Bullies Are the Worst People in the World

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When I speak of bullies, I’m not limiting my meaning to the big, bad kid at school who picks on kids smaller and weaker than he is. I don’t just mean the muscleman at the beach who kicks sand in the face of a skinny man. I don’t speak only of gossips who spread false rumours to destroy their victims’ reputations.

I speak of anyone who uses intimidation, violence, and manipulation to gain power and control over others. Rape, in this sense, is a kind of bullying. Spousal abuse is. So is emotional abuse, whether in the family, at school, in the workplace, or online.

There is geopolitical bullying, too, in the form of imperialism. For example, apparently, it isn’t bad enough that there are military bases surrounding China in what John Pilger has called “a giant noose.” Nor is it bad enough that there are threatening US navy ships in the South China Sea. Or that the US was giving financial and propagandistic support to the Hong Kong rioters. Or that the Trump administration sold over a billion dollars in weapons to Taiwan to point them at China.

Now, in part because of Trump’s racist blather about the “China virus” and “kung flu,” Asian Americans have been subjected to racially-motivated attacks and hate crimes, including the recent shootings in massage parlours in Atlanta.

Other forms of geopolitical bullying include the Israeli oppression of the Palestinians, the Saudi war on Yemen, with billions of dollars in weapons sold to the Saudis by the US, the UK, Canada, and European countries. The ongoing American military presence in so much of Africa, in Iraq, and in Afghanistan are also examples of such bullying.

Erich Fromm

Erich Fromm, in his book, The Anatomy of Human Destructiveness, discusses what he called the sadistic character, that of someone given to violence towards others not just for its own sake, but for the sake of having power and control over others. “Sadistic character traits can never be understood if one isolates them from the whole character structure. They are part of a syndrome that has to be understood as a whole. For the sadistic character everything living is to be controllable; living beings become things. Or, still more accurately, living beings are transformed into living, quivering, pulsating objects of control. Their responses are forced by the one who controls them. The sadist wants to become the master of life, and hence the quality of life should be maintained in his victim. This is, in fact, what distinguishes him from the destroying person. The destroyer wants to do away with a person, to eliminate him, to destroy life itself; the sadist wants the sensation of controlling and choking life.” (Fromm, page 325)

Bullies gather in groups with a charismatic leader backed by flying monkeys and enablers. This back-up helps to perpetuate the illusion that the leader, typically a narcissist or psychopath in reality, is a good person. On the other side of the coin, these bullies paint a false picture of the victim as a victimizer, or as someone deserving of only contempt.

A historical example of such collective narcissism as a group of bullies persecuting people in the millions was Nazi Germany, with Hitler as their charismatic, but narcissistic leader, with the SS and SA as his flying monkeys and enablers. The Jews, Roma, gays, the mentally and physically disabled or ill, and political and religious opposition to Naziism were all the victims, their victimhood being rationalized by their tormentors as a kind of ‘retribution’ for having somehow ‘victimized,’ ‘polluted,’ or ‘burdened’ the ‘Aryan race.’

The point is that bullies engage in projection, pretending that their victim is the villain, in order to justify the horrible things they do. On the other hand, bullies like to fancy themselves as the ‘good guys.’ They project their viciousness and introject their victim’s goodness. Not a fair trade.

The virtues that bullies assume include a false sense of moral, intellectual, and physical superiority, while they denigrate their victims as selfish, stupid, and weak. To use the political example again, the imperialist bully countries fancy themselves as more democratic, more civilized, more modern and progressive, and more respectful of human rights. (e.g., so-called “American exceptionalism.”)

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In my post, The Toxic Family of Imperialism, I compared what the Western imperialists are doing to the people, for example, in the Middle East and China to what a narcissistic family does to the assigned family scapegoat. This comparison is important in understanding how serious a problem bullying is. My political application of the problem is meant to show that bullies aren’t just bad people–they’re the worst of the worst.

The only real difference between a bully in the ordinary world and one in the upper echelons of political and corporate power is a difference in opportunity. Just because a bully at school, in the average lower or middle-class family, or at work, hasn’t terrorized anywhere near as many people as, say, a politician who orders drone bombings, who imposes starvation sanctions, or who engineers a coup d’état to replace a leftist Latin American government with a right-wing dictatorship, doesn’t mean the former kind of bully is somehow less merciless than the latter kind. If given the chance, the former would probably love to exercise power and dominance over a large number of people, because it’s in the nature of the sadistic character to enjoy stepping on as many people as possible.

Bullies enjoy exploiting unfair advantages over others rather than bettering themselves through their own personal efforts. Accordingly, they rarely pick on those their own size and strength, but go after those weaker than them. They like to twist this around and call their victims ‘wimps,’ ‘cowards,’ and ‘weaklings,’ but it is the bully who is the coward for attacking only those whom it’s easy to attack, instead of looking at him- or herself in the mirror and facing up to, and dealing with, his or her own personal problems.

To use the political analogy one more time, consider, for example, how right-wing Americans will denigrate countries like the DPRK, Cuba, Venezuela, etc., as ‘failed socialist states,’ yet fail to see the spectacular failures of their own capitalist state. If we can see this hypocrisy on a political level, we should be able to see it on a personal level, too. Just as the bullied countries aren’t really the failures, and the bullying countries are not only the cause of those failures, but also have many failures of their own, so are ordinary, individual people who are bullied not the problem, but rather, their bullies are the problem, because they’re the cause of their victims’ problems, a projection of their own pathologies.

So if you, Dear Reader, have been victimized by bullying, especially to the extent of having C-PTSD and therefore having a cruel inner critic, you need to stop blaming yourself for having suffered such victimization. You weren’t bullied because you are weak: how weak or strong you personally happen to be is irrelevant; you were bullied because bullies are assholes. Just because they can bully you, doesn’t mean they should.

You don’t need to improve yourself to be worthy of love. You’re already worthy of being loved.

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Repeat to yourself these words: “The bullying wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t my fault.” Over and over again.

It was their fault.

Bullies are the worst people in the world.

Victims, for all our faults, are far better than them. Never forget that.

Abusers’ Cloud of Willful Unknowing

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In my post, Absence Makes the Mind Go Fonder, I wrote of how the low emotional intelligence of abusers in the family will cause them to say and do foolish things that go totally against their interests as far as maintaining family unity is concerned, because they value controlling the abuse victim over healing old wounds and trying to rebuild a relationship with him or her.

The abusers’ narcissistic, inflated sense of self, a False Self, causes them to have no sense of introspection. One could call it ‘the Dunning-Kruger effect of abusers,’ where the more abusive they are, the more they’re committed to a delusional belief that they are not only not abusive, but are an especially kind and loving group of people.

I have to be blunt and call these people who they are: pardon my French, but they are assholes. In fact, they are worse than assholes, for they don’t even know they’re assholes. They refuse to contemplate the very possibility that they’re assholes. At least with those of us who are victims of emotional abuse, our cruel inner critic keeps us aware of our faults; the abusers, on the other hand, seem to go through their lives thinking they’ve done nothing wrong.

I discovered this reality about my late, probably narcissistic mother, my golden child older sister, and my two older bullies…er, brothers. This group of emotional abusers actually think they’re an exemplary family.

It doesn’t matter how nice the abusers are to each other, or to their own kids, or to other people they meet out there in the world. If they scapegoat even one family member (in my family’s case, me, as well as my three cousins), they are already abusive assholes from that fact alone, because even a half-decent family would never treat their own flesh and blood, for all of his or her admitted faults, in that way.

They don’t, however, seem to know the truth of their dysfunction. Some kind of mental mechanism, some cloud, must be what they use to protect themselves from ever knowing.

Wilfred Bion, in his book, Learning From Experience, wrote of something he called -K (‘negative knowledge’), which represents a stubborn refusal to gain knowledge. He says that the origin of -K is an infantile form of envy, as Melanie Klein described it–the wish to spoil the good breast of the mother by projecting bad things into it.

This infantile envy, as with Klein’s notions of the paranoid-schizoid (PS) and depressive (D) positions, only starts with the baby; these mental states continue throughout life. Just as there’s an oscillation back and forth between PS and D (Bion notates this oscillation more or less as PS <-> D), so can there be an oscillation back and forth between envy and gratitude throughout life.

So this envy, as exacerbated in such dysfunctional families as those run by narcissistic parents, can be the source of a stubborn refusal to learn (-K) from previous mistakes, the low emotional intelligence I mentioned up at the beginning of this article. Now, according to Bion, the acquisition of knowledge (K) starts in the commensal relationship between mother and baby, the soothing container/contained relationship. As the child grows, he or she learns how to do the containing, essentially, for him- or herself, the processing of irritating raw sense data from outside into tolerable experiences and thoughts. (See here for a thorough explanation of Bion’s and other psychoanalytic concepts.)

Sometimes, however, we need others’ validation, or containing, as we grow older. Then, the acquisition of K is a symbiotic relationship between the self and other people.

When one grows up in a family with narcissistic parents, with golden children for siblings (either relatively so in comparison to the scapegoat, as my elder brothers were compared to me, or in the absolute sense, as with my elder sister), and oneself is made into the scapegoat, or identified patient, no such symbiotic relationship of people helping each other grow in K will exist to any substantial extent. No empathy is felt between family members competing for the love of the narcissistic parents, so there’s little containment, or soothing, of each other’s agitations and anxieties.

Instead of soothing forms of communication, which Bion described as a passing back and forth of energy through projective identification, family members pass back and forth negative energy, or negative container/contained projections and introjections. Feelings of anxiety and agitation then metastasize into what Bion called a nameless dread, or what I would simply call trauma.

Instead of communicating, family members fight, which increases mutual alienation and an aversion to learn anything from each other, to grow in K. This mutual alienation has been caused by the machinations of the narcissistic parent, who envies the sensitivity of one of his or her children, and who thus spoils the goodness of that child by using gaslighting techniques and by teaching the siblings to despise him or her.

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The contempt that the golden children have for the scapegoat is rewarded with the ‘love’ that the narcissistic parent gives them for their loyalty. This ‘love’ and reassurance causes them to be smug and self-satisfied in their attitude; they never suspect that they’ve misunderstood the scapegoat, and they’re convinced of the ‘morality’ of their despicable treatment of the victim. This is the essence of -K as derived from envy.

As I would extrapolate from Bion’s explanation in Learning From Experience, the abusers, instead of cultivating a superego and having a proper sense of right and wrong, they develop a “super ego,” an inflated sense of their own worth, which makes them believe they’re too superior to learn anything with regards to their relationship with their victim…a relationship of -K and negative containment.

Bion says, “It is a super-ego that has hardly any of the characteristics of the super-ego as understood in psycho-analysis: it is a “super” ego. It is an envious assertion of moral superiority without any morals. In short it is the resultant of an envious stripping or denudation of all good…” (Bion, page 97)

The negative containment “shows itself as a superior object asserting its superiority by finding fault with everything. The most important characteristic is its hatred of any new development in the personality as if the new development were a rival to be destroyed. The emergence therefore of any tendency to search for the truth, to establish contact with reality and in short to be scientific in no matter how rudimentary a fashion is met by destructive attacks on the tendency and the reassertion of the ‘moral’ superiority…” Negative containment “asserts the moral superiority and superiority in potency of UN-learning.” (Bion, page 98)

Anything unpleasant about the abusers is projected outward and onto the victim instead of properly dealt with. This is negative containment, a passing on of negative energy, not in the hopes of having it soothed, but with the aim of making others suffer it, so the abuser doesn’t have to suffer.

The abusers imagine the negativity to be all on the shoulders of the victim, so the abusers can now kid themselves that they are normal, mentally healthy, and fully-functioning, respectable members of society.

Abusers thus don’t even know they’re assholes.

That cloud of willful unknowing protects them from contemplating the truth about themselves.

Ignorance is bliss.

One way this refusal to know things shows itself is in how the abusers refuse to acknowledge the consequences of their own actions. My mother’s lies about my supposedly having an autism spectrum disorder, described in the language of narcissism (an obvious projection of her own pathologies), resulted in the family taking the attitude it had towards me that I, with all of my own faults and peculiar childhood behaviour, was ‘born this way,’ rather than manipulated and bullied into behaving as I did.

Telling me, about nine or ten at the time, that the psychiatrist who’d examined me (or so Mom’s legend went) said I was, apart from being autistic, so extremely retarded that I should have been locked away in an asylum and they should have “thrown away the key,” my mother didn’t want to take any responsibility for the psychological damage she’d done to me. My ‘having grown out of’ this extremely inauspicious mental state was, according to her, “a miracle from God.” (She wasn’t ever religious.)

Instead of confronting how her tactless choice of words had affected the psyche of an impressionable child, she decades later modified her lie with a new and equally phoney, amateur diagnosis (in the early 2000s, when I was in my early thirties) that I have Asperger Syndrome, since it was obvious that I’ve always been far from mentally incompetent. This refusal of hers to learn from past mistakes not only proves my point about her and -K, but it was one of the things that caused my permanent estrangement from the family.

One of the other major causes of this estrangement was her insistence, back in the mid-2000s, that I–having lived in East Asia since the summer of 1996–not fly back to Canada to visit my sister and her then-terminally-ill husband because, apparently, I’m so “tactless and insensitive” that I might put my foot in my mouth and inadvertently say something to agitate and upset the already grieving couple. It seemingly hadn’t occurred to my mom that simply telling me to be careful of what I said would have sufficed; or more accurately, she didn’t seem concerned about how tactless and insensitive her own rejecting words were to me.

That infuriating, estranging incident was followed ten years later, in the mid-2010s, with a kind of reversal of roles for her and me. By this time, I’d realized just how horrifyingly habitual her lies, triangulation, smear campaigns, and divid-and-conquer tactics were that I knew I never wanted to fly home to visit her in Ontario ever again. I told her so, right after she’d told me a string of about seven lies, in a brief and blunt email. As if she’d completely forgotten having had the same rejecting attitude towards me ten years earlier, she put on this melodramatic reaction of having been so “hurt” by my email, which was really just me trying to protect myself from further mind games. Really, though, that “hurt” had just been my having caused her narcissistic injury.

Once again, she let -K come between herself and her last-born son.

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My older brother, F., used to bully and terrorize me all the time when I was a kid in the 1970s and 80s. One doesn’t need to be a psychologist studying stress in early childhood to know that bullying children will cause them to develop dysfunctional, self-isolating habits; it should be common sense that constant bullying of a child will make him or her fear the world and self-isolate in order to feel safe. Emboldened by having heard Mom’s nonsense about ‘my autism,’ F. many years later, when both he and I were adults (and he, over six years older than I, therefore should have had the maturity to know better), attributed my solitary tendencies to an intrinsic vice I’d been born with rather than admitting to himself that he had always been one of the chief causes of my self-isolating.

-K strikes again!

Similarly, my elder brother, R., and elder sister, J., said and did mean, hurtful things to me over and over again throughout my adolescence and young adulthood, never contemplating the damage they were slowly but surely doing to their relationship with me, abuse usually provoked either by relatively minor things I did to annoy them (slamming doors, eating all the cereal, procrastinating with washing the dishes, or…my idiosyncratic musical tastes, FFS!!) or the desire just to have fun making me feel worthless.

J., as the chief golden child of the family, chooses to blot out all the bad things she did from her memory because of how unflattering it is to her; on the other hand, she magnifies the significance of this or that memory of her having done favours for me, as evidence of her ‘boundless love’ for me…all to flatter herself. The fact is, people tend to remember the hurtful stuff more than the helpful stuff, by a wide margin. Still, it’s inconceivable to her, R., and F. that I would remember their majority of nasty moments over their minority of nice ones.

Because of this skewed perception of how they treated me, they’ll assume my estrangement from them is based on an ‘ungrateful attitude’ on my part, rather than my having no illusions about how ‘helpful’ they’ve all been to me. J. fancies that she, during my adolescence and young adulthood, was trying to help me build self-confidence and assertiveness skills; that she constantly spoke condescendingly to me and barked verbal abuse at me whenever I tried to stick up for myself, to silence me, makes me doubt the sincerity of her ‘intentions.’

This kind of puffing up of their pride at my expense–Mom’s amateur psychiatry, J.’s trying to remake me in her image (as Mom had done to her), and R.’s and F.’s imagined superiority to me–is what I mean when I talk about the ‘Dunning-Kruger effect of abusers.’ The more vicious abusers are, the more they delude themselves into thinking they’re being kind to their victims.

Charles Bukowski once said, “The problem with the world is that the intelligent people are full of doubts, while the stupid ones are full of confidence.” I’d say the same thing can be said about the relationship between the smug, self-satisfied abusers and the abused, who engage in endless second-guessing.

I say it’s high time that we victims of emotional abuse stopped doubting ourselves and our experience of our tormentors. If they can be cocky and over-confident, blissfully unaware of what assholes they are, then we can be reasonably confident of our understanding about what was done to us.

Just because we may have never told our bullies that they’re assholes, doesn’t mean they aren’t assholes. Their -K, and their refusal to link their mistreatment of us to our natural, estranged reaction to them, is their fault, not ours.

We didn’t deserve to be bullied just because we may have this or that fault. Legitimate anger doesn’t translate into the illegitimacy of abuse. We weren’t bullied because of defects in ourselves, but because of defects in our bullies.

Their not knowing of their defects doesn’t make those defects non-existent. In fact, their cloud of willful unknowing is what makes their defects especially apparent.

‘Critical Parts,’ a Poem by Gerda Hovius

Here is another poem by my dear friend, Gerda Hovius, who’s helped me gain access to my pop songs, and an example of whose own musical talents can be heard here on YouTube. As with my discussions of other poets’ work, I’m putting her poem, “Critical Parts,” in italics to distinguish it from my own writing. Here it is:

For the love of me.
Where was I, where am I?
What is occupying me?
Do I listen to this inner voice, that is reasoning with the other parts of me?
Parts forsaken, parts withheld, parts afraid of love untold.
The rejected in me still 
Bares their love.
Will it shut me down, or am I 
Able to stand up?
Words are spells so use them well.
I am beholding myself.
I just want to be true tears and all, I may rise and I may fall.
As I rise some days are filled with Paradise,
As I fall I witness the darkness of the all.
My need to connect is real, I am allowed to state how I feel.

And now, for my analysis of the poem.

The poet has felt disoriented for a long time. “What is occupying” her are all her internal objects, particularly those of her parents. These are internal, mental images of all the people she’s made contact with in her life; we all have them, and they haunt our minds like ghosts in a house, influencing how we think and interact with others.

Often this “inner voice” is the censorious inner critic, reminding us of our faults, but sometimes it’s doing good, “reasoning with the other parts of” us. Tracing the voice back to its origin, we find it can be that of Klein‘s good mother or father, who give us what we want and need, or the bad mother or father, who frustrate us.

Afraid of the feelings we’ll find, we repress the “Parts forsaken, parts withheld, parts afraid of love untold.” There is ambivalence in the poet over the split parts, the good and bad mentioned in the previous paragraph, the wish for reparation; for “The rejected in me still/Bares their love.” She feels rejected and loved by those voices at the same time; to sort out this ambiguity is difficult and painful.

The poet doesn’t know if confronting these voices will be good for her, or bad: “Will it shut me down, or am I/Able to stand up?” Will the confrontation harm her, or will she be able to face her feelings, and carry on if they hurt?

“Words are spells so use them well.” Words can be therapeutic in expressing feelings to heal trauma, but they can also be harmful, in the form of gaslighting. We must be careful how we use them.

“I am beholding myself.” She sees herself, as in a mirror. Is this really her, or someone else? She “just want[s] to be true, tears and all,” not some phoney person trying to look happy all the time just to please everybody.

Her moods go up and down, sometimes “Paradise,” sometimes more like hell. She needs to connect with others, and to express who she really is. She should be allowed to be her real self, happy or sad. Her critical parts shouldn’t be inhibiting her free expression, as they shouldn’t be inhibiting that of any of us. Pain must be felt and expressed freely in order to heal.

Most of the Rest of My Pop Songs

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Thanks to a wonderful friend of mine, a really kind Dutch woman named Gerda Hovius, I finally have access to most of the rest of the pop song recordings I published on the Jamendo website, where for some reason I cannot listen to or download them. She, having access to the Luxembourg website, emailed the recordings to me, so I could download them and post them on another music site called SoundClick. Thanks a million, Gerda!

On Jamendo, I had posted these songs in albums by the names of The Human Element, Meeting Places, and Infinite Ocean. There are only five songs I need to have emailed to me: “Meeting Place,” “Better,” “‘Til Divorce Do Us Part,” and “Lethargy,” from Meeting Places; and “Moonlit Strolls,” from Infinite Ocean.

In my previous posts, My Classical Music Compositions and Some Pop Songs I Wrote, I discussed all the other music I saved from Jamendo, music which can be found on SoundCloud, MixCloud, ReverbNation, and Jango (“Let Me Come In”). Now, all my pop songs–except, for now, the five mentioned in the previous paragraph–can be found on my page on SoundClick.

On all these pop song recordings, I sang all the vocals, played all the instruments, and did all the recording, mixing, and mastering. Please, Dear Reader and Listener…don’t hold this against me.

I’ll discuss these newly-saved songs in the order in which they appear on those three Jamendo albums. After “Let Me Come In,” the first track off my first pop album, The Human Element, came the song, “Resilient.” Like the song before it, “Resilient” has a synth/electronic drum background. It’s a song about being determined at self-improvement, despite the discouraging words I heard from my family and from classmates when I was a kid.

Grateful” is the first of a number of songs in which I, trying to find a distinctive sound, experimented with the influence of Balinese gamelan music. Instead of using the Indonesian metallophones, however, I used synthetic imitations, which I played on the keyboard, of xylophone, marimba, vibraphone, glockenspiel, and tubular bells. Instead of bass and drums, I used a synthetic bassoon sound and played bongoes.

Unfortunately, when I recorded the songs for the first two albums, I didn’t really know what I was doing, as far as mixing and mastering is concerned (I was particularly clueless about compression); what’s worse, I no longer have the original master recordings (for reasons I won’t go into), so I can’t go back to them and correct my mistakes. What you hear is what you get, I’m afraid. I just hope, Dear Reader and Listener, that you’ll be patient and indulgent of the recordings’ many imperfections.

I didn’t mix my lead vocal track of “Grateful” well, so you’ll have difficulty making out the lyrics (except for the chorus and bridge, maybe); the song page has the lyrics printed out, though. Anyway, the song expresses my gratitude for being able to leave Canada and find work in East Asia, and for finding the woman I love and am married to. I’m doubly grateful for having distanced myself from my emotionally abusive Canadian family.

Freedom” is also about my gratitude in getting away from that abusive family, and it also has the gamelan-influenced sound, though it’s a more energetic song than “Grateful.” It is also inspired musically by King Crimson‘s “Thela Hun Ginjeet,” and it has a bassoon sound instead of bass, bongoes instead of drums, and Chinese temple blocks which I played in a 5/4 cross-rhythm to the 4/4 of the rest of the instrumentation.

Life Is a Dream (This Naïve Spell)” is a Latin-jazz tune composed at the acoustic guitar, similar to “Without You With Me.” Lyrically, it’s about the foolishness of idealistic dreaming about a perfect world. It’s mostly in 4/4 time, with a brief passage of two bars in 5/4 after each verse, the first bar being a fast single-note run on the guitar (doubled on the piano), and the second bar being harmonics (and electric piano).

The last two songs on The Human Element are “I Lie Alone” and “She Was a Funky Girl,” both of which I described on my previous post about my songs. So this leads me to a discussion of the songs on my second pop album (and my personal favourite, despite its imperfect mixing and mastering), Meeting Places.

The first track on that album was the electronic dance song, “Blow” (discussed previously), and the second track was “Meeting Place,” which as I mentioned above, I don’t have downloaded yet. This leads me to a discussion of the third track, “Regrets?

This song also has the gamelan-influenced sound, but it’s also inspired by a live version of “Once In a Lifetime,” by The Talking Heads. The tuned percussion sounds are in 6/8 time, in a cross-rhythm against the 4/4 played by the rest of the instrumentation (vocals, electric guitar, bassoon sound, recorders, harmonica, and percussion).

“Regrets?” is about the conflict that often exists between conservative parents, who want their kids to get high-paying jobs, and their kids, who’d rather pursue their dreams and become, for example, professional musicians. Where are the regrets–in being financially successful, but suffering in a soul-crushing, conformist job; or in being poor, but artistically fulfilled?

After “Better,” “‘Til Divorce Do Us Part,” and “Lethargy” (none of which I’ve downloaded yet) comes “Blues for the Abused,” a blues/jazz song I composed at the acoustic guitar, which is about my mourning over not having the loving family I needed as a child. The opening and ending chord progressions were inspired by Django Reinhardt‘s closing chord progression on “Souvenirs,” and the body of the song is inspired by a combination of Robert Johnson blues and the Queen song “Dreamer’s Ball.”

She Moves Me” is a love song I wrote for my wife. It’s partly inspired by the Queen song “She Makes Me (Stormtrooper in Stilettos),” and was composed at the acoustic guitar. I wish I’d sung it better, to be perfectly frank; I overdid the vibrato, making my pitch wobbly and unstable in the bass range.

Invasion of the Bodysnatchers” is about the exploitative internet porn business. In F-sharp major, it’s musically inspired by the Wham! song “Everything She Wants,” and Queen’s “Body Language.”

My third pop album, Infinite Ocean, opened with the naughty dance song, “Lucille,” followed by the more serious “Angelic Devils” (both songs were discussed in my previous post). After that came the album’s title track, which of course inspired the name of my blog.

The song has the gamelan-inspired tuned percussion sounds again, playing notes that ascend and descend, like the waves of the ocean. Recorders are played in 4/4, and the bassoon sound is in 5/8. These winds play pairs of rising and falling notes, also like the waves of the ocean. Their conflicting cross-rhythms are meant to symbolize cycles of life that each have different durations.

A high-pitched two-note phrase I played on an ocarina (an instrument I haven’t a prayer of mastering!) is heard during the chorus. I played a classical guitar during the bridge, and I did an electronic piano solo at the end.

The song is about the Brahman-like, pantheistic All that is the unity of the universe. The waves of the ocean, crests and troughs representing the thesis and negation of the material dialectic (the rising and falling representing the sublation), symbolizes the flowing back and forth of yin and yang.

My Cold Heart” was composed at the electric guitar, the 7/8 strumming of seventh chords in which thirds alternate with seconds (or ninths, if you prefer). The opening and middle instrumental sections have saxophone sounds playing a melody over paralleled minor seventh chords. The song is about my feelings of alienation from other people, brought on by the emotional abuse I suffered as a child. I wish I could be close to others, but I can’t.

Tribal Victory March” is a song whose lyrics express my anti-war sentiment ironically through the perspective of the leader of the victorious tribe (understood as a metaphor for any imperialist government of today). He says his army has vanquished “all of my,…our foes” (that was no error in my singing). The leader, or demagogue, representative of any president of today’s world (Bush, Obama, Trump, whoever you like), celebrates the violence and rape inflicted on an enemy he deems to be his nation’s enemy, rather than only his own and that of the ruling class. His people slavishly repeat his words, since they’re unable or unwilling to think for themselves.

Musically, the song was inspired by an African recording of a solo male voice alternating with a group of singers repeating his words; the singing is followed by the sound of a plethora of horns over a pounding rhythm. My song imitates these musical ideas in principle, but with my own harmonies (based on equal octave divisions [whole tone scale, octatonic scale, augmented triad, and the tritone], as in a number of my classical music compositions), my soloing on an acoustic guitar and on a recorder (in a whole tone scale).

The Happy Song” is probably my least successful song. I’m not happy with my singing on it (I’m bordering on, if not lapsing into, straining). I also attempt a scat-singing vocal solo that I’m not 100% sure of. Apart from that, the song imitates a 1930s/1940s jazz style, and it preaches a philosophy of happiness I don’t think I’ve practiced in any capacity. I include the recording here only for the sake of completeness, and I hope, Dear Reader and (at your own risk!) Listener, you’ll be kind in your judgement of it.

After “Moonlit Strolls,” the last of the five not-yet-downloaded songs, comes “Nothing to Fear,” which is musically influenced by soft, slow gamelan music, and is lyrically influenced by the quasi-Hindu mysticism of “Infinite Ocean.”

I’m Hip” is the one straightforward rock song I’ve recorded. I’m affecting a rock singer’s voice here, though I’m not sure if I succeeded. I back this up musically with distorted electric rhythm and lead guitars, harmonica, and bass and drum sounds I played on a keyboard. Lyrically, the song is about my escape from the mental imprisonment of my emotionally abusive past, so I need no longer think of myself as ‘less cool’ than other people.

Anyway, that’s all for now, musically speaking. If I can get someone to email me those other five songs, which I consider to be among the better ones, I’ll write up a blog post featuring them, with the recordings published (presumably) on SoundClick.

Loving Families Don’t Drag You Down

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One thing that the family scapegoat, or identified patient, may find remarkable–when comparing his (or her) relationship with his toxic family to other people’s relationships with their far healthier families–is the conspicuous lack of affection the former has for his or her family, as against the healthy affection felt in normal families.

Now, something that the scapegoat has, which the flying monkeys of the toxic family don’t have, is an honest view of the lovelessness of that family. The narcissistic parents and their flying monkey sons and daughters boast of how ‘loving’ they are as a family; but such boasting is really just reaction formation, used as a cover for the family dysfunction that is their reality.

We scapegoats know that love is not just something in words–it’s mainly in actions. The toxic family can say they ‘love’ the scapegoat over and over again until they’re blue in the face, but the scapegoat who is wise to them won’t believe a word of it.

The reason we don’t believe these empty professions of love is because those who have ‘loved’ us so much keep dragging us down. Yes, even the best of families have their share of conflicts and frustrations between members, but there is no systematic degrading of one member by the others.

One way I often got dragged down by my family was that I was constantly infantilized by them. They would talk down to me as if I were an idiot, speak condescendingly to me as if I–for a long time already an adult–were ten years old, and treat my attempts to stick up for myself as if I was being ‘mouthy.’

This is one way a toxic family can retain power over the scapegoat: by making him or her feel like an eternal, overgrown child. This way, the victim feels overawed by the victimizers, never able to see past their illusory authority, and never able to fight back and free him- or herself.

If your family truly loves you, they want to help you rise as high as possible. They celebrate your every success, and they empathize with and comfort you whenever you experience a setback, failure, or otherwise heartbreaking moment.

When toxic families do these good things for you, it’s the exception, not the rule, which is, as I’ve said above, dragging you down. Healthy families dragging you down, on the other hand, is the exception to the rule…which is raising you up.

No, no family is completely good or completely evil; but the healthy ones are predominantly good, and the toxic ones are predominantly evil. So, when in an argument with your toxic family, if they mention their good moments with you, which they’ll do to manipulate you, confuse you, and guilt-trip you into falling back in line and believing their b.s., remember that those ‘good moments’ are the minority, and that they fade into insignificance compared with the many more bad moments.

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Instead of celebrating my successes, my late, probably narcissistic mother tended to find ways to drag me down. Back when I was in grade four, and I was getting my first As in school, I was naturally proud to tell my parents about my new achievement; but this was around the time she started spouting off about my supposed autism. (Read here to learn about my mother’s autism lie in detail, and how I came to the conclusion that my childhood ‘diagnosis’ was all a fabrication of hers.)

In the form of a kind of back-handed compliment, she would claim that my new academic success was a manifestation of a “miracle from God” that I’d been pulled out of a state of extreme retardation (associated with ‘my autism’) to become a reasonably intelligent person. Her plan had always been to make me feel, somehow, behind everyone else. It was gaslighting at its most brutal.

Even if I really had an autism spectrum disorder, be it a mild one like Asperger Syndrome (AS) or the more severe kind she’d claimed I had, any reasonable mother who loves her child would never tell him or her that this academic success was a “miracle”: she’d just say she was proud of him. She wouldn’t prate on and on about psychiatrists recommending locking him or her up in an asylum and throwing away the key (as my mom did to me), even if the shrinks had really recommended that! My mother would have known that the psychiatrists were wrong in their judgement, and she would have tried to encourage me as best she could.

She wouldn’t have said that she wasn’t sure if I would have made a good garbageman, as she did (I’m actually a teacher). She’d have had the common sense…and the love for me…to think to herself, He doesn’t need to know what they said about him. Telling him what they said would be harmful to him.

But none of what my mom said to me was about love (though she certainly pretended she was speaking out of love!) or about common sense. It was about tricking an impressionable child into believing he was inferior to his siblings and to everyone else around him. The “miracle” had just made me a little less inferior…and I should be thankful to God for that, apparently.

Her intentions were all about dragging me down, for she didn’t want me to get any higher.

Now, that one time in my childhood was the first major time that my mother dragged me down when I was rising up. The second major time she did this was twenty to twenty-five years later, when I’d proven myself a successful, capable English teacher in East Asia, and I was about to marry my Taiwanese girlfriend, Judy. Mom decided to revive discussion of ‘my autism’ in the form of AS.

Since my life had already improved to the point where she couldn’t reasonably sustain an argument that I had ever been mentally incompetent, and since talk of miracles from God would have sounded inane to the ears of a man in his early thirties, my mom knew she had to modify her lies to make them plausible in the context of my new life situation. Hence, she shifted from talking about classical autism to the mild, socially inept form of Asperger Syndrome.

Still, it had the same effect of dragging me down: she could remind me of how awkward I was as a kid, reawaken those old feelings of pain and insecurity in me, watch me get upset, then enjoy her new source of narcissistic supply.

God forbid that I should ever cross the line and build self-confidence! The very idea that I should ever feel as though I fit in with other people was anathema to her. Small wonder she smiled like a Cheshire cat when she said that I, as a teen, had the maturity of a small child, as a young adult, had the maturity of a teen, and as a then-33-year-old, had the maturity of a 23-year-old. I was infuriated; but I’ll bet she thoroughly enjoyed making me feel that way.

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The fact that I was going to marry Judy and never go back to live in southern Ontario must have been at least a huge part of Mom’s motive to drag me down like that. By no longer living near her and the rest of the family, I would no longer be controlled by them, the way they’d once controlled me, back when I was a kid living in Canada.

Mom wanted that power and control back, as did my older sister, J., Mom’s golden child and ‘mini-me,’ so using AS to stir up my old insecurities and make me feel emotionally dependent on them was a desperate, last-ditch attempt to hoover me back into the dysfunctional family relationship.

Mom, of course, wasn’t the only one in the family to drag me down. As I said above, J. was a huge contributor to the problem, always rationalizing her attitude, as Mom did, with claims that she was ‘only trying to help‘ me.

During a visit to Canada that I’d made with Judy back in about the late summer of 2001, we were all at a picnic. I had made a preference of drinking one particular drink (orange soda, as I recall), and J. decided to nag me for drinking so much of it that there’d be too little left for anyone else. I don’t think anyone else there really cared, but J. couldn’t resist making 31-year-old me feel like a 10-year-old.

As I discussed in a previous post (scroll down to Part VI), on that day at the picnic, J. also expressed distaste at the idea of me marrying Judy. Did J. think her disapproval was going to deter me from marrying the woman I love? Does J. think my marrying Judy has been the decisive factor in my not returning to Canada, when it is my family’s toxic nature that is the real decisive factor?

By hoping I wouldn’t marry Judy and would return to Canada, J. was trying to drag me down. She failed.

Another dragging-down that I experienced, back in my teens, was because of my eldest brother, R. I’ve written before of the long rant he gave about our father supposedly loving us more or less based on our academic performance. It was an absolutely nonsensical belief R. had (he having been in his early to mid twenties at the time, so one would have expected a more mature attitude from him), one I suspect our mother planted in his head when he was a kid; Dad was just trying, in his dysfunctional way, to push us to work harder at school (by shaming us, sadly, if we failed), and getting disappointed when we didn’t do better.

Anyway, as an ego defence against R.’s belief that we all thought he was “the idiot of the family” for having quit high school back in the mid-70s, he claimed that he’d known many who got high marks at school, and who were “absolute idiots.” Now granted, it was a fault of mine at the time to allow myself to be unduly influenced by the opinions and flippant attitudes of others, but I was just a kid then. R. made me believe that there was no reason to take any pride in my academic success, so I lost much of my motivation to work hard at school, thus limiting my job prospects after graduating.

My doing well at school was one of the few things I had in my teens to feel good about, and this was with Mom’s nonsense about ‘my autism,’ and her supposed worries of having to continue to take care of a ‘forty-year-old moron’ (yes, she described me with that last word) in the far-off future. R’s bruised ego was more important to him than his youngest brother’s already fragile self-confidence, and he dragged me down even further, as Mom had been doing.

The times that my other elder brother, F., dragged me down were too numerous to count, and so varying in their bullying and sadism that I hardly know where to begin listing them off. Trauma tends to make one forget many of the bad memories, so I tend to repeat the same ones over and over again. Suffice it to say, along with all the verbal abuse he (as well as that of Mom, Dad, R., and J.) had subjected me to on a regular, almost daily basis, F. was the one who got physical with me: hitting me, spitting on me, threatening beatings or (on one night) to throw me outside in the Canadian winter cold (remember that I was a kid at the time: he was much bigger than I), and so many other degradations that to him were “fun.”

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The long-term psychological effects of bullying and childhood adversity have been extensively studied. The research shows that children subjected to this kind of emotional abuse suffer all kinds of problems, not only a lack of self-esteem, but also from problems relating to other people, trust issues, emotional dysregulation, and escape in such forms as maladaptive daydreaming.

The family would attribute these problems of mine to ‘my autism,’ with no empathy for me, but instead with a judgemental attitude, never taking any responsibility for the huge role they played in causing these problems. (To be fair to them, no, they weren’t responsible for all of the problems, but they were responsible to enough of an extent that they should have, but of course essentially never, acknowledged their role, and should have shown a sincerely apologetic attitude.)

My father, though not really part of the narcissist collective that the other four made up, was a seriously flawed man who dragged me down in other ways than they did. He rarely defended me against the attacks of the other four, and rarely sympathized with me over the problems they caused for me. His biggest fault, though, was his right-wing thinking, with all the attendant bigotries; and he taught me, in my youth, to think in those ways, from the mid-1990s to the late 2000s.

So while I didn’t directly suffer narcissistic abuse from him, I did suffer emotional abuse from him in the form of psychological corrupting–in this particular case, him teaching me his prejudices. Though I, in my initially liberal attitude, resisted, I eventually succumbed to an agreement with his mean-spirited attitude, through having heard an ongoing repetition of his slurs on blacks, women, socialism, etc. Those fifteen-odd years were truly lost years for me, his having dragged me down to such a base way of thinking that I now deeply regret.

His death back in 2009, I must say at the risk of sounding terribly unfilial, was a liberating moment for me, since I no longer felt I needed his approval for my beliefs. Consequently, I did something I never thought I’d ever do: go from the political centre-right to the far left, as you can surmise from my other blog posts.

So my message to you, Dear Reader, is this. Do you find yourself sitting on the fence with respect to your relationship with your family? If you feel frequently hurt by them, but you’re still not sure if the bad times are such that you consider the good times not worth putting up with the bad, ask yourself if the times they drag you down are the majority, or just the minority. Is their dragging you down more significant than their raising you up, or vice versa?

The answers to these questions should determine whether or not to go no contact with them.

Analysis of ‘Freeze Frame’

Freeze Frame is a 2004 psychological thriller filmed in Northern Ireland and written and directed by John Simpson. It stars Lee Evans, Ian McNeice, Seán McGinley, Rachael Stirling, and Colin Salmon.

Sean Veil (Evans) has been falsely accused of a triple murder and, while acquitted, he is still being hounded by police and a forensic profiler who, insisting he’s guilty, want to pin the blame on him for this and other crimes. So traumatized is Veil by this continued persecution that he films himself “24/7/52,” as he says–so he’ll always have an alibi.

The film has received some praise. Critical appreciation went to Evans, who had previously played comedic roles. David Rooney of Variety said Simpson’s direction was “executed in the style of early David Fincher,” and said Evans’ performance was “gripping.” Debbie Wiseman’s score, cinematographer Mark Garrett’s choice of cameras and lenses, and Simon Thorne’s “sharp editing” were also mentioned. Kevin Crust of the Los Angeles Times wrote that Freeze Frame is a “stylish and dystopian allegory concerned with Orwellian surveillance and intrusive government.” Crust called Evans’ performance “riveting.”

Here are a few quotes:

“Off camera is off guard.” –Sean Veil

Detective Mountjoy: You seem kind of relaxed, if you don’t mind me saying. For a man who’s about to spend the next 30 years sucking unwashed dick.
Sean Veil: You seem kinda jealous, if you don’t mind me saying.

The 24/7 surveillance of the film makes comparisons with Orwell‘s Nineteen Eighty-Four inevitable. The difference is that, instead of the authorities watching everyone everywhere, and all the time, one victim is doing it to himself. BIG BROTHER IS HAVING YOU WATCH YOURSELF.

In other words, Veil has internalized his persecutors, rather like how Winston Smith is made to internalize the worldview his tormentors impose on him, and their shaming of him. The irony of Veil’s name is in how a veil hides one’s identity, gives one privacy, yet Veil would put himself permanently on display for his protection.

To make himself easily identifiable from a distance, he even shaves his head. The combination of these idiosyncrasies of his–strapping a camera to himself whenever he’s outside, his shaved head, his paranoid mannerisms, and his pale skin–make him look, ironically and in spite of his not intending it, like the kind of freak the police would want to go after.

So in Veil we see the kind of psychological damage done to a scapegoat. A man who, though acquitted, still has had his reputation and his life destroyed by the narcissism and malevolence of his persecutors, destroyed so thoroughly that his personality is transformed from normal to the quirky, socially awkward sort that makes others suspicious.

Indeed, Saul Seger (McNeice), the forensic profiler who has written a book on murderous psychopaths called Darkness Invisible, is too proud and too solicitous of the preservation of his reputation to admit even to the possibility of being wrong about Veil. He’d commit to ruining Veil’s life just so he can continue to sell books.

Seger’s narcissism is on full display when he does a public reading to promote his book…on the tenth anniversary of the triple murder that Veil’s reputation has been stained with, the killing of three members of the Jasper family (the mother and two daughters). Seger speaks with as much self-righteousness as he does would-be authority on the inner workings of the criminal mind.

Allied with Seger’s narcissism is the sheer malignancy of Detective Louis Emeric (McGinley), a malignancy so consummate that we see him physically ill, coughing blood, throughout the movie (he is dying from lung cancer). It would seem that his malevolence is turning back against him and, as a form of bad karma, making him slowly destroy himself. He is so determined to pin a crime on Veil that he boasts of the efficacy of visualization, mentally seeing Veil do something wrong to help him catch him. This is what victimizers do: project their own viciousness onto their victims.

…and when the victimizers project, they manipulate their victims into introjecting. As Seger says to Veil when the latter is protesting his innocence at the book promotion, he is in Veil’s head. This manipulative kind of projection is what Melanie Klein called projective identification, in which one does more than merely imagine another to embody one’s projections; rather, one causes the other to manifest the projected traits.

Hence, when Veil, troubled by the police in his home about a new murder accusation (that of a prostitute from five years ago), discovers certain tapes of his are missing from his vaults (i.e., those video recordings of his that would prove he has an alibi for the new murder discovery), he is forced to flee from the police, as an actual perpetrator would. Also, just like a perp, he breaks into Seger’s home and threatens him with a knife, hoping to find evidence of a conspiracy to frame him. The guilt has been projected onto him so completely that Veil is acting like a genuinely guilty man.

A young reporter named Katie Carter (Stirling) has offered to help Veil prove his innocence, though he has refused her offer, fearing that her video recording of him will be manipulated to create the illusion of his guilt. It turns out, though his own tapes (and those of someone he’s paid to follow and record him) have proven his innocence of the prostitute murder (and a faked one of Seger), that it was Carter who accidentally killed her after a failed attempt by Carter to have the prostitute steal some of Veil’s tapes in his home during an intended sexual encounter with him there. Carter thus has attempted to frame Veil, too, and she is just as untrustworthy as everyone else around him is.

Now, just because someone is scapegoated, doesn’t mean the scapegoat always acts blamelessly; and just because someone is intensely suspicious of people doesn’t mean people are not trying to persecute him. The fact is that scapegoating changes the victim, the projective and introjective identification of guilty traits makes the victim almost believe, at least partially in his unconscious mind, that he’s indeed guilty of what he’s accused of…hence, his social awkwardness, for this is what happens to you when you feel hated and despised by the whole world.

So, when we see film of him holding a pistol (not realizing at first that it’s part of a video game in an arcade), when we see a video fragment, seen out of context, of him holding a pistol he hasn’t used to shoot Seger, Emeric, or Carter (who used it to shoot these two men and herself), and when we hear him repeat, in sobs, “I didn’t do nothing” (a double negative that technically means, ‘I did do something‘), all these things come across as Freudian slips suggesting at least an unconscious belief in one’s internalized guilt.

A faked murder of Seger is set up to accuse Veil of it, since he was in Seger’s house the night before. Later, after the tapes of Veil’s hired follower provide his alibi and free him, Carter catches Seger, takes him to Veil’s home, and there with Veil, she tries to accuse Seger of killing the Jaspers (of whom she’s secretly a family member, taking her murdered mother’s maiden name to disguise her identity), since Seger had the murder weapon in his home as a souvenir.

Seger, however, insists that it was sent to his home by Mr. Jasper, her father and the real killer of her mother and half-sisters, since they were the offspring of her mother’s trysts with another man (Mr. Jasper also killed himself on learning of the acquittal of Veil, thus making him a suspect). Seger’s choice of words, in identifying the real murderer of the family, are particularly cruel. He says that the blood of the killer runs in her veins, implying she has as much of the killer instinct as her father; it’s Seger doing projective identification of his own viciousness onto her.

Now, Carter already knows what Seger has said to be true; she has just been trying to hide it. Her claiming she was sleeping over at a friend’s house the night of the killings was, I suspect, a lie. Going by her mother’s surname instead of by Jasper is a rejection of her father and his murderous nature.

Afraid of the scandalous truth of her family being made public, Carter has been trying to set Veil up with new, fabricated evidence of his supposedly murderous proclivities. Her hiring of a prostitute, Mary Shaw, in 1998, to tempt Veil with sex and have her steal some of his tapes, failed when Mary peaked in his home and saw all the cameras and newspaper clippings of murder cases in one corner of his room, terrifying her.

This collection of clippings is of unsolved cases he’s afraid of being accused of, so he must analyze them. Their being in his home is symbolic of, once again, his introjection of the scapegoating and shaming that Seger and Emeric have imposed on him. The judge threw out the Jasper case against him ten years ago because, instead of being based on hard fact, it was a matter of trial by tabloid.

So Carter’s duplicitous pretending, on the one hand, to help Veil to win his confidence so he’ll let her, on the other hand, betray him, is a case of taking advantage of an established scapegoat in order to protect oneself from such scapegoating. In dysfunctional families, one can see this kind of despicable, cowardly behaviour in golden children towards their scapegoated siblings; if one sides with the narcissistic parent against the family victim, one needn’t fear being victimized oneself.

Carter is so committed to framing Veil that, having shot Seger in the head with her father’s gun (after having thrown it into Veil’s hands so his fingerprints are on it), she knocks Veil unconscious and, when he wakes up, she’s masturbating her now-tied-up victim while on top of him so she can rape him and, once he’s come inside her, she has ‘proof’ that he’s raped her.

In this rape we have another example of projection. She’s raping him so it will seem he’s raped her: after all, sexual stereotypes are favouring Carter over Veil in this situation. With his arms and legs tied up like this, Veil is frozen in this supine, spreadeagle position on the floor, helpless in her framing of him.

It would seem fitting now to discuss the name of the film, and what it means. Apart from the obvious pun on frame (a frame of film, and Veil’s being framed), there’s also a multiple meaning in the word freeze. When the police arrest somebody, they point a gun at him and yell “Freeze!” Also, there’s one’s reaction to a danger: fight/flight/freeze/fawn.

Veil cannot fight the police and government authorities, especially without any help–they’re too powerful. He would appear to have nowhere to flee. He cannot fawn and charm people committed to hating him. So all he can do is freeze…lie there and be helpless (as he is, tied up by Carter), hoping they’ll go away one day. Those who are scapegoated often feel this helpless and disempowered; imagine how Julian Assange, Edward Snowden, and Chelsea Manning must feel, accused of treason when all they did was expose the crimes of the narcissistic powerful.

To be fair to Carter, though, she isn’t as single-minded in her determination to frame Veil. She is conflicted about it, and feels some genuine remorse. She is in tears during her last moments with him. The malignancy of some victimizers isn’t as extreme as it is in others.

Emeric demonstrates the extreme of his malignancy upon entering Veil’s home one last time, assuming that Veil’s struggling with Carter over the gun is him trying to kill her, when really he’s trying to stop her from killing herself. Emeric shoots Veil in the arm, and Carter, acknowledging he’s the only innocent person in this whole affair, redeems herself by shooting Emeric before putting the gun in her mouth and blowing her brains out.

Veil has needlessly picked up her gun, weeping and saying he “didn’t do nothing.” This is yet another example of an innocent scapegoat internalizing all the guilt imposed on him. Though his three persecutors are dead, and even Detective Mountjoy (Salmon) is convinced, by Veil’s tapes, that he’s innocent, Veil ends the film still filming himself, so consummate is the scapegoat’s unconscious introjection of a guilt he shouldn’t be feeling.

Off-camera is off-guard.

Toxic Families: Better Than the Scapegoat?

One of the ways that a toxic family justifies their abusive treatment of the scapegoat, or identified patient, is to characterize themselves as more moral, wiser, stronger, smarter, more mature, more giving, etc.,…you get the idea…than their chosen victim. Accordingly, they imagine that all their taunts, insults, scolding, condescension, verbal abuse, manipulation, and even physical threats are meant ‘to correct’ the family scapegoat, ‘to help‘ the victim to see the error of his or her ways.

Personally, I’d love to know how bullies, liars, and gaslighting narcissists can actually be in any position of moral authority, let alone be better than the scapegoat, however flawed he or she may be. Still, the victimizers manage to continue deluding themselves that they’re superior.

What’s worse, the victim has been so thoroughly manipulated into buying into the toxic family’s narrative that he or she constantly engages in second-guessing; for no matter how clear that narrative’s falsity is to see, the family’s constant lack of validation of the victim’s experiences of their mendacity is a blinding fog that causes endless pangs of self-doubt.

One thing to remember about the toxic family’s pretensions to moral superiority is they are just that–pretensions, an outward show meant to impress others. This is part of the agenda of collective narcissists. Such theatre is especially obvious in the family golden child, whose False Self of outward goodness is often a carbon copy of the False Self of the narcissistic parent.

I experienced emotional abuse from my family in the form of gaslighting: my late mother, who I have good reason to believe was a malignant narcissist, lied about me having an autism spectrum disorder in order to project her own faults onto me, to control me, and to undermine my ability to develop self-confidence–the link at the beginning of this paragraph gives the full story. Another form of the abuse I endured was bullying, a few examples of which are given in this link, as well as some from my elder siblings, Mom’s flying monkeys, <<<given in this link .

Then there was the family’s explosive rage and verbal abuse in response to usually rather minor offences of mine; and there were smear campaigns Mom made against me and my cousins, as well as her use of triangulation to replace direct communication between my siblings and me–that is, efforts made by my mother to divide the family against each other. Some loving family.

Because of all these awful things that she and my older brothers, R. and F., and my older sister, J., did to me, they who felt no empathy for me and rarely if ever respected my boundaries (and my siblings’ abusive actions were almost always defended by our mother, as hers were by them), I grew so fed up with them that I, like so many other family scapegoats, reduced all contact with them to a minimum by the 2010s, and since Mom’s death in 2016, I’ve had no contact with my siblings at all.

To them, my refusal to be involved in any way in their lives is further ‘proof’ that I’m selfish and uncaring, that I’m ‘crazy’ for imagining that our mother could ever have had any malignant intent or have lied to her family, and that, in going no contact, I’ve refused to respect the notion of preserving the ‘sanctity’ of the family unit.

Now, here’s a question for them: if we were to look beneath their surface goodness, would we see them as really being any better than I am (presuming I’m as bad as they say I am)? How is gaslighting and bullying a family member not selfish or uncaring? How are explosive anger and yelling verbal abuse, over usually little more than trifling offences, not at least temporary insanity (ira furor brevis est)? If accusing one’s mother of lying and abuse (charges far from being implausible) is crazy, surely blowing up at someone over minor provocations is much crazier.

And finally, and most significantly, NO CONTACT as a refusal to respect the need for family oneness is a two-way street, as far as my relationship with my family is concerned (i.e., they’ve been almost as no contact with me as I am with them…not that I’m complaining about that, of course!). Almost fifteen years ago, my mother claimed that I hadn’t “earned” the family’s respect because I virtually never emailed my siblings–R. and F. in particular–since my having moved from Canada to Taiwan.

What my mother conveniently omitted to mention is that R. and F. hardly ever emailed me, either: does this mean they haven’t earned my respect? I feel no affection at all for my “brothers” because their (and Mom’s and J.’s) constant, almost daily bullying of me as a child, teen, and young adult back in Canada, including countless examples of verbal abuse, insults, physical threats, and other demeaning acts on me alienated me from them. F., the physical abuser, could be particularly sadistic. Given this train wreck of a relationship, why would I want to communicate with them?

More importantly, the division between my older brothers and me (as well as that between me and J.) wasn’t so much to do with my faults as it was the fault of my triangulating mother, whose half-truths and verbal manipulations stirred up all the resentment needed to keep us all apart. Hence, she was being a hypocrite to blame the problem all on me.

R.’s, F.’s, and J.’s preservation of family unity is hardly any better than mine. They fancy themselves to be so much more loving to their respective families than I am to them. (Bear in mind here that I’m being charitable to them by assuming this goodness; for, since I know just how low they’re capable of being, who knows what ugly things they may have done, behind closed doors, to their kids over the years?) In fact, they’re only loving to those within their inner circle, not to those in the wider family.

Theirs is a conditional love–love for them is just obligation to care for others. They’d much rather love those family members who are easy to love, like F.’s daughter, who I suspect has been groomed to be the golden child of her generation. I’ll be the first to admit that I’m not an easy person to live with, let alone to love…but isn’t family love supposed to be unconditional? Safety from abusive treatment shouldn’t be dependent on being ‘easy to love.’

There are ways of expressing frustration with family members, being frankly angry with them, without being cruel or contemptuous; in fact, showing contempt towards those who frustrate you tends to increase, not decrease, the undesirable behaviour, because constantly harming people’s self-esteem puts them on a downward spiral of self-sabotage, not an upward one to self-improvement.

As they are with me, my siblings feel nothing but contempt for our cousins; for as I’ve discussed in so many previous posts (many of whose links are given above), our mother bashed her nephews constantly, and R., F., and J. uncritically accepted all of her bad-mouthing of our cousins. Our middle cousin, S., is suffering from paranoid delusions and hallucinations (probably brought on by an excessive marijuana-smoking habit, among other drug use, which he started in his teens), but the family won’t lift a finger to help him.

Helping the mentally ill is a daunting task, to be sure, but the family won’t even try; they certainly didn’t after I tried to help S. by confronting him with the problem directly, and after I begged Mom and J., in all futility, back in the mid-2010s to help him…yet I am the “self-centred” one.

If it upsets R., F., and J. so much that I have “given up on” them, if I’m such a low form of life for holding on to grudges, and if they’re so much better than I am about ‘doing what’s right,’ then why can’t they actually be the better people, and make efforts to patch things up with me? That is, not just try to suck me back into the family and treat me the same as before, but actually open their minds to my side of the story, and take responsibility for the role they played in our mutual alienation? Sometimes being better means admitting when one has been worse.

This doesn’t mean that I want them to contact me, of course; for though it’s only natural that I, like anyone, would want to heal family wounds and have a normal, healthy relationship with my own flesh and blood, I know that their trying to contact me would only be another attempt at hoovering me. It would be a formidable task for any of them–my three elder siblings, my nephews and niece, or anyone else in the family–to convince me that their wish to be reconciled with me is on the level.

Regardless of whether or not I’d want them to try to contact me, though, an effort far more vigorous than the two times J. tried to do so (after Mom’s death) would be needed for them to prove that they really care about me. It’s always only J., the golden child, who tries to fix things with me, and that’s only because Mom obligated her to be the ‘perfect daughter/sister/mother/aunt/etc.’ Neither R. nor F. will give the slightest thought to contacting their younger brother. Honouring the memory of our late Mom and Dad–and unlike me, R., F., and J. consider her memory more than worthy of being honoured–would demand a reconciliation of them with me, but they won’t do it.

As I said in my post on the coronavirus and its impact on them, they showed no interest in finding out if I’m OK. Granted, I didn’t contact them either, of course, but they’re supposed to be so much better than I am when it comes to caring for family. They’re supposed to have the maturity that I lack to rise above the long-held grudges, to be willing to do whatever it takes, and ‘to do what’s right.’

Don’t misinterpret my meaning. I didn’t want them to contact me then, and I still don’t want them to contact me now–I never will: I bring this all up merely to prove my point. They never loved me. And if I’m such a bad person for not loving them, they’re no better than I am. They’ve no right to judge me.

So if you, Dear Reader, find yourself traumatized by a toxic family that claims to love you, yet blames you for all (or most of) your family’s dysfunction, don’t let them shame you or guilt-trip you for choosing to distance yourself from them. You aren’t being selfish: you are protecting yourself.

Bullies and gaslighting, lying narcissists have no moral authority over you, no matter how much they posture as if they do. If all they ever do to you is make you feel bad about yourself, they aren’t loving. And if they aren’t loving, they aren’t better than you.

In fact, for all your faults, you’re probably better than they are.

Jason Morton’s New Poem

Here’s another poem by my friend, Jason Morton, whose work I’ve written about before. As before, I’ve put his words in italics to distinguish them from mine; after the text will be my analysis.

Absolution a myth
Created by man
To make me into what I never was
A sinner a winner
A child like wonder
Bursting stars in my eyes
Only pain can penetrate the lies
As deliverance has fallen short
Like an angel who is a forgotten
Figure in my mind and my eyes
Listen to the wind
And sift through the lies

Am I worthy to be redeemed?

Here we find the poet struggling with feelings of shame, guilt, and low self-esteem, brought on by such demeaning authority figures as those symbolized by the Church.

There’s the hope of absolution, though it’s a hope never realized. Ostensibly, it’s meant to make one a better person, but what it really does is try to make one into what one never was: an obedient follower.

“A sinner” is supposedly redeemed and made into “a winner” and “a child like wonder” reminding one of Matthew 18:3: “Verily I say unto you, Except ye be converted, and become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven.”

Note how childlike is split into two separate words, indicating how far one really is from being the sweet, innocent, childlike ideal that religious authoritarianism claims it wants for us, but is really a kind of code word for obedience and conformity.

“Bursting stars in my eyes” suggests a blinding by the celestial light, the poet’s eyes exploding, being destroyed by the authority that would see for him. Learning the truth of this abusive authority is inevitably painful, hence “only pain can penetrate the lies.”

“Deliverance has fallen short” because the promises of redemption made by the authority are never kept. This having “fallen short” is like a new Fall of Man, a second falling from grace.

He feels “like an angel who is a forgotten/Figure in [his] mind and [his] eyes.” Would this forgotten angel be Lucifer, the one who used to be a great angel, but is now so disgraced as to be the Devil, his former goodness no longer remembered? Is the poet’s shame so extreme? Has the authoritarian structure harmed him that badly?

An interesting moment of ambiguity comes at the end of this last quote. “And my eyes” could end the passage about the forgotten angel, or his eyes could–in a surreal sense–“listen to the wind/And sift through the lies.” Perhaps this means that he hears a wind, the breath-like ruach, which he can’t see, because the Spirit of God is only believed to be there; it’s actually nonexistent.

In spite of the obvious unreality of the authoritarian narrative, be it literally religious or otherwise symbolic of some other kind (i.e., the authority of family, politics, etc.), he still feels the trauma of unworthiness that the narrative has imposed on him. Hence, “Am I worthy to be redeemed?”

I think he’s worthy enough not to need redemption. The question is, can those who so shamed him ever be worthy of redemption?

I have my doubts about that.

When Toxic Families Are ‘Helpful’

[NOTE: please read the second and third paragraphs from this post before continuing. Important–don’t skip reading them!]

I: Introduction

Part of the condescending attitude that toxic families have towards the scapegoat, or identified patient, is the idea that they’re ‘trying to help’ him or her. This is the lamest rationalization they can come up with when, really, they’re just trying to impose their will on their victims.

In their collective narcissism, they imagine that they have it all together, and that the scapegoat is clueless. If the scapegoat is doing something his or her bullying family simply doesn’t understand, he or she is judged rather than listened to. Not the slightest attempt is made to understand the scapegoat. It is assumed by the toxic family that the scapegoat, in his or her idiosyncratic or eccentric habits, is ‘wrong’ to be acting those ways, and therefore must have his or her behaviour ‘corrected.’

It never occurs to the family bullies that maybe they are the ones who have the problem (or at least are to a large extent the problem), and that whatever personality problems the scapegoat may actually have, that those problems were largely the result, directly or indirectly, of all that bullying (as opposed to the scapegoat having been ‘born that way’). The notion of pulling out the beam from their own eyes, so they can see clearly to help their brother get the mote out of his eye (Matthew 7:1-5), is lost on them.

This is one of the central problems I had with the five people with whom I had the misfortune of growing up in the same house. Each of them more or less had an agenda for me, something I was supposed to conform to, and when I didn’t conform, they made life very difficult for me.

II: My Parents

Though his agenda for me was quite irritating in its own right, my father was probably the least unreasonable of the bunch. At least when he tried to push me into getting a Bachelor of Commerce when I started university (at which I was failing miserably: I ended up dropping out of it half-way into my first year), his intentions were good…if misguided. He wanted me to get a high-paying job, and to do well in life. When it didn’t work out, he was disappointed, of course, but his attitude wasn’t rejecting of me as a person.

Enter my mother, whose intentions were nothing less than malignant. In her narrative about me having an autism spectrum disorder that I, about a mere ten years before this writing, learned was not only utter nonsense, but was also–a pretty dead certainty–a deliberate fabrication, she’d wanted me to be a loser my whole life, too afraid in my ‘mental disability’ to face the challenges of the world, emotionally and financially dependent on her, totally under her control. I was strong-willed enough, however, not to play that role, not to live the underachieving life she’d planned out for me.

In her lies, however, she smugly went on and on about how labelling me with classic autism (when I was a child), then with Asperger Syndrome (from about 2002-2016, when she died), was meant “to help” me. Honestly, people aren’t helped when labelled; they’re helped when listened to. And being lied to about mental deficiencies you don’t have don’t help you…they’re the opposite of help.

How is robbing someone of his confidence, from childhood to adulthood, supposed to be a form of help?

III: J.

My older sister, J., also tried to be ‘helpful.’ In her opinion, I can’t do anything right. She made it her mission to change just about everything in my personality. Apparently, I don’t dress correctly. I don’t listen to the right music. I don’t have the correct political views. Any time I express an opinion she’s never encountered before or considers odd, it’s automatically ‘wrong’ rather than an opportunity for her to see things from a fresh perspective.

Yet if I ever defend my ways with any measure of vigour, I am the closed-minded one, not her.

This snotty, know-it-all attitude of hers had a perfect rationale: she was getting me to see the ‘error of my ways.’ She has always deluded herself into thinking that what she was doing for me, back when I was living with the family in Canada, was for my own good, an act of love. As the family golden child, she felt obligated to play the role of the ‘loving sister,’ and correct my errant ways.

Her attempted ‘corrections’ of me were really a projection of our mother’s ‘corrections’ of her, since our narcissist mother manipulated her into playing the role of golden child as much as Mom manipulated me into being the scapegoat. J. mistook Mom’s mind games for love, imagining Mom was trying to make her into a ‘better’ person; for this reason, J.’s pushing me into being a ‘better’ younger brother was something she thought was an act of love, rather than a form of bullying and manipulation…just as Mom had bullied her into being the perfect daughter, a projection of Mom’s idealized version of herself. Mom’s False Self became J.’s False Self.

I refused to be an extension of J.’s ego (and of the negative side of our mother’s), as J. should have refused to be an extension of the positive side of Mom’s; but J. didn’t have the guts to refuse it, because getting Mommy’s (fake) love was all-important to J. My freedom from bullying and gaslighting is more important to me than getting Mom’s, or J.’s, fake, oh-so-conditional love.

What J. fails to understand is that this urge to change me into an utterly different–and ‘more acceptable’–person is another rejection of who I am. Love is about accepting people as they are, even though their imperfections are annoying from time to time. J.’s rejection of me, therefore, was the opposite of love. It was the opposite of helping, too.

IV: F.

Next, I must come to the attempts of my older brother, F., ‘to fix’ what was wrong with me. Now, I must confess that, when I was a child, and especially as a result of when we moved from the Toronto area to Hamilton in 1977, there was something seriously wrong with me. My family’s ‘diagnosis’ of my problems, however, was not only terribly wrong, but also to a great extent caused by them.

I can’t blame them for the move; that couldn’t be helped. My then-best friend, Neil, lived in Rexdale, just down the street from our house, and having to move away left me emotionally devastated (I was seven or eight years old at the time). On top of this, I was being bullied at school…and on top of that, I was being bullied at home…mainly–and in a largely physical way–by F.

He used to rationalize his anger towards me by claiming that he was frustrated that, in Hamilton, I made no attempts to make friends (actually, I made many attempts, but my social awkwardness made most of those attempts failures). One of the effects of bullying, as well as of adverse childhood experiences (ACE) in general, is that one tends to self-isolate, to protect oneself from further bullying. It never occurred to F. that he was one of the main causes of the very thing I was doing that, so he says, was frustrating him.

His attempt ‘to help’ me go out there and make friends was to force me to play baseball. He’d throw a ball to me, and I’d swing at it with a bat. It didn’t matter to him at all that I didn’t want to play baseball. One of my bad habits at the time was engaging in maladaptive daydreaming (a self-isolating escape from reality into fantasy–a mechanism, really, for coping with trauma), something the family had every good reason in the world to get me to stop doing, but something they were going about in all the wrong ways.

Granted, I can’t expect them to have had all the answers to fix this complicated problem, but I can expect them, as my family, to have a loving enough attitude to empathize with me, to attempt to get at the root of the problem (bullying, ACE, and my traumas related to these and to the loss of Neil’s company), rather than thinking that shaming me would make me stop the maladaptive daydreaming.

Similarly, to be fair to F., I couldn’t have expected him, a teen at the time, to have had the maturity to understand that forcing me to play a sport I didn’t want to play wasn’t going to work; but I could have expected my parents to have done their job and told him that he couldn’t make me like baseball. Of course, the fact that Mom was lying to me about autism, as well as winking at almost all of F.’s bullying, should indicate that she wasn’t interested in helping me at all.

Indeed, she was cultivating the very trauma, self-hatred, and alienation that was making me behave the way I was.

V: R.

Now, my eldest brother, R., never really tried to bend me to his will, to be ‘helpful’ (the reason being that the smug egotist never gave a shit about me). He never did, that is, except for one time, when our mother was dying. (I discussed the whole story in Part 6 of this post: “Is My Mother Dead?”)

Several months prior to the story given above (and described in detail in Part 5 of that post: “More Elaborate Lies”), Mom had told me a string of about seven lies about my cousin, S., and his mother, my aunt (a more detailed account of these lies is given in this post). Understanding these stories is key to having the context behind this issue with my brother, R.

My mother had already been a proven liar with her autism and Asperger Syndrome fabrications; these two, and the seven lies told me in the late summer of 2015, were three of the eight outrages she perpetrated against me, as listed in VII: Conclusion, from this post. All of these outrages were more than enough for me not to want to talk to her on her death bed, a very mild punishment given the enormity of what she’d done to me.

Immediately after having told me those seven horrible lies by email, Mom had the audacity to pressure me into getting on an airplane and flying from East Asia (where I live and work) to Canada to visit her, because she “would love to see [me].” She expressed herself as if she’d done nothing wrong, and I was expected to snap to attention and do her bidding. By telling her in an email reply that I didn’t want to see her, nor did I ever want to communicate with her by email or phone, because of her “Lies, lies, and more lies,” I was simply trying to protect myself, but she predictably spun my response as if I’d gone crazy and had “hurt” her, a typical narc tactic.

I actually did end up talking to her–once–on R.’s cellphone while she, 77, was in hospital, dying of metastasized breast cancer. During the phone conversation, she never took any responsibility for her lies, the acknowledgement of which could have been a wonderful moment of final healing and reconciliation between us. Instead, she not only pretended she didn’t know what I was talking about by accusing her of lying, but she also laid a thick guilt trip on me for being a “self-centred” son and for having “hurt” her. Then she congratulated herself on having given me “the most love” when I was a pre-teen.

So, when she’d been lying to me, around when I was from nine to twelve years old, about an autism spectrum disorder I don’t have–using such extreme language as to say that psychiatrists had recommended locking me away in an asylum with mentally retarded people, or that I might not have even made a good garbageman when I grew up–and when she did virtually nothing to stop the bullying I got from R., F., and J., she was giving me “the most love”? I was furious.

The above is the context in which R.’s wish to have me do what he wanted should be understood. After the ordeal of having to listen to Mom talk to me that way on R.’s cellphone, I chatted with him. I tried to get him to understand why I’d been acting the way I was, in response to her lies, but of course he didn’t listen to a word I was saying (presumably imagining I was making her death ‘all about me’ instead of about her…actually, I was making it all about her). Anyway, he talked some clichéd nonsense about how ‘Mom loved us all our lives, so now it’s our turn to love her back.’

He wanted me to call his cellphone number to chat with her regularly between that time and her eventual death–an easy and perfectly reasonable thing to do, on the face of it…if your dying mother happens to have been a genuinely good one who ‘loved us all our lives,’ but in my mother’s case, I beg to differ.

Needless to say, what R. wanted wasn’t helping anybody, except her in her narcissistic schemes. This ‘brother’ of mine never showed any real interest in contacting me the whole time I’ve lived in East Asia; the only reason he wanted me to contact Mom is for the same reason the family has ever acknowledged my very existence–as an extension of them. When I never made those calls he’d requested of me, he began cyberstalking me. He had the bad luck of stumbling upon a video I’d made and posted on YouTube (under my original name back in 2009), an obscure little recitation of Philip Larkin‘s poem, “This Be the Verse.”

Now, Mom had just died, and he was very upset with my embittered recitation (a pain he could have easily spared himself if he’d simply minded his own business: he knew I was mad at Mom, so he should have known that sneaking around in my online affairs would have been like walking in an emotional minefield). Below was his snarky comment, almost a word-for-word quote, which I’ve since hidden from the YouTube page because of how triggering it is for me:

“Disturbing words from a disturbed individual with an imperfect mother who loved you more than anyone else on the planet. You misunderstand her, just as you misunderstand everyone else except yourself. Shame on you.”

Everything he said in this comment is wrong, except for the very first two words…and even their correctness is dependent on their interpretation. My words weren’t disturbing for having been crazy and way off the mark; if so, they wouldn’t have been disturbing, but easily dismissed as nonsense. They were disturbing to him because they were true. Mom and Dad really did fuck us all up, and R. doesn’t have the guts to confront the trauma we all received from our parents.

VI: Everything Wrong With R.’s Comment

As for being “a disturbed individual,” though I do believe I suffer from C-PTSD (caused, for the most part, by…which five people, I wonder?), I’m not any more inherently “disturbed” than R., or F., or J., or any other average person. Making a video in which one vents one’s frustrations against the family one has been hurt by doesn’t make one mentally ill, just emotionally scarred.

Calling her “an imperfect mother” is meaningless. Is anyone out there perfect, R.? I’m not concerned with Mom’s imperfections; I’m concerned with her lies, triangulating, smear campaigns not just on me but on our cousins, and her divide-and-conquer agenda. Loving mothers don’t do these things…period! News flash, R.: I’m “imperfect,” too; but there is a double standard in our family as to whose imperfections are tolerated, and whose aren’t.

R. has no idea who “on the planet” has loved me more or less; nor does he have any idea how much or how little our mother ‘loved’ me. All he knows is that neither he nor F. have ever loved me, or even liked me. He projects, onto the whole world, his and F.’s unbrotherly attitude towards me to justify how shitty they’ve always been to me. And incidentally, R., Dad loved me, and my wife loves me–in spite of their own frustrations with me–far more than Mom or J. ever did.

R. also has no idea of who I understand or misunderstand. I actually understand our mother all too well. R. flagrantly misunderstands me, and to this day he wilfully refuses even to try to understand me, as do F. and J., because judging me is far more fun than it is to examine how the events in my life shaped my personality. Imagining I was ‘born this way’ (i.e., Mom’s description of ‘my autism’) means they don’t have to rethink anything.

I, on the other hand, in spite of how judgemental I’m being to the five of them here (everything that goes around, comes around), have made efforts to understand what must have happened in the lives of all five of them to have made them what they were and are to each other, to me, and to our cousins. You can read about my speculations here, among other posts I’ve written on the subject.

I also never had the advantage of witnessing their early years, as they had for me. They could have, with reasonable ease, worked out the life events that made me what I am, but didn’t, not because they couldn’t, but because they never cared to try–listening to Mom’s lies about me was sufficient for them. I, on the other hand, who had virtually no first-hand material to work with, cared enough to try to construct theories about how they became so nasty to me.

To put it briefly, R., F., and J. traumatized me because Mom and Dad traumatized them when they were little. Our parents, in turn, were traumatized by such things as the Great Depression, the Blitz, and the early death of my maternal grandfather. None of them were ‘born that way.’

R.’s final remark, that I “misunderstand everyone else except [my]self,” doesn’t even make sense. People who misunderstand everyone around them are by far the least likely to understand themselves, because personality development is all about symbiotic relationships with others. Our misunderstandings of others are usually projections of our misunderstood, unexamined selves.

This overgeneralization of his, emotional rather than logical, was obviously meant as a slur on my supposed autism, defined by my family as a kind of narcissistic self-absorption. This is an outdated conception of what autism really is, and a projection of their collective narcissism onto me, the identified patient.

“Shame on you” was meant to guilt-trip me into communicating with the family and apologizing to them for expressing what I had a perfect right to express (in the video), and for establishing boundaries where I had a perfect right to establish them. This attempt at goading me into doing what they wanted me to do proves once again that their trying to be ‘helpful’ was all fake and phoney.

VII: Did Mom Really Die in May of 2016?

Here’s another thing: though I assume that Mom really died back then (the pendulum swings towards it being only probably true…I never saw a corpse!), it’s still possible that my original speculation, that her death had been faked, was at the time correct.

With the combination of everything that happened back around April and May of 2016–my being informed of my portion of the inheritance in Mom’s will, the above comment from R., an email from J. saying that I had some belongings left in Mom’s home, a notice about her funeral mailed to me (presumably with photos: I never opened the package; were the pictures of Mom Photoshopped?), etc.–it really seems as though she died, hence I said so here.

But as it says in this video, one of the ways a toxic family tries to hoover you back into the relationship is to make a false alarm (e.g., a member of the family is ‘dying’). I’m still assuming she really died back then, as the evidence still leans that way. In any case, if she hadn’t died in the spring of 2016, she’s probably dead by now (i.e., having died at around the age of 80), from old age and a ‘broken heart’ from my having gone NO CONTACT. Incidentally, I will not be held responsible for a ‘broken heart’ that she’d brought on herself with her lies and manipulation.

Now, if the family had been faking her death back in the spring of 2016, if they had been lying to me about her worsening health–right after I’d accused her of lying, which they, of course, dismissed as nonsense right as they were engaging in further deception of me–then they are even more reptilian than I’d originally understood them to be, and my actions are all the more justified.

To my knowledge, assuming the above is true, they haven’t tried any more stunts on me since then…thank the gods for that.

VIII: Conclusion

Anyway, in sum, these examples that I’ve given should help you understand, Dear Reader, that toxic families don’t help you in any way, in spite of their claims that they do. They don’t help you get better work. They’re unfit to diagnose you with any mental condition. Their bullying doesn’t encourage you to make friends–the trauma it causes does the opposite of that. Their constant criticisms destroy your self-esteem, making it all the harder for you to thrive in life. And they can’t reunite a family–literally–to save anyone’s life.

Now, I know that I’ve said a whole lot of harsh things about my family, and perhaps, Dear Reader, you’re finding my harshness rather grating; but try to understand the pain and hurt they caused me…for decades, without any sincere expression of remorse. When one has that much pain bottled up inside oneself, one can’t help but spew rage against one’s victimizers over and over again.

This leads me to my next point: my repetition of largely the same incidents, over and over again, after having discussed essentially the same things in so many previous posts. Part of my purpose in all of this repetition is a processing of my pain through writing therapy, a putting of trauma into words. It is part of the process of healing, and if you have gone through the same kinds of things, I recommend doing this kind of writing again and again, to heal yourselves.