out of control.  Nonetheless, very much like my mother, history repeated itself where by at the age of 12 I started to get an allowance from my grandfather which allowed me to ‘take care of myself’ and so I became in a sense independent of my mother.  My mother has certain misgivings about this; however, I think this is what saved me, as it gave me an outlet and opportunity to at least distract myself and not feel as trapped or deprived as I would have been had I not had what my grandfather could provide.

I just remember being a child and constantly being in fear of my mother, there did not seem to be any warmth, she was self-absorbed, and in her own world.  She’d come home from work and be in a terrible mood ALL THE TIME and after a while, I learned how to con my way out of this, but it was not without  consequence.  I realize now, she would lock herself in her room in seclusion, probably to minimize the amount of rage I could potentially be subjected to.  PTSD is a very strange creature…you never know when it will erupt, it takes all you have to keep in in check and I only became acutely aware of it, as I had successfully suppressed it up until the Narc blew the lid off the pot.  I haven’t quite figured out if that should result in a thank you or a fuck you…but either way, one thing I do know is true – for as much as he might have tried to destroy me, he can’t light a candle to me…and I have gotten my own revenge without having to really try, as the illusion has been shattered, and I can’t bring myself to respect him or pity him but can only shake my head and view him as an insignificant pompous ass who for all his feigned grandiosity, is the epitome of all glorified ghetto existing in the body of what can only be termed, the world’s oldest teenager.  There is no redemption when it comes to him, no way he will ever be able to bring sexy back in my eyes.  For that I remain grateful; however, the Pandora’s box has been opened, and I’m on the path.


Where to Now St. Peter

Elton John

I took myself a blue canoe

And I floated like a leaf

Dazzling, dancing half enchanted

In my Merlin sleep

Crazy was the feeling

Restless were my eyes

Insane they took the paddles

My arms they paralysed


So where to now St. Peter

If it’s true I’m in your hands

I may not be a Christian

But I’ve done all one man can

I understand I’m on the road

Where all that was is gone

So where to now St. Peter

Show me which road I’m on

Which road I’m on

It took a sweet young foreign gun

This lazy life is short

Something for nothing always ending

With a bad report

Dirty was the daybreak

Sudden was the change

In such a silent place as this

Beyond the rifle range

[repeat chorus]

I took myself a blue canoe

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Some Wolves Walk on Two Legs

The ‘love’ won’t be justified – I accept it…

My revenge is knowing that at the core

My sin lies in his envy…

His projected disgust my reality…

The irony…

The pain was played to my advantage…

Filler isn’t a soul connection…

Nor is it useful

His projections vs. my power


He hated that –

And I get pleasure out of that…

I was indeed a hot mess…

My ego slapped the shit out of me…

GROWTH never comes quietly…

It kicks your ass around the block…

Tosses you under the bus then says:


There’s choice…

Society has no sympathy for ‘victims‘…

It is eat or be eaten…

Somehow in between chaos Grace appears…

While she hides the gods are making plans…

I was spared from the fallout…

Someone saved my life…

The new one is so FUCKED…

While she plays alone…

Infidelity is Abuse

EXCERPT: Infidelity:  Not a Pretty Picture by Kay Rutherford, PhD, LPC, NCC, RN

Infidelity is a patriarchal way of controlling women. My work with infideled clients is very sad and thus, I share what I have professionally and personally learned: the basic premises of infidelity, the resultant trauma symptoms, infidelity’s abusive patterns, the societal acceptance of infidelity, and suggestions for counselors who work with infideled clients. My research is substantiated with interviews, an extensive bibliography selection, a trip to SubSaharan Africa and the results of a recent Women Studies class. In each section I compare the patriarchal control of women in America with that of SubSaharan Africa and the growing AIDS problems. As I tell my clients…there is almost always more to the story and it is usually not a pretty picture…

Infidelity Is Abuse

Infidelity is abuse because the characteristics of the unfaithful are like those of a batterer and the symptoms of the victim are like those of the battered. Sitting in on battered women’s groups, I heard the same things-women wanting to go back, full of anger and rage, saying they’d rather be beaten than wonder where their partner was sleeping at night.

The infidel has a sense of narcissistic entitlement exhibiting a pattern of behaviors that encompass more than just “the incident.” The damage he causes-to partner/s, children, family-never seems to hit home for him. He continues to blame her, something, or someone. He feels his actions are not his fault. He uses phrases that absolve him of responsibility and portrays innocence, “I’m holding her but loving you,” “She came on to me,” or “I need to have my needs met.” In actuality, it is all about him. He can only go to his own hurt, not others’. Some feel that infidelity is caused by sexual compulsion…

I recently heard a police psychologist refer to a client’s sexual addiction as self-soothing behaviors-a definite euphemism for dangerous acts which expose victims to much physical, psychological, emotional, verbal and spiritual abuse. “Chronic infidelity is abuse,” therapist Bancroft (2002) reminds us (I say any infidelity is abuse), and “twenty-five percent of abusive men cheat on their partners.”

Jennifer and Burt Schneider (1991) say the sexually addicted person  numbs out with sex, blames his partner when she is not sexually satisfied, and his bedroom is usually “a nightmare” for he will not let her sleep until his needs are satisfied. Bancroft disagrees with the label sexual addiction and tells us, “Infidelity is not sexual addiction or compulsion, it is sexual abuse.” [READ MORE]

Abuse-Can Be Subtle and Deadly

Rarely am I left with ‘nothing to add’…Phenomenally written, covers and explains all the points and exactly how this happens, and what it is…word.for.word – one of the best pieces I’ve come across if not in a long time, I’d dare say ever…succinct without anything extra…just laid out there…A MUST READ…

Abuse-Can Be Subtle and Deadly. (Lady With a Truck)

Adult Children of Narcissistic Parents: The Echoes by Beth McLarnan


Although the process of healing is difficult, it is possible for the Echo to find their voice and live a healthy life. If their therapist or counselor is familiar with the narcissistic family system, it is not difficult to spot an Echo client who displays ACOA symptoms, but whose childhood seemed “fine”.

What prevents someone who was raised in a narcissistic family from becoming one? It is the presence of an adult in their life: a teacher, parent, aunt or neighbor, who,knowingly or unknowingly, loved, and accepted them. If there was one person who did not get mad if they made a mistake, or did not expect anything in return if they did the child a favor, then through this healthy “mirror”, they could see themselves reflected as valuable, unique and loveable. They could experience being “good enough”,  just as they are. It is this same positive parent-child model that will help heal the adult child of a narcissist. Not tough love, not behavior

modification or psychoanalysis, but a healthy, truthful mirror of the client‟s inherent beauty
that is not based on what they do, but who they are. The beauty is flawed, imperfect, and prone to all sorts of mistakes, and miss-steps; but these are to be accepted, and learned from, not feared. That is the truth that will finally set the Echo child free…[READ MORE]

Do Narcissists Know? By Drew “Light” Keys (Light’s House Blog)

Do Narcissists Know?

“Do narcissists know what they’re doing is wrong?”

“Do narcissists know they hurt you?”

“Do narcissists know they’re doing bad things?”

“Do narcissists know what they do?”


This is by far the most common question asked about narcissists by all visitors at Light’s House. Everybody wants to know if narcissists are aware of the pain they’re causing, and whether or not they know their behavior is wrong.

People feel very differently about someone who chooses to do something hurtful that they know is wrong and someone who isn’t aware that what they’re doing is hurtful or wrong (or who doesn’t do it on purpose).

Let’s say you and a friend are jogging side by side when his foot catches yours and trips you up accidentally. He apologizes, asks if you’re all right, helps you up and tells you he didn’t mean it. You forgive him without a second thought, and you say it’s okay.

But what if you were running alongside a competitor in a road race, and they tripped you to get ahead? You’d feel very differently about this person tripping you up than you felt about your clumsy friend, wouldn’t you?

If a two year-old pushes another child down the stairs, we feel very differently about the toddler than we’d feel about a 12 year-old who did the same.

If a developmentally delayed person gets upset and yells at someone, we don’t have the same reaction to that as we would to someone of average intelligence who does it.

We clearly have different expectations of – and responses to – people who do not truly know the pain they cause or at least do not cause it intentionally.

Narcissists do know wrong from right. If they didn’t, they wouldn’t hide their unfair actions like they frequently do. If you ask narcissists whether it’s fair play to cut someone off in traffic or take credit for someone else’s work, they’ll easily be able to tell you it’s not right. And if they do either of those things, they will attempt to hide the fact that they’ve done it. This is because they do know it’s wrong, and they don’t want to lose the admiration and respect of others who will think less of them for having done so.

However, the diagnosis of pathological narcissism involves the presence of insufficient empathy. Even though narcissists do know hurting someone’s feelings is wrong, they still aren’t capable of really empathizing very much with (and therefore, caring about) the person being hurt.

So when narcissists need an ego fix, they do what they know is wrong (like putting someone down), largely because they lack the empathy that should stop them. Then, because they are aware that what they did is wrong and that people will think less of them for it, they cover it up so they won’t have to pay the consequences. (Narcissists don’t like consequences. Those are for little people.)

So narcissists will do insensitive things to get their narcissistic supply, because they both want it so badly and because there’s no empathy to make them feel for the people they’re being unkind to. Then, because they are aware it’s wrong and that it makes them wrong, they cover it up and (perhaps sometimes unconsciously) deny it, gaslighting and projecting their way out of responsibility so that nobody, including themselves, will see them as imperfect for having done it. (And if you see them as imperfect, then you’re a serious problem, because as long as you’re there to remind them they’re not perfect, they’ll have to think about the concept, and they just plain won’t.)


Do narcissists know they hurt you?

They know you’re hurt, but they don’t feel your hurt.

Do narcissists know what they’re doing is wrong?

They know what wrong is, and they may do it, but they cannot accept the concept of being a person who does anything wrong, because that means they’re not superior and perfect. So narcissists vehemently push away the information that they’ve done something hurtful. They do know what a hurtful act is, and yet they have to deny that they did it.

Narcissists use a number of different ways to deny their hurtful actions (and to try making you deny it along with them so you’ll stop complaining). Blaming others, gaslighting, labeling someone who complains about them cruel, lying, making excuses and playing the martyr are a narcissist’s typical responses. Whatever it takes to stop all recognition (by them and you) of the fact that they were inconsiderate can be expected.

So yes, narcissists are aware that they’ve hurt your feelings and that it’s wrong, but they just cannot accept that knowledge. They deny it to prevent narcissistic injury, and desperately want you to deny it as well. And usually, they deny it so quickly and so habitually that it doesn’t even register in their consciousness before the excuses and protests are given out.

Typically, when told they’ve hurt your feelings, a narcissist’s denial takes the forms of insisting you’re not hurt, or that you shouldn’t be hurt, that you’re wrong to be hurt, that they didn’t hurt you, that you’re too easily hurt, and that you shouldn’t complain because they’re hurt worse.

Used with permission:  Copyright 2009. The above material may be copied (not sold) if a valid link to this website is included and if the content of the writing is unaltered.

Using Philosophy to Heal from Narcissistic Personality Disorder Abuse

In a quest to find meaning upon the journey of healing from NPD Abuse, I have been engaged in research in various areas, philosophical, spiritual, and of course in psychology.  I happened upon a blog:  Philosophy and Life written by Mark Vernon that resonated with me in terms of how I might be able to apply certain principles in Philosophy to healing. 
Many are intimidated by philosophy; however, philosophy is the fiber of all that we know today…Medicine, Science, the Arts, Religion…many fields have their foundation in Philosophy.  I can’t think of one thing in this modern age that does not have it’s roots in philosophy.  I reason that if one wishes to engage in an authentic truth finding mission, it might be helpful to model the sages – Ancient Philosophers in an attempt to find “Truth”… after all, “Truth” was their business. Why not consult the “Pros?” 
Below you will find a link to Mark Vernon’s article from his blog, then my commentary…

Plato’s cave and enlightenment

By Mark Vernon on Tuesday, January 22 2008, 08:38 – Moral mattersPermalink

“In the current issue of the TLS, Anthony Kenny makes the point that modern, secular commentators routinely downplay the theological content of many moral philosophers, not least the ancient Greeks. Parts of Aristotle can simply be cut, as is done with the Eudemian Ethics, or they ignore the last chapter of the Nicomachean Ethics were Aristotle urges people not to think like mortals but like the immortals. He is reviewing God and Morality by John E. Hare, son of R.M. Hare.

The same thing happens with Plato. I was recently writing about the myth of the Cave in the Republic and it provides a good case in point.

Plato famously describes how human beings are like prisoners tied up in a cave, with their heads facing the back wall. They cannot turn around and are condemned to stare at the rock. If they could catch a sideways glance, what they would see behind them would be a surprise: they would see puppets, and behind the puppets ??” towards the mouth of the cave ??” a fire. What they perceive on the back wall, then, is the shadows of puppets dancing on the grey confines of the cave. Mistakenly, they take this world of shadows to be reality. Enlightenment begins when a prisoner is released from the grip of this misconception. First they see the puppets as puppets, which is frightening because a profoundly different world is opening up before them. Courage renewed, they then shuffle around the fire and towards the mouth of the cave. Again something astonishing confronts them: daylight. It too is bewildering. Though, once accustomed to its spectacle they turn their heads heavenwards and finally glimpse the fundamental source of all light, the sun. With that, they gain a proper perspective, if not quite understanding, of the world in which they live. It is one that could never have been intuited from the shadows at the back.

So what is this enlightenment? Philosophers have tended to interpret the myth in one of three ways. A first argues that seeing the sun is like the illumination which comes with scientific investigation. Its insights are abstract. They could never be grasped if all the individual relied on was the shadowy input of the human senses. Theorising is necessary too. So, under this interpretation, the path that Plato describes in the myth of the Cave is one that ascribes a very high value to mathematics. Axiomatics is enlightening.

Plato would have concurred. ‘Let no-one ignorant of geometry enter’, was, according to tradition, inscribed above the doors of his philosophical school, the Academy. But I think he would not have stopped there. For there are good grounds for believing that Plato thought that mathematics was only a first step towards unpeeling appearances. For one thing, aligning the sight of the sun with the confirmation of scientific theory rests on a modern understanding of science and mathematics that Plato did not have. He was influenced by the Pythagoreans, the originators of the notion of the music of the spheres. For them, mathematics was a mystical as well as a material enterprise. In its symmetries and patterns, calculus conveyed deep religious truths about reality. Numbers are transcendent. Hence, it was said that when Pythagoras discovered his famous theorem, it only seemed obvious to find an altar and sacrifice an ox. A window onto the world of the gods had been granted to him, not only a more profound perception of mundane reality. Similarly, in the Republic, Plato describes mathematics as purifying and rekindling an organ in the soul that is worth a thousand ‘normal eyes’ because it is a deeper way of seeing the truth. In short, mathematics clarifies things, and that is valuable for its own sake. But its fundamental beauty, in Plato’s mind, lies in providing a foretaste of spiritual insights. The ancient mathematician was like a master carpenter. He certainly used a setsquare and angle guide to make furniture. But the genius of his craftsmanship lay in surpassing what would be possible for someone who was limited to the use of mathematical tools alone. His is an art aimed at transcendent beauty.

In a second interpretation of the myth of the Cave, the journey into the sunlight is seen as an aesthetic experience. The shadowy life is one of grime and greys. The enlightened life is one of rich colour. Like the myth of awakening love in the Phaedrus, it is a desire for beauty that enables the former prisoner to overcome the fear, first of the puppets and then of the outside world, since the progressively mind-expanding sights that open up before the creatively adventurous are so awesome. They compel as much as they cause them to cower, and thus, with effort someone can reach the light.

This interpretation of the cave hovers between the this-worldly and the other-worldly; it makes no commitment ahead of time as to what is being unveiled. What is the case is that as the individual leaves the confines of the cave they come to experience the world as increasingly beyond themselves. Outside, they discover things exists that have little or nothing to do with them at all: the sun had been shining long before they set eyes on it and will continue to do so for long after they have gone. Alternatively, this reality is conceptually wider than that which they can grasp, even with the aid of mathematics. Perceiving it is an exercise of the imagination rather than an empirical science. It requires metaphor and allusion, not only logic. But the tremendous thing about being human is that it can be appreciated at all, in its beauty and goodness, if only obliquely.

Details that Plato supplies bolster this interpretation. For example, he says that the individual, once enlightened, will return to the cave to share the insights gained with others. The question is why they might want to do that: would they not want to stay in the sun? Or would they want to risk the ridicule of their former fellow prisoners, since upon returning, and being plunged back into the shadow, they would not be able to see anything. The committed troglodytes, who believe that they have a proper grasp of reality in the dark, would laugh at the enlightened returnee, saying their taste for transcendence had given them not new sight but ruined their old sight. They might go further and argue that they had become delusional. That would count as an argument against making the journey out of the cave; the journey is deceiving, they might conclude, not illuminating. It is not a heightening of consciousness, but a corruption of it.

However I think that the enlightened one would be prepared to take these risks, and suffer the darkness again, for the very reason that the experience of leaving the cave is one that nurtures selflessness. Returning is a response to seeing the sun. As Plato puts it, they will feel concern for their former inmates. Moreover, returning to the world of shadows that they now understand infinitely better would not be nearly so arduous as struggling away from the shadows towards the light that they used to fear. As with a religious experience, the vision may last only a moment but it changes the way someone looks at the world for a lifetime. This implies that enlightenment pierces the gloom at the back of the cave not by suddenly flooding it with illumination but by showing the individual how to look at the world of shadows in a different light. Again, the new perception that Plato describes is not an escape from this world but is a reflection upon winning a sense of transcendent possibility.

If the aesthetic interpretation of the myth is agnostic about what is revealed, the third religious interpretation is not. Under this reading it is as an unequivocal account of transcendent revelation. What happens to the person who leaves the cave is other-worldly, in the sense of being beyond direct human experience. This does seem to be an interpretation that makes good sense of the myth when set against what Plato says elsewhere. There is the story of the soul.” ~Mark Vernon

There is a lot to be said about Plato’s “The Allegory and the Cave.”  it is open to wide interpretation.  While not concrete in process, philosophy has been shown to help individuals engage in a thought process that allows them to really search for ‘truth’.  In my estimation, the journey and experience of healing from NPD Abuse is not in vain.  I liken the journey to a “Dark Night of the Soul.”  While that concept is generally related to a spiritual journey, I believe the process entails more than just dealing with the concrete.  If one is open it can be an experience of great transformation. 

I believe that in healing, some form of spirituality is also present in the process.  There is a distinction between spirituality and organized religion. 

I encourage everyone in this journey to strive to find their purpose and their truth rather than dwelling and ruminating in the past.  While a new victim will require time to learn about NPD abuse, absorb it, understand it and own the truth as well as deal with the trauma, I believe healing is possible.  If you have been ‘stuck on stuck’ too long – it is time to begin to divert your attention and re-focus.  Part of that process or part of the journey is beginning to examine the meaning of it all. 

Finally, if you are interested in purchasing “God and Morality” by John E. Hare you may purchase it by clicking on the link below:
God and Morality by John E. Hare

You can find Plato’s Allegory of the Cave here


Food for thought…and it is in looking at the angles objectively…the first part is healing in that when mauled of course there are going to be very strong reactions; however, there comes a time when as we strive to get closer to our essence, our truth, our ‘compassion’ we seek not so much as to re-unite with one who has harmed us, but rather get to a place where perhaps we can call it a draw? (from a safe distance)…over time, continuing to fan flames about what they did, how evil they are, how disordered, WHATever…it becomes counter productive…at some point we experience our own mental, and emotional evolution, we experience ‘grace’ and if we continue to ‘delve’ into the issues we may begin to see that we even have a different view…one that does not deviate from the knowledge we’ve gained so far, but in some ways perhaps the closure comes in recognizing that they are in some respects just as powerless…they did not ask to be born this way, nor did they ask to experience things they were powerless over and hence disorder manifested…but it takes time and a lot of exploration and inner work to get there…see also: https://narcraiders.wordpress.com/2013/03/10/oops-bump-a-teachable-moment-gets-lost-in-the-abyss/

The Second Question: Am I a Narcissist?

From:  Narc Raiders Website

One of the most popular questions on forums I’d say by month three if not a little sooner is:  Am I a Narc?  If you’re asking that question, then certainly the mere fact that you’re asking it disqualifies you from such a lowly title if only because a narcissist lacks enough insight to even engage in introspection.

If you’ve spent a little time around a narcissist they have this hidden talent or skill in making the sanest of people crazy…this is a temporary affliction one that with the right kind of supports in place over time will find you getting back to normal.

Really getting through the process of understanding what this is will undoubtedly take some time.  This is more than a bruised ego, this was heart and soul mutilation…go easy on yourself.

In a relationship with a narcissist, what has happened is basically he’s mirrored you to yourself.  All the good things you thought you have, you still do have, he temporarily borrowed them for his own ego and image and had you under the impression you were soulmates…this is why the loss is so devastating because it ‘feels’ as if he’s taken your soul but he hasn’t…what he’s done is mirrored your BEST parts back to you and gotten you all high on euphoric love hormones then unceremoniously pulled the carpet out from beneath you.  In this process it feels as if you’ve lost yourself, but you haven’t…you’re simply disoriented.  I know this sounds all very simple for the level of distress you might be experiencing, but in time you will understand this to be true.

When we study or read about narcissists, oftentimes we see some of the criteria within ourselves.  This is because each of us even as healthy individuals possess narcissistic traits, they’re part of our own personalities…by nature we all have a touch.  It becomes a problem when those traits are in pathological proportions to the extreme.

The rage we feel may appear to be the same kind of rage the narc displayed; however, examine source…after this kind of assault is the rage not legitimate?  Of course it is, you’ve just been mauled with no recourse or opportunity to defend yourself – left with no closure, vindication or explanation – and if you did get an explanation it made no sense, it was word salad and filled with projections…

You may find yourself uttering every put down you can imagine and in your normal state would never find yourself so judgmental and ‘cruel’ hurling insults and colorful profanity that would make most truck drivers blush – again this is not something coming out of nowhere, you’ve been steamrolled and have been directed to talk to the hand – you’ve been stonewalled…of course your ego is going to fight for its rightful place for dignity and respect…even IF it’s falling on deaf ears…it will take some time to recognize you cannot reason or rationalize crazy but it takes time to own that lesson, you really are not in the early stages prepared to absorb just how pathological this individual is, you will still forget he/she’s not really human by the same standards we rate humans…

There will be at least in the early stages a myriad of emotions you will cycle through, not many if any pleasant…but please know…even in your darkest moment, even if you are having evil thoughts of revenge…(I recall once saying I could take my car, run him over then hit reverse and do it again)…you are NOT a narcissist…the mere fact that you have such concern is sufficient to demonstrate ‘conscience’ and a desire for self-awareness, something that is simply too beneath a narcissist to ever consider.


The Insane Rantings of a Former Muse

In the Beginning…


untitled by bettylaluna on Polyvore


That fucking bastard!

What the fuck!

This HAS to be a bad dream…

Maybe if I…

Oh, so that’s what he meant…BASTARD!

Fucking Asshole!

Piece of Shit!




OMG! The bitch looks like a troll how could he!?

(What does that say about meeeeeeEEEEE)

I’m better looking anyway…humph!

(gasping for air) I’m gonna dieeeEEEEE

I’m gonna LIVE!

OMG, look at all that shit under the bed...

(lying in fetal position on the floor)

I could really kick his ass…right now I AM that crazy!

I’m gonna DIEEEEE!

This can’t kill me

This time next year, won’t mean a thing!


I can’t believe the motherfucker left a sock under here!!!!


Maybe I AM bi-polar


He forgot I was a human being!

What kind of person does this shit?

What about…

Maybe it’s a midlife thing….


He sucked in bed…

I’ll show him!




What the hell do you mean people who cannot love, cannot attach, lacks empathy?

I hear Borderlines have more hope…maybe he’s borderline?

I feel nothing…FUCK HIM…in fact, I can say this now with a smile….


No one’s ever died of a broken heart – I just have to remember to breathe…and – get coffee…oh…and EAT…

What is a narcissist?

How do I get him back?

MINE is more a socipath than a psychopath with narcissistic borderline OCD, ADD, CRS tendencies leaning more towards ASPD but I believe he can be cured I don’t hate him…I can love him from a distance…in fact – he’s a victim…I forgive him…

I could really cut that mother fucker! He ought to know you don’t fuck with a Puerto Rican, we’re good with knives!

I’m a VICTIM! I’m a SURVIVOR! I’ve fornicated with a predator! Did you just say toaster?  WTF?

NO Contact! NO Contact! NO Contact!

She looks like a fucking DOG!

(But what does that say about me?)




A Narcissist cannot love or attach….

A Narcissist lacks empathy and remorse…

A Narcissist is an empty shell – it lives off of others it is a mass of void

A Narcissist mirrors off of others

A Narcissist targets individuals

A Narcissist cannot love or attach….

A Narcissist lacks empathy and remorse…

A Narcissist is an empty shell – it lives off of others it is a mass of void

A Narcissist mirrors off of others

A Narcissist targets individuals

I could rip off his head and shit down his neck!!!!

silenceRecovery from NPD Abuse is no easy task…

I’ve been replaced by Quasimodo!

I’ll pray for Quasimodo


He wasn’t man enough for me…

This house is a fucking wreck!

OMG! I’ve got that wrinkle between my eyes! He’s aged me!!!

Fuck that! I’m going on a Man Hunt!

There are no good men out there…

Not all men are dogs…

All men are scum!

There still ARE good men out there…


SEX?  Who needs it?  They sell shit for that….


He’s an asshole…

Everyday feeling a little stronger!

He’s a dickhead!

He wasn’t good enough for me!

I curse his mother’s womb…


I’m just going to keep it simple and focus on me…

I don’t believe that bitch didn’t hold the door for me…GEEZ!  Psychopaths are EVERYwhere!!!

When the fuck will this douche get out of my head?


Are you there God?

I don’t know why this happened…what you want me to do…I don’t know what I’ve done in general, I’ve tried to do it they way you wanted…I need a sign I can’t read your mind…I’m open but I need to know where you want me to go with this…you know my heart…(please make him DIE)

Look just take this out of me, I’ve tried to do it the right way, I haven’t slashed his tires, I haven’t done anything…you put this in me…this feeling…this rage…I’m overwhelmed…I need you to get it outta me…take it out of me…you’ve always done right by me, I know that but I can’t handle this…I have always stood on your word, you have never abandoned me – but this silent treatment from you is starting to feel like ABUSE! 

AND please, let me do better than him…just this once let me outshine the bastard…he can’t get away with this…he fucking USED me, he’s a con and he gets away with it…comes off smelling like a rose…WHY? What in any of this is fair?…I don’t give a shit about him…I get what he is…but now you and I have a beef because I don’t know WHY…I don’t care that he’s with her, in fact, I am tickled because she does look like a beast and from what I can tell lacks my class and intellect…he’s fronting on the wannabe front…I don’t give a shit what he does really at this point…I don’t want him, the thought of him really disgusts me…I can roll with that…I can see clearly he’s a fraud and it’s almost an embarrassment now that I let anything like that in my realm…operative word THING…but the resentment…the anger…it has to leave me…I can’t walk around like this…you gotta help me here…

FINE, look whatever you say…I’m broken just TAKE THIS OUTTA ME I’m begging you here…I don’t know where you want me to go…what you want me to do, what you are trying to show me, just let me live, get this out of me, I can’t handle this I’m done…I really am done and if you ain’t gonna take the pressure off then just take my life because I’m TIRED…I’m TIRED…I’m sick, I’ve been struggling, I’ve battled, I’ve fought, I’ve stayed strong and not one fucking break I am TIRED…I am weary and frankly look at me…what am I gonna do?  I’ll stick around for the kid but I’m tired and something has got to give…

And please…don’t let me die of  a heart attack…I ain’t ready yet…


“Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.”-Psalm 30:5

Christian! If thou art in a night of trial, think of the morrow; cheer up thy heart with the thought of the coming of thy Lord. Be patient, for

Lo! He comes with clouds descending.”

Be patient! The Husbandman waits until He reaps His harvest. Be patient; for you know who has said, “Behold, I come quickly; and my reward is with me, to give to every man according as his work shall be.” If you are never so wretched now, remember

“A few more rolling suns, at most,

Will land thee on fair Canaan’s coast.”

Thy head may be crowned with thorny troubles now, but it shall wear a starry crown ere long; thy hand may be filled with cares-it shall sweep the strings of the harp of heaven soon. Thy garments may be soiled with dust now; they shall be white by-and-by. Wait a little longer. Ah! how despicable our troubles and trials will seem when we look back upon them! Looking at them here in the prospect, they seem immense; but when we get to heaven we shall then

“With transporting joys recount,

The labours of our feet.”

It%20was%20then%20that%20I%20carried%20youOur trials will then seem light and momentary afflictions. Let us go on boldly; if the night be never so dark, the morning cometh, which is more than they can say who are shut up in the darkness of hell. Do you know what it is thus to live on the future-to live on expectation-to antedate heaven? Happy believer, to have so sure, so comforting a hope. It may be all dark now, but it will soon be light; it may be all trial now, but it will soon be all happiness. What matters it though “weeping may endure for a night,” when “joy cometh in the morning?”

Release HIM


untitled by bettylaluna on Polyvore

“People think a soul mate is your perfect fit, and that’s what everyone wants. But a true soul mate is a mirror, the person who shows you everything that is holding you back, the person who brings you to your own attention so you can change your life.

A true soul mate is probably the most important person you’ll ever meet, because they tear down your walls and smack you awake. But to live with a soul mate forever? Nah. Too painful. Soul mates, they come into your life just to reveal another layer of yourself to you, and then leave.

A soul mates purpose is to shake you up, tear apart your ego a little bit, show you your obstacles and addictions, break your heart open so new light can get in, make you so desperate and out of control that you have to transform your life, then introduce you to your spiritual master…”

~Elizabeth Gilbert, “Eat Pray Love”

This NPD abuse experience…it was hell on earth but I have often shared that it is actually about something much deeper, more profound.  I came face to face with evil…whether or not this person will be summoned to hell – I have no way of knowing I have to trust the Creator’s decision and own that I don’t have the power to control…looking back sure I wish things were different I wish I didn’t suffer pain…but I also wish that this person wasn’t as damaged as they are…I couldn’t help that or change that and it could have killed me.  What I got from this however, was that the power was always in my hands it just took my surrendering and then POOF! One day all of the pain was gone.  It was a Dark Night of the Soul and for as long as I fought that surrendering the longer I was in pain.  Sometimes in order for the light to get in, we have to be broken. I can only share my experience but I can’t say I regret it.  Healing is possible…I can testify to that…I’ve also come to own just how insignifcant they are…their ‘power’ is in our heads…