O.C.D., NARCASSISM, & PERFECTIONISM-THE STRUGGLE PART I

“Perfectionism is taught to children when they are punished by their mistakes.” -unknown

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It was never good enough, it was just not good enough, now till this day, all the flashbacks of the dark gruesome nostalgic childhood memories live on. This is something I have been meaning to get off my chest, I want to share it with the world if this what “Blogging” is all about, realease right?

I am a  writer, always have been, always will be, I need to alleviate this critical moment in my life, I do not mind your judgement, critics, or by negative means you arguing over my personal Blog, its my writing, my truth, my life, pain, and my struggles. If I needed a critic it would not be you, I can be my own best critic becaues I am my own worst critic, I can do that myself thanks!

Perfect, perfect, perfect..I no longer classify it as a word  part of the English Vocabulary, it flows through my veins, it is in my blood…seriously.

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It must have been derived through DNA as well as my frangmanted mind being so easily influenced and corrupted since I was a child. As a Psychology Student in University, I am not saying by all means I am a certified Proffessional and know everything about the Human Pysche but it has helped me establish and understand human emotions and when we are adults we sort of…..change…..A LOT! I strongly believe in life, there are is no other bigger influence in your life then your parents. You can blame it on the media, you can blame it on celebrities, the news, social media, I do not care, its your parents. It begins in your mothers womb, a baby can detectpartse, pain, neglect, they can feel emotions. That is why it is so important and maternal for the mother to be the first person to hold her child in her arms, the baby needs to feel that Maternal love, the nurturing, my god people do not realize this. For me, of course I do not remember being held or if I was even held for all I know.

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My parents whom I no longer speak to, legal and emotional reasons have no photos or birth certificate of me, they have one for my brother, not me. As a child, my parents had me wear a gold bracelet with my name on it, ony problem is it wasnt my name, odd hey? They made me wear it till t no longer fit my around my tiny wrists.

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They still have that Gold Bracelet and that Bracelet along with other gold rings they had me wear is featured in photos. I do not know why my parents, especially my father was obsessed with taking photos of me, that may seen normal to you but just wait till the plot thickens here I promise. So no photos of my mom pregnant, only excessive photos taken after she gave birth to me, no birth cerificate, and a gold bracelet that did not have my name written on it. I know and can sense the readers are going, “Ok, cut to the chase..relax, I will. Just my O.C.D. kicking in because I am extremely detailed and bare with me, im a perfectionist. This is the part where you begin to understand, and that has to do with my Father. Calling him Father, let alone writing it is difficult. As a child, my dad showered me with excessive love. Too good to be true type of love, even though we were broke (or so my parents say but later on I find out something different, will explain further as you keep reading), my dad would take me to MarineLand in Ontario, I was only 2 years old but have the photos of me in the crib swimming in stuffed animals you could barely see me, adorable right? Not really when you know the true essence of my father, he spent hundreds of dollars winning those stuffed animals for me, why? Because he loves me? I would love to tell myself that but unfortunately, that is not the case. The strange began happening at the age of three years old, I will never forget this day. I remember things from the earliest age in my life since 3 years old, I do not know why. But here is the weird part with me, my father would always have music on in the house, he prided himself on the tower speakers and surround sound system he bought, he owned a lot of CDs. English being my second language, I would mostly speak Portuguese fluently around my dad, I could barely speak a word of English.  It was a weekend, the reason I know this is due to the fact that my mom was there because she had weekends off and would work late shift during the weekdays.

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My Father had Music blasting, as always. But it was evening and he finally put on Music in English. I had this fluttering feeling inside of me, something that is to symptomatic to explain in depths of the human pyshce, a pysical feeling much rather, a gut instinct. I did not speak English well, it was terrible, sounded worse then being fresh off the boat. For some reason I knew I could sing without even have ever sung a lyric to a song. I began to sing in English, the very first song I ever sang was, “Gloria”-Laura Branigan.  I got up on the coach as if I was about to perform in front of a live audience and sang every lyric, hit every note, danced, was jumping from coach to coach, as a child I was enjoying myself, I felt this freedom that needed to be addressed to someone or a group of people, this urge, itch, I just spontaneously began performing in front of my parents. I will never forget the look on my parents face, my father in particular, the look still gives me this uneasy feeling of  sickness, I do not know why but my instincts hit me hard, quickly, and leave me hanging with a, “WHAT THE F#$% DOES THIS FEELING INDICATE,I GET IT, IT IS NOT GOOD.” But I listen to it, despite it leaving me on cliffhangers more engaging and just itching to know more then the typical TV series crap that gives you the old, “To Be Continued…..” Back to the performance Era segment,”My big break” because my father had the look of, “See, I told you she could…” Just Smiling ever so masochistically to my mother but not looking directly at her, my mothers face in shock that it was in fact true. To opposites, one knowing and  saw me as a project, the other in disbelief and in almost horror. I know this sounds like I am making shit up or drastically exaggerating these fragments of my childhood memories, I wouldnt have had such a hard time actually opening up about it, I mean how many narcassists talk about feelings? You would be surpised, look it up and then tell me for yourself and when you do please for the love of Mankind use an actual book and not a digital device.  You want to know why a lot of people in this New Digital Era as so confused and becoming lifeless by the second, because they do not find things out for themselves, call me old-fashioned but I recall the natural way of getting answers to your questions, it was not Google I will tell you that much.  But anyways, I must release these memories and not run away, rather embrace them, then I can understand. My mind is still stuck on the fact that my father kept the song on replay, that was how I knew it was being appreciated and acknowledged, I was also impressing my father which felt very rewarding, I kept going, did not think of becoming tired or showing signs of it, dissapointing my father in any shape or form would mean I was worthless, that I am nothing, no sense of self worth, a rejection would have been the end for me. Why as a child was I feeling this? My mother was getting edgy looking at me as though, she is going to get tired, maybe he should stop the music. No, instead my father what seemed to feel like ages had passed and so did the milky way, my father changed the song, this time a Ballad, I could not mess this one. I knew I could do it I do not why as a child I knew I could belt every note, in English, in Tune, sing every lyric I had memorized without even realizing till the words I sang flowed like a river, so peaceful, calming, almost leaving one in a state of trance. The more I knew my father loved it I felt like I was something, I had this feeling of, “This is my destiny, I am a singer, I must sing to the public, I must perform for my audiences because when I do, I am free and I feel this energy that I have not felt while not singing, singing to a group of people or to just one, we feel something that is in a way unthinkable in this day and age……..peace. Peace, that feeling I know, not love, love I have given but love I dont believe I can ever take. People tried…fail.

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My instint at an early age taught me resistance to that and subjected me to a lifestyle of, “be catious how you speak, how you say things, when to say them, and do not give away the core of yourself, dont dare. Its sacred, shameful, personal, a sanctuary monument of self, mystery, dont ever allow anyone to peel any layers, that is foolish. Till this day, I listened, it haunts me like a dreadful nightmare, during sleep and while awake, no escaping it. No desire or willingess to. I have always been a loser, I have to joke about it to cope but know I am a winner of endurance to pain, suffering, not fearing loneliness, I dont fear it, how can i, I have been alone this whole time, people loved to use me I have a hard time saying no, the whole concious thing and me not being able to sleep at night knowing I didnt help man when man needed it most because I myself know the feeling but no one was there to help me other then my best friend, ME. My hard learned lesson was, you cant help the helpless, i felt the biggest slap in the face from something called lifes lessons and teachings. It told me I was being a stupid kid, to begin to not forget the most important person in my life and what needs to be done to fufill lifes destiny and purpose, I always knew mine. I have been performing since the age of three, only thing is, it was always extremely difficult for me to get up on stage without being so anxious, panicking, dreading to go on stage, i always had this feeling of this needs to be done more then your going to enjoy it.

 I do not know if I enjoy it cause I do not remember my performances. It is as if another girl gets to enjoy what I cannot see but at the end of the performances I cannot be around anyone or I find ways to numb myself. Self-destructive ways, the only ways I know is self-sabotage, I remain in this state for sometimes up to one week, It is a mixture of shock and relief, its overwhelming to the point where I begin to rebel, I begin to distant myself from people, i tend to run away, but from what? I start to make careless decisions, not out of desire, just because. It is so numbing and I do not even realize I am in that state of mind until I snap out of it.

My father purchased a video camera after my “Big Break” and began filming me sing. I did not want to but saying no to my Father was not only testing his anger, but I could not display any sort of weakness to disappoint him. I would go in front of the TV and I knew the camera was filming, I could see the red light and knew even as a child it was on record, when it was turned off I never saw the red light, I would ask, “Daddy, are you recording?” His answer was always the same, “no”. To not get him angry or to have him believe I was stupid enough to think the camera was not on record i would say, “Daddy, are you just pretending?” “Yes, I am only just pretending.” I would begin to start singing, I would dissociate, I could not handle being in front of the camera but for some reason I made it as if I already knew my part, I played it, and being on camera for me looked easy, as if I had done it a million times. I would sing a lot of ABBA, I loved them, till this day I hear certain songs, I begin to cry because of the flashbacks and implications of my childhood. I still love ABBA and relate the most to their music, especially the song, “Super Trooper” which I hated singing as a child but made it seem as though I was enjoying it on camera. My dad would bribe me to sing and film me, he would say, “If you sing, I will buy you this Barbie.” As a child, I wanted that damn Bubble Angel Barbie which was featured so many times on commercials with the stupid wing plastic attached wings you would detach add to bubble solution, apply the wings on the back of the Barbie, you would sway her and those stupid bubble would start blowing everywhere. How could I say no to that??? My father bought me everything, I remember he even bought me Crayola felts, I was so sick of crayons I thought they looked so ugly when I colored, as a child, I always colored or drew. The day my father bought me my brand new first set of markers I was coloring my Barbie Coloring Book, so fascinated by the coloring style, how unlike crayons, these markers did not break or have paper applied to keep on detaching, and  mess-free. I was so focused on coloring my dad had the camera rolling, this time my father started to sing, only he grabbed one of my markers and started singing into it as if it was a microphone, I looked at him with curiosity and he handed the marker to me indicating to use it as a microphone and implementing me to sing, this time I was furious. I looked at the camera immediately, as I thought, red light. I knew what I had to do so I did not make a fuss, I complied and both my dad and I began to sing in front of the camera, he was holding on to me tightly so I would not let go. I felt very uncomfortable and did not want to sing, it did not show, again, I dissociated, he put the song on “Super Trooper”, I made sure to whisper to him, “I don’t know the song”, he said, “just sing.” He points to the camera, I was singing silently but was in a way keeping up with the lyrics, the only part I liked was the lyrics, “Feeling like a number one.” I put my finger up and would shout out the part with enthusiasm, “Number one”. Then started dancing with my father. Looking back it is ironic yet painful but yet revealing answers as to my childhood. My father was so strict with me, I wasn’t aloud to cut my hair, it was really long bouncy curls, whenever my mother brushed it, the agonizing pain, even with a de-tangle spray, “Mommy it still hurts.” My mom would say, “I am using it, its supposed to help, I am going as slowly and gently as I can so that it doesn’t hurt.” I wanted to scream at the long combing of the hair and my aching scalp, throbbing. My hair was so thick on long, curly, at three years of age my hair was down to my hips. We had a Big dog in the house at one point, I remember that dog would always try to bight me, I was afraid of it but I could not show my father I was afraid, only when my dad wasn’t around the dog would try to bite me. I was eating at the dinner table, I was about to put take a spoonful of my soup when all of a sudden my head snapped back so fast and hard immediately the spoon dropped to the floor. The stupid dog bit my hair from the chair, I would always leave my hair back so it did not get in the way while I was eating and so it would droop down from behind the seat. The dog bit and pulled my hair back so hard my dad was just in time to hold the chair because I almost flew back with it. I remember I wanted to scream and cry my father looked at me, I held back everything just the look of shock was on my face, my father was so angry he gave the dog away to a friend. I don’t remember my father asking me if I was okay but crying in front of him would show weakness, that was out of the question. I was always dressed up, even at home, my dad made sure I got my ears pierced, he said it looks nice and would go with my outfits so I said yes but was not very interested. I remember the fear I was feeling, how nervous I was, again at three years of age. We were in a mall, I sat down and I asked the lady, “Hurt?” Pointing to my ear, she laughed and said, “No, it is very quick you won’t even feel it and guess what, you get to choose which earrings you would like right after we are finished, then you can wear earrings anytime you like dear and putting them on never hurts.” I remembered her pulling out this glue gun looking device, she was preparing it and I heard her say to my dad, “She’s only three years old, that’s really young, what gave her this idea she needed to wear eearings?” My dad laughed and said, “My daughter really wants them, she wouldn’t stop talking about it, she asked me everyday.” The lady began to approach me and sat closer to me with the device, “That’s kind of a first for me to hear that.” She laughed.  She went close beside me and said, “Grip tight, close your eyes if you want to, it will be quick I promise you.” She could tell I was terrified, but as quickly as she had reinstated that my first ear was pierced and I did not even feel it, I began to smile, I said, “Daddy, it did not hurt at all, daddy it didn’t hurt.” I forgot about the second ear, she quickly did it and this time it did hurt, I screamed so loud I even made the lady jump, I was crying trying to hold on to my ear, the lady said, “Oh no dear please don’t touch your ear, here this will make it better.” She put solution on a cotton ball and held it to my ear, I stopped crying. My dad stood there smiling saying, “Are you happy your ears are pierced now you can choose which ones you like and your going to look even prettier then you already are.” I chose gold and pink heart earrings, my face was still red from crying, I could not believe I had on earrings and that I just got a hole in each ear, it felt weird but I remember the singers in the Music Videos having them so it made me feel special.

Sorry about my rants, my writing has no filter, that is a reason as to why at times I make sure to not have my paws on the keyboard, hours of my mind go public, things are going to get read and blow me away. I cannot even believe the things that come out of me until after I am finished writing, I am either balling my eye sockets off still, or in shock mode, But you know what? It is a relief, I am not afraid of what you will read, the things I write about because they are my truth and from the heart. I have messed up parents and it shows, I have become plorificly non-conventional Narcissistic, bohemian, Perfectionist, Stubborn and always right because I stay true to my convictions type of girl. Too Self Rightoues? Well how should I know, I have been put up on a pedastool all my life, smothered, wanted not needed, too much for those to handle (I dont blame you, I have a hard time with myself), traumatized Secretive, alert, never feeling safe or welcomed, laughed at, mocked, tortured, never good enough, I was overweight and it was wrong to be a fat bitch in society to normal, to having a perfect body to having no body but I saw as perfect because it was never skinny enough, my god how vile and disgusting. An eating disorder is nothing for me compared to all the hardships my heart has managed to be sabotaged with, eating to me now has become a chore, food no longer has taste anymore. Eating for me now is a chore, I always forget to eat. This is getting to real and difficult, Part I took a lot of revisions, doubts, fear, anguish, pain, and tears. Part II will begin when I am ready.

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