My mother is a narcissist.  I’m of the opinion people should be accountable for their own problems.  Blaming others isn’t productive and often misguided.  Even if it’s true.  But in this case I feel the need to speak up.  I’m not the only one and I know it.  If I really want to play the blame game I’d go straight to the top.  The entire Boomer generation is trapped in a bubble of post-war narcissism that’s been perpetuated for over 50 years.  From ritual holiday celebrations to the narrow-minded legislative battles waged in a decrepit government, the trappings of Boomer culture hang over this nation like cobwebs. 

The struggle is real, as they say.  I spent too many years trying to find a place in the system I was born into.  Thanks to measured doses of denial and depression, I was convinced I was the problem.  I did everything I could to put on a brave face and mustered an existence with the love and support of friends.  My cohorts melted away due to children or cell phones or more nefarious deeds but I stayed wedged in a comfortable corner waiting for my moment.  Patiently expecting my life to start at any time.  Expectations are the only source of disappointment.  It wasn’t until I stood up for myself that I could see the wide world around me.

Raised to believe in honesty, it’s the only thing that saved me from mediocrity.  I am compelled to speak my mind and often have something contrary to say.  I find most things boring if they can’t stand up to a little scrutiny.  Unfortunately, the emotionally stunted children and grandchildren of narcissists take any type of challenge to their status quo as offensive.  It’s one of their defense mechanisms.  Nuclear families have to maintain thick hides to stand up against all the free thinking running rampant in the world.  Differences of opinion must be squelched before they lead to things like independence or creativity.

If it sounds like I’m bitter, it’s because I am.  I spent two years trying to escape my bitterness so I could write a story that won’t hurt anyone’s feelings.  Turns out moving across the country is an age-old treatment for oppressive mothers.  It doesn’t cure the bitterness.  Just makes it much easier to swallow.  My progress is sporadic but even that is exponentially better than the blocks I faced back home.  I want to tell my story well.  That means some people won’t like the sound of it.  Hopefully though, some people will.  That’s who I’m talking to.  The rest of you can fuck off.