I read some advice columns and I know better than to read the commentariat (usually). But I can’t resist from time to time over at Slate bcause I want to see what, ah, the masses believe. Slate is a lef-leaning website with reasonably intelligent readers. Still. I find myself going, “WTF are you talking about?” more often than not when I read the comments. Let me tell you why.
1. “This is fake.” I’m not saying fake letters don’t make it into the columns. I’m sure they do. But, the reason this irritates me so much is because it’s always letters that are completely believable that get the most outrage. If you truly understand narcissist people, then you wouldn’t be saying, “This can’t be real.”
There was a letter recently from a mother who was mad at her daughter, Kayla, for being ‘selfish’. Kayla’s older brother, Josh, was profoundly autistic and neede to be watched. Well, here’s the letter. The upshot is that the mother expected Kayla to get a degree in social work and take care of Josh while she, the mother, retired.Kayla went to school out of town on a scholarship, majored in math, and got an internship in that field for the summer.
There were several people in the comments who said it was fake, not because it wasn’t a believeable situation, but because they said no one was that unaware of how they were coming across. To which I thought, “You’ve never met a true narcissist, have you?”
Narcissists think they are right no matter what. It’s kinda their bag. It’s their shtick. I mean, it’s in the word. Narcissists are incapable of thinking of others. That doesn’t automatically make them assholes, but they have to be very aware of their lack of empathy. It’s possible to be a narcissist and not hurt other people, but it’s not easy.
Anyway, my point is that this story is all-too-believable. And there’s even room for being sympathetic to the mother. It’s gotta be hard to be in that position, especially in America where the social welfare net has been cut to the bare minimum–if even that. Her ex-husband sounds like a jackass for flaking, but the answer isn’t to make her daughter the second parent. But it’s too real. Especially for female-shaped persons. The boy is the most important person because he’s the disabled one. The sister is supposed to endlessly sacrifice herself for the son/brother.
Many people in the comments were questioning how a parent could be that clueless. Some thought maybe the daughter had written the letter, but one person noted that if it was the daughter, it would have been a much different tone. It would have been sad and resigned. Or, and this is my interjection, angry to hide the pain.
It just shows how limited people’s viewpoints are. “No parent would act like that!” Are you fucking kidding me? Parents abuse their children. Physically, emotionally, sexually. Parents kill their children. People flinch away from that truth. It’s ugly. It’s harsh. But it’s real.
More to the point, it doesn’t really matter if this actual letter is real because the situation is real. That’s something Alison from Ask A Manager emphasizes. She tries to ensure that the letter writers are real, but at the end of the day, if someone pulls one over her, she can stil address a situtaion that probably is happening to someone. Not the more outrageous stories (like the DNA one that just got updated), but the ones that are just on the cusp (like the obsessed boss).
2. Pleading for updates. This is so annoying to me. This happens in Ask A Manager all the time. A particularly juicy letter will come in and one of the first letters is for an update. The cousin is the one saying, “I nominate this for worst boss of the year!” These are real people. Take them as they are. Engage with the letter as it is. I understand it’s human nature, but it’s annoying.
3. Bringing your own shit into the comments. Look. We all do it to a certain extent because we are who we are. We can’t help seeing things from our point of view, but at least acknowledge that there are other points of view and that you migth not be right. Or you might not have all the information. I know I do it myself. Now, it’s the fact that I died twice. It’s given me a perspective that I can’t expect others to have. But it’s hard for me not to talk about it as my frame of reference. I used to hate my body. Now, I’m all, “This body literally got me through death twice. Fuck you.”
My body is a wonderland. My body is a temple. My body is a fucking GOD. My body died twice, flicked it off, and said, “That all you got?” I walked out of a hospital with nary a scatch after non-COVID-related walking pneumonia, two cardiac arrests, and a stroke. No rehab, no PT, no NOTHING. Well, a little something. A little rest and a whole lotta Taiji. But I would have done both of those, anyway.
So, yeah. My perspective is very skewed. I’m about as lefty as you can get, all up with that social change, give it to the man, fuck the police energy. And I own that if you give me a sob story, I will most likely be on your side. You’re not going to sway me with money or might, but injustice? Hell, yeah! I’ll fight that power with you. Tell me about your narcissistic parents and how they trod all over you? I will offer you a sympathetic shoulder to cry on. Tell me how your family has systematically belittled and demeaned you, and I will forever be your champion.
Here’s the thing, though. I can at least acknowlwedge my biases. I know that I’m firmly for the underdog, the abused, and the disadvantaged. That’s not a bad thing in general, but that means that I can be taken by a sob story. And, as I have said before, being a minority (or abused) and an asshole is not necessarily mutually exclusive.
It’s like me and narcissists; I can spot them a million miles away–95% of the time. The other 5% of the time, though, I’m waaaaaay taken in. That’s the worst part. Not when I overlook the narcissism, but when I don’t even see it. As I said, though, I’m fortunate that I can spot it most of the time.
Most of the time, I see my empathy as a burden. I would rather not have it than have it, but there’s nothing I can do about that. It’s not because I want to be mean to people, but because I have to take on all these emotions that I can’t do anything with. My mother started parentifying me when I was eleven. I was made responsible for her emotions. She had no one else to talk to and thought nothing of dumping all her marital problems on her eleven-year-old daughter. Who was deeply depressed and suicidal. Was it because of her? Yeah. I mean, there were other reasons for it, but she was a big part of my pain.
So, now, it’s much easier to think of her as an old, broken woman who never tried to get better. She recently revealed to me that she was trying to find a therapist in America to work with. And, I swear to you, my first thought was, “I’m so glad.” My second thought almost immediately was, “But it’s too late.” Because she’s 80 and saddled with an abusive husband who has dementia. Whom she won’t leave, won’t put in a nursing home, will not have nurses come over and help more than once a week. For maybe an hour or two. Because my father does not like it.
I want my mother to break free. I want her to be able to enjoy her life for however long she has left. I want her to know that she is a beautiful, vibrant, intelligent woman who has done so much with her life. I want desperately for her to know a life of peace. I used to think that if my father died, she would have that peace. She would be able to sit quietly in her house, not having to be ready to jump up at a minute’s notice to do my father’s bidding.
I first begged her to divorce my father whenI was eleven. She had a litany of reasons why she couldn’t. Why she wouldn’t. I stopped suggesting it many years ago, but it still remains the only answer that I think would give her a fighting chance to have a few years to herself. Except. I no longer even think that. Because being a martyr is so embedded in her identity, if she left my father or he died, she would just find another lost cause to devote herself to.
And here we are yet again. This is obviously something that is bothering me and that I need to hash out. So, I’ll probably be back with another post on it tomorrow.