I retrieved my axes from her house. I found how to write their names (yes they have names) in Russian, and engraved the blades using my Dremel. The black one is "ярость (Rage)", and the silver one "Долг (Duty)". (To hear them pronounced cut and paste on this page.)
It's been so long.
"Rage" was bought when we lived in Michigan, and the fat meth addict burglarized us. I was so angry, and so frightened, and needed to reclaim some power over my life. He broke in while we were at the doctor for my kidney stones.
I wanted that bastard to come back so badly. He's serving life in prison, and I have my guitar back, but the damage he did us was permanent.
"Duty" was purchased when we went to my mom's, and I had to clear an impassable ice sheet from her driveway because the landlord refused to.
These tools remind me of my responsibility to my family, and how, sometimes, that family is out of reach, even unsafe to be around.
These tools remind me of my decision to reclaim my shape from the ravaging it took in Michigan, with poor diet, and bad water.
These tools remind me that, though willing to commit drastic action to affect a change, a drastic action is not always available.
The tools remind me that, though eager to do a job, I may not have the right tools to do it.
These tools remind me that some people are too toxic to be around, and should be cut from my life.
These tools remind me that someone who is incapable of perceiving truth is incapable of telling truth.
These tools remind me that insanity is infectious, but sanity takes decision and work.
These tools remind me that I am a dad, which is more than a donor of genes.
These tools remind me that, when I entered his life that boy was often a beast, and, by my influence, he is now often human (as far as a 12 year old can be).
These tools remind me that anyone can change anything that goes on in their head if they'll just try.
These tools remind me that failure is a risk of being human, but to not try for fear of failure is cowardice in the extreme.
These tools remind me of the extremes of my nature, and that in the distance between those poles is a whole man, who deserves much more than suffering, and punishment.
These tools remind me that some people are too sick to do right. These tools remind me that I have decided not to be them.
(This is largely for the person who reads me at approx. 6:45AM most mornings, and at 1:45AM this morning, if you are whom I think (if not then disregard). Most others may be uncomfortable with parts of it. Some of it is hidden, and has to be highlighted to be read.)
The condition is so hard on people that someone developed a website to specifically learn about and deal with the effects of it.
I seem to be a magnet for these creatures. I want so desperately for people I care about to be genuine that I have a blind spot for this disorder; I want the grand, sweeping, impossible claims that Malignant Narcissists make to be true, no matter if they sound too good to be.
These struck me as uncomfortably familiar:
An inability to listen to others, and a lack of awareness of another person’s deadlines, time frames, or interests. I repeatedly asked for so many forms of consideration, like your not attempting to take a heavy load of groceries from my hand for my fear I'd drop them, not making me late for things, not wearing things that reminded me of horrible times in my life. What you wanted to do at any moment was always more important than the things I asked for.
An inability to admit wrongdoing, even sometimes when presented with evidence of their ‘wrong’ behavior. Even now you act like ALL of it was my fault, that you did nothing to me, ever.
Coldness or overly practical responses to interpersonal relationships, a sense of distance or matter-of-factness emotionally. No matter what you say about how you feel all of your actions indicate a calculated decision to be with someone who fits your lifestyle.
"The cause of excessive Narcissism often stems back to parental issues for the individual, for instance having a narcisistic or overly controlling dominant family member."
Narcissistic parents CAUSE narcissistic children. She did this to you. All the dysfunction in your whole life stems from her. It's not your fault, but you are not alright. You are really not. You can decide to change. NPD may not be the whole of the problem, but there is a problem, and your happiness will always fall apart until you admit it.
This story has been in my head for ages. The two main characters are finally what I want of them. This may be the first chapter of their story. Title suggestions welcome.
“C’mere ye great, violent, French, bollocks ye! Eric, leave it out, lad!” the limping Irishman yelled to the Percheron. The 2,100 pound draft horse assumed an attitude of self-absorption, and continued what he was doing. What he was doing was fighting, the very reason his kind had been bred. And this horse reveled in it. The Irishman never failed to marvel at the site, imagining some equine ancestor in centuries past, armored, ridden by an armored man, charging down ranks of unarmored conscripts, stinking and terrified. The differences were scant, but significant: the enemy stank, but knew no fear, nor need of weapon. And the horse had refused the armor, apparently feeling it limited his agility. Impressive as it all was the pair needed to get on the road.
“Ye great pillock! I’ve got the feckin’ supplies, what? We can feck off now, and be done with it, if ye’d be so kind as to hurry up!” said the Irishman, indicating the saddlebags full of medicine, and sundries from the pharmacy he’d just raided.
Pronsious (Prawn-shees “It’s Irish For Francis, just feckin’ call me Murphy, Ye Cunt, Ye”) Murphy and the horse had abandoned their jobs with the Dover, NH Police department only when it became apparent there no longer was a Dover Police department. All the officers had “fecked off away to their families, but”. The other horses in the police stable had panicked, or rebelled against human orders at the first sign of the crisis.
The horse turned towards the man and proceeded to walk nonchalantly towards him. He tossed his dark tail, adding to the image of being unconcerned. The two foes he’d left standing followed slowly behind. Eric’s ears pointed backwards, a sign normally reserved for a bad mood; this time he was just listening.
Murphy and Eric, being of like mind, and work ethic, had refused to abandon their posts, until there were no posts to man. Murphy had been raised to confound the stereotypes that branded his people, and would never leave a job undone, nor a debt unpaid, while Eric just loved to fight.
The remaining enemies, being none too bright, had followed in such a way as to end up shoulder to shoulder as they closed on the sauntering horse.
It had been 21 days since the first news agency said aloud the phrase “reanimated corpses”, 16 days since the hordes left the smoldering ruin of Boston, and 5 days since Dover, NH, (Settled 1623), had ceased to be a going concern. Panic had killed more than the dead, but it always killed more than any enemy, at least as far as Murphy could tell. Eric advanced no opinion on the subject.
“Quit fuckin’ about,” said Murphy, losing patience with his companion, and using the full form of the old Anglo Saxon swear word, rather than the more polite Irish form.
Since 2008 Eric had been part of the department’s “practical approach to specific law enforcement problems, providing increased visibility and approachability.” Except that he was the least approachable horse in northern New England. The horse only liked people who were willing to fight to earn his respect, which meant only Murphy, and the mounted officers had a chance with him. Eric had been made exempt from social functions for attempting to eat the hats off the heads of children, but caused a ruckus if denied the chance to participate in crowd control, and woods patrol at both of which he excelled.
A dirty, scabrous hand reached for Eric’s flank. With ears back he heard the swish of the fabric, and knew by footfalls how close the targets were; he kicked back with both rear legs popping the heads off each zombie simultaneously. He turned to survey his work, and faced his companion again, striking an upright, and triumphant pose.
Since the year 2000 Murphy had been in the USA, and tending the stables of the Dover Police. He had learned the care of horses in Ireland, and perfected his knowledge in the northwest of England, even tending the horses of several famous footballers, (“what ye yanks in your nonsense call soccer players”), as well as those of team managers, and owners. For 12 years he’d cared for the animals of the topflight of England’s favorite sport. He’d even developed a loyalty to Manchester United, as they’d had a slew of Ireland’s finest players, both Republic, and Northern. Adding to that he shared the birthday of United’s Irish midfield enforcer, Roy Keane, making the loyalty too personal to shake. (The English press referred to Keane as a ‘professional psychopath’, but Murphy never understood the fuss.)
“Aye, Eric, I got it. Ye can score with both feet, and yer the bloody King. Tell me, were they makin’ French jokes?” The horse made as though he hadn’t heard, walked part way past the man, and farted directly in the man’s face.
It was actually this club loyalty that (according to Murphy) resulted in his limp, when, after a race, a horse owned jointly by several members of Liverpool Football Club had stomped on his foot, breaking two metatarsals. (It was with no small joy that Murphy noted one of the owners of the horse began to suffer repeated breaks to those very bones, though with no permanent results. Save a shorter career, of course.)
He’d been made to feel a bit unwelcome in expressing (loudly) his view that the offending horse was a Liverpool supporter, and had injured him out of club loyalty, and spite; neither the other Irish, nor United fans in the stable shared his view. This, having no family, and the fact that United had won all there was to win sent him to the States, where his he had his pick of jobs ( “As long as they were outside of racing, because the feckin’ sport is a smaller feckin’ town than the whole of feckin’ Ireland, but!”).
Sponsored for citizenship by the mounted officers themselves, Murphy’d been American since 2001. (And if not for him “their stable’d have fallen apart, the horses running the department and all, so sponsorship was the least they could do, aye?”)
“Are ye done prickin’ about, then? Can I pack the goods, and climb up?” said Murphy, unfazed by the demon-trumpet noise made by his large partner (“A life in barns, and even shite don’t smell like shite no more.”)
The horse stopped walking, and craned his head, seeming to consider if he really was done prickin’ about. His eyes suddenly widened (but did not roll as another horse’s would), and his ears pinned back. He turned fully around, and charged at Murphy. Murphy, knowing better than to resist and get really hurt, went limp. Eric’s massive head shoved the man aside, like a boxer taking out a toddler. The horse reared, and brought one massive hoof down on the head of a very large zombie who had been mere inches from his companion. The skull pulped like a melon, ending the dead thing.
Murphy immediately went into a roll, allowing the momentum carrying him to a safe distance to dissipate, got to his feet, club at the ready. The man knew the horse would never do more than joke with him unless there was danger at hand. Or at hoof.
It was summer of 2008, and Eric had arrived in Dover. They’d called him ‘Freddy’, one of those stupid attempts at making the giant animals seem somehow less capable of stomping you into paste. Murphy looked at him, took in the darker-than-white, coat, and the bristling cropped dark mane. He also noticed the look in eye that, without malice, said he accepted all challengers, that this horse wanted battle because battle was fun.
“Ye look not a bit like a ‘Freddy’, aye. ‘kind of fuckwit named ye?”asked Murphy as he began grooming the large animal.
The horse nickered as though to say “I’ve no idea, but fuckwit they are.”
“Ye remind me of someone.”
It was that afternoon when Murphy had his answer. Horses, having a detailed social order, have a habit of hazing the new one. The other 3, Percherons as well, ganged up on him as soon as ‘Freddy’ entered the paddock. Ducking a kick at his face ‘Freddy’ charged his first attacker, knocking him hard into the fence. This left him perfectly aimed at the next attacker, who mistakenly believed his herbivorous teeth a real threat to a born fighter; he was kicked in the mouth, and backed off.
The last reared, more in panic than attack. ‘Freddy’ reared as well, clopping one dinner plate sized hoof on top of the other horse’s head. That horse backed down, and the three attackers huddled together in defeat. The victor stood proudly with attitude that said ‘I’ll fight you all, and happily, and win every time.’ There was a new leader, and his name was…’Freddy’.
“Aye now! That’s it! I know who ye remind me of, son! Sure’n you’re Eric Cantona made horseflesh! Aye, but yer breed's French, an ye’ll fight anyone anywhere for the love o’ the challenge, what?” howled Murphy. Eric Cantona was the French captain of Manchester United for most of the ‘90s, and a man unafraid of any challenge. He did as he pleased, and did all well, and his arrogance was earned.
“Bollocks to it, I’m callin’ ye ‘Eric’ from now on! ‘Eric’. Aye? It means ‘honorable ruler’, wha’? ‘Eric’.”
The horse gave Murphy the first of many ‘thinking it over’ looks. He walked over to the fence, put his massive head over to look at the man. He put his mouth against the man’s arm and nibbled gently, a horse’s sign of affection. He’d shown that to none in his short life; compliance, or defiance, but never affection. Most would assume that the horse just liked the sound of Murphy’s voice, but Murphy’d seen horses smarter than those what owned them before. Here was one such.
From then on the horse responded only to ‘Eric’. Murphy sanded the wooden plaque that said ‘Freddy’ down to bare wood, then carefully wrote ‘Eric’ in the same script used on Manchester United jerseys. It took a week for the officers to come around, but the name ‘Freddy’ even disappeared from the paperwork.
“Cheers, ol’ son. To be more careful, I have. We’ve to get back. Them kids’ll’ve burned the feckin’ place to ground, or eaten each other, or be up each other, whatever ‘Lord o’ the Feckin’ Flies’ nonsense. Let’s be off, aye?”
By way of reply the horse walked over to Murphy and turned his left side to the man. Noticing the reins dangling on the ground he flipped his head to put them on his back for the man’s use. He stood still while Murphy placed the saddlebags, and climbed into the saddle.
“Cheers, lad. Get us back.”
The horse picked a path, and set off, the man only holding the reins out of habit.
