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Family of Origin
I Love a Narcissist. Now What?
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<blockquote data-quote="Scent of Cedar *" data-source="post: 666769" data-attributes="member: 17461"><p>And no matter what, these adult women who are our sisters have done intentionally hurtful things to us. Our mothers, love them or no, did intentionally hurtful things <em>to us. There we were, right in front of them, beautiful little kids, and they chose to hit or scream or hurt.</em></p><p></p><p>That part is true, too.</p><p></p><p>Could it be that we are trying to assure ourselves somehow that they did not mean to do these things <em>because who would do those things to someone who loved them so much?</em></p><p></p><p>I am still reading David Brooks' <u>The Road to Character.</u></p><p></p><p>He is writing about the writer Samuel Johnson in the paragraph I am including here.</p><p></p><p><em>He was also plagued by his own imagination. We in post-romantic ties tend to regard the imagination as an innocent, childlike faculty that provides us with creativity and sweet visions. Johnson saw the imagination as something to be feared as much as treasured. It was at its worst in the middle of the night. in those dark hours his imagination would plague him, introducing nighttime terrors, jealousies, feelings of worthlessness, and vain hopes and fantasies of superficial praise and admiration. The imagination, in Johnson's darker view, offers up idealized versions of experiences like marriage, which then leave us disappointed when the visions don't come true. It is responsible for hypochondria and the other anxieties that exist only in our heads. It invites us to make envious comparisons, imagining scenes in which we triumph over our rivals. The imagination simplifies our endless desires and causes us to fantasize that they can be fulfilled. It robs us of much of the enjoyment of our achievements by compelling us to think upon the things left undone. It distracts us from the pleasures of the moment by leaping forward to unattained future possibilities.</em></p><p></p><p>So, imagination is a human condition. The more I realize what my sister has done (or my mom) the more surprised I am. There is such a pointless, needless ugliness to it.</p><p></p><p>An intentional one, too.</p><p></p><p>So I imagined something better and believed that, instead.</p><p></p><p>Cedar</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p><em> </em></p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Scent of Cedar *, post: 666769, member: 17461"] And no matter what, these adult women who are our sisters have done intentionally hurtful things to us. Our mothers, love them or no, did intentionally hurtful things [I]to us. There we were, right in front of them, beautiful little kids, and they chose to hit or scream or hurt.[/I] That part is true, too. Could it be that we are trying to assure ourselves somehow that they did not mean to do these things [I]because who would do those things to someone who loved them so much?[/I] I am still reading David Brooks' [U]The Road to Character.[/U] He is writing about the writer Samuel Johnson in the paragraph I am including here. [I]He was also plagued by his own imagination. We in post-romantic ties tend to regard the imagination as an innocent, childlike faculty that provides us with creativity and sweet visions. Johnson saw the imagination as something to be feared as much as treasured. It was at its worst in the middle of the night. in those dark hours his imagination would plague him, introducing nighttime terrors, jealousies, feelings of worthlessness, and vain hopes and fantasies of superficial praise and admiration. The imagination, in Johnson's darker view, offers up idealized versions of experiences like marriage, which then leave us disappointed when the visions don't come true. It is responsible for hypochondria and the other anxieties that exist only in our heads. It invites us to make envious comparisons, imagining scenes in which we triumph over our rivals. The imagination simplifies our endless desires and causes us to fantasize that they can be fulfilled. It robs us of much of the enjoyment of our achievements by compelling us to think upon the things left undone. It distracts us from the pleasures of the moment by leaping forward to unattained future possibilities.[/I] So, imagination is a human condition. The more I realize what my sister has done (or my mom) the more surprised I am. There is such a pointless, needless ugliness to it. An intentional one, too. So I imagined something better and believed that, instead. Cedar [I] [/I] [/QUOTE]
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I Love a Narcissist. Now What?
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