How can the word ‘Normal’ evoke both pride and disappointment at the same time?  I’ve always wanted to be normal.  That my feelings, or lack there of, were normal.  That my life isn’t so way out of proportion as the rest of the world.  And still, I reveled in the idea that I wasn’t normal.  That my uniqueness gave me insight, gave me a position as a writer to have a better or different or novel way of looking at life that would be of value to my reader.  But I’m normal in my reactions or someone that has been raised by a narcissist (Mom) and the favored of one parent (Papa).  C was liked best by my Mom and I was liked best by my Dad, which left S to have to fend for herself a lot of the time being the quintessential middle child.  Totally not fair to her.

Lack of connection, lack of intimacy, lack of confidence are all hallmarks of the child of a narcissist. And as much as I don’t want to blame anyone, especially my  Mom in this journey, at this time, blame is the only oar in the boat.  Blame yes, fault no.  I don’t believe that Mom has any control over her self-projecting behavior any more than her mother and her mother’s mother before her.  The clay from which we are founded is colored by all the people before us, what we mold urselves into is completely our choice.  I have chosen to no longer be the lump that pleases my family, I want to be a classical-Renaissance-modern piece of work that inspires and inhabits the space she has been allotted in this life.  The purpose of therapy is to give me the tools to subtract the clay that has blocked the best form from emerging from the whole.  So, I’m normal.  It’s a good foundation to start my sculpting from.

The funny thing is, I’ve known this.  I’ve been told this by dear friends, that considering the family dynamics I’m normal, even better than because I’m aware of it.  But hearing it from someone who has studied and worked with other ‘Normal’s seems to make it that much more real, and solid.  Yea, we’re off on a good start.

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