Constant Cortisol of Betrayal
thank you Tony Soprano, we shared a mother
OK let’s figure this out. Someone lied to me. They first intimately used me, used my time, creating joy and hope of a promised steady reliable relationship and then revealed their true selves when they got bored with me and my love of boring-to-them things like honesty, generally obeying the rules, my integrity and regular routine. (Edi belittled me for going to the same restaurant and ordering the same dish).
They mistrusted me, my seemingly contradictory eclectic art practise and my reasonable occasional change from daily routine, for example, so that they undervalued me, then lied about me to my now co-opted by them friends and relatives when they dumped me to hide themselves from scrutiny and responsibility. I believed them too, I still trusted them, and was undervalued for it. I was a fool in their eyes for trusting them, they were very convincing liars, so I couldn’t see the real them so it must have been me that caused this. I maintained my loyalty to them when they had none for me.
You see, I was groomed to not believe in myself. From birth. By a narcissist borderline lying overly-dependent insane emotionally abusive single parent. I easily saw myself as boring, uninteresting and dull. Or some conditional variation of too old, too young, you get the idea. I predicted the future: no woman will ever like me again, it was a miracle that one did, of course she left; no gallery will ever show me, it was a miracle that one did, of course they dumped me. The all-or-nothings were trotted out and believed in my head.
I isolated, avoiding social contact, left my professional career that depended locally on mobbing networking, took a menial job carrying packages, (as my doctor described it when it injured me) lived alone and got a cat. Had the typical stroke from the typical stress of the constant cortisol of betrayal.
Recovery ensued as I lived in the hospital for months, my stuff in storage, my cat to a new home. “You were a recreational art therapist at the long term care?’ said the occupational head therapist, “Listen, you took care of us. Now let us take care of you.” I bawled like a baby, no one ever said ‘take care of you’ before in my then 64 years.
This care included psychotherapy where they listened to my recently learned REBT self help papers which became my first book while I learned to walk away from the comfort and dependency of the wheelchair to a walker, to a cane, to independent living of a single professional artist again. Where is your family and friends and colleagues? I was asked. Mobbing I would think, but I just said, mostly dead (to me, thank you Tony Soprano, we shared a mother).
Six years of regular exercise, creating good health and 12 more books of reflection and artwork, created by boring-to-them things like honesty, generally obeying the rules, my integrity and regular routine, my love of life long learning.
Recovering from the effects of the abuse by the betrayal of the insane, I continue to live alone and as usual once the trash is removed, thrive.
