Facing the truth

Today I had to “burry alive” my family.

All of them.

My mother, my father and my brother.

Although it felt like I’m burying myself, painfully aware of the consequences for me, I knew that if I don’t do it, I’ll have to burry myself.

Only not alive, as there is no human being that can go through what they put me through and not just survive and stay alive, but to have the strength to challenge them, the desire and will to live, to change and to thrive.

I will never see them again and there will be no contact with any of them to the rest of my life. No regrets. Perhaps only one – I should’ve done this long time ago.

According to what one of my therapists told me, my research and every psychiatrist I met there is no point confronting them, no matter how tempting is. You’ll only hurt yourself, causing yourself more damage, if that’s even possible as there is simply nothing left of me to be damaged… “You can never win with those people, whatever the battel, no matter true or not.”  

However, against the advice, I confronted them. One by one. I had to be sure, I really had to see with my own eyes, despite the fact it was always there in front of me for years, so I can believe it for real this time. So I can explain to myself – no idea how – that denial is not an option anymore if I want to stay alive and be there for my real family.

And I did. Again – no regrets. I already knew the truth deep down, but my “training” blinded me. When I completely confirmed it, there was nowhere to hide anymore and as I said - denial was not an option anymore, even though, as it turns out it was one of my special super powers.

The burning feeling of grotesque injustice, that there is no way I can rectify, was eating me up alive. How come they can come out intact, where I have to literally battel every single day just to stay alive. They would never understand, they would never identify themselves with what they really are, even if I lay it out perfectly clear for them. All the books I’ve read, all my research, the team of my therapists and my psychiatrist told me the same thing over and over again – you can never win with those people. The best revenge, although revenge is not advisable according to them as it could back fire to you, is to live well, succeed in whatever you want to, be whoever you want to be, and never speak to them or see them again. And this is what I was planning to do.

But the injustice was still there and was killing me. There has to be a way. They deserve to suffer in some way for what they’ve done to me. I just couldn’t live with that. The rage inside me grew by the hour, I felt helpless, lost and miserable.

All this was costing dearly to my family. This is before I knew the truth. I tried to find help, still not knowing the real reason for my behaviour and lucky me – I was diagnosed with ADHD, OCD, PTSD and the final blow – Emotionally unstable personality disorder. Emotionally what? What the fuck? I know I’m unstable, that’s the reason I went through the numerous tests and evaluations, but the last diagnose sounded to me like “Jekyll and Hide”. I refused to believe, furious and dangerously pissed off, I started looking for second opinion and soon enough I found it. And guess what – exactly the same result.

Again, as what the master of twisted realities thought me, I refused to believe and chose denial. But to my surprise “denial” was no longer available. Nor twisted realities, which I constructed like Picasso. There was only one truth and only one reality. The one I don’t want to live in anymore. Completely confused and totally unaware of what was coming to me I tried to find some sense – in my behaviour, in their behaviour, anything really. Like a drowning man trying to clutch at a straw.   

Obviously there was something wrong with me but I was sure it’s because all of the miscarriages, the horrific birth of my daughter, the spontaneous pneumothorax, the demanding job I had, the diagnose with Rheumatoid Arthritis and the long list of nasty things life had presented me with for the last 7 years or so.

I’d start shouting with no obvious reason, say horrible things to my husband and then feeling so guilty of my stupidity I simply couldn’t take it anymore. I knew I had to seek help and fast, only not knowing what for.

And then finally the truth was revealed before me.

At first I did not believe it, even though I tested it by confronting them, deep inside I knew it’s true. I just preferred to live in the many realities I was capable of creating and changing my masks with a snap of my fingers. The problem was I couldn’t do that anymore.

The shock nearly killed me. And this is just discovering the truth about my mother.

When I saw the truth as it is I simply wanted to kill myself. I tried to construct and retrieve in one of my twisted realities only to find out there are no more other realities, except the one I’m living in but this time not knowing who I am. I had no identity. I was… faceless.

They stole my whole life and there was nothing I could do except walk away.

The problem here is that this simply is not in my nature. I do not walk away. I do what has to be done. All my life. Always.

In my mind for every injustice there is a reason, then there is someone or something guilty and once you identify who’s who and what’s what you have to rectify it. Only I couldn’t.

Because my parents are narcissists. Both of them. My brother too, which I discover at a later point. Everybody know what narcissist is, right? Unfortunately, they don’t the full definition. At least I didn’t. Well, now I know. And it’s not just one definition. There are many. And I learned them all the hard way.