99. A covert operation

In a few minutes, you might think my tone gets cruel and heartless. Depicting without nuances a world that will look unilaterally detestable. And you will probably tell yourself: Things can never be that negative. That uniformly bad. Laolao is certainly blowing everything out of proportion, stuck to subjectivity and gloominess, bad faith having become her sole yard stick.

But to clarify the points I have in mind, I must, throughout this, indeed, one-sided narrative, insist on being mean, and self-centered, even pitiless. It will be because I am truly such a person. To approach my topic, there’s no other way I know of, but to focus on my primitive habits.

I’ve been wanting to take you there for a while now, so that you can have an idea where the women in our family come from. Ultimately, so that you can leave, for there is no other survival option. You need to understand that history at a younger age than I did, to give yourself plenty of time.

Lets get down to it: I’m about to show the aspect of my true Self that is ossified. That doesn’t feel anything, that doesn’t know love. That does not even care. The fossil of an embryo, for this is what remains. The rest is a construction, an afterthought, the a posteriori imitation of a person.

I’m also aware that everything I’ll say in this story will appear grotesque and ridiculous. It will be because the story is grotesque and ridiculous. No way around that either.

Don’t bother looking for a proof. Don’t say you’ll put aside what Laolao tells you today until you can validate her account. There’s no proof. There’s no available authentication process. This story has only known the women with whom I grew up with. It has systematically kept everyone else at bay.

These women, they’re not even aware the story exists, for it is in their nature not to recognize. Asking them would only result in forceful rebuttals.

Denial is the cornerstone of this story. Except for this: These women would immediately identify me, that’s for sure, but not themselves, of course. Using this partial acknowledgement to capture you in their net.

It would mean – at least, try to consider it - that the plot of the story makes sense, and is still operational. But once a captive, you wouldn’t know it. It would be the proof you seek, although a useless one for you wouldn’t be able to realize how caught you are.

So no need to ask around. Here’s what you would hear: That I’m biased, ungrateful, and disloyal. Lots of appointments with shrinks since childhood to support that. You would also be told that I’ve always been like that. But it wouldn’t matter much: In the end, you would hear that my perception, as troubled and intense as it might be, cannot tarnish the positive imprint these women have left here and there throughout their edifying life.

My account, so subjective and critical (I admit it), would not alter any of the grandiose outcomes these women have prompted since birth. It would not change anything to their stature and prowess, nor diminish any of their capabilities. It wouldn’t succeed either in trivializing their suffering. For we are all convinced in this family that our agony is a unique form of hyper-sensitivity, qualifying us as remarkable beings.

Be cautious, this story is about the essence of falsehood, its constant practice, its complete hold over personalities. It’s about chronic deception and fabrication. About people who were themselves pieces of fiction to start with. Therefore, the story can never sound true, reliable and honest. Its basis and material are found in fraud and illusions. And since I am an intrinsic part of the story, I use what’s at my disposal to draw the picture: a Machiavellian, unscrupulous tendency to twist things in one’s favor. An ineluctable, predetermined approach distinctive of our family’s communication strategy. And this is how, in that consistency, you should evaluate my story’s veracity.

It essentially has to do with abuse. Up to now, we’ve been unforthcoming about what has been done to us, and then, refined and reproduced by us. We’ve accomplished much more in the field of abuse than previous generations. We used our legacy well. Abuse crystallized in our midst. Fixing us beyond repair in a sphere of perpetual desecration.

Mistreatment was not an activity, not an invasion, an act from the outside. It was who we were. It could not be amputated, not even treated. It was our nucleus. It gave us life. It made life real for us. It made us real to ourselves.

We never fathomed there could be another way to live. While measuring our own importance against that of others, we only had this reference, leading us to believe we held the top positions we abundantly fantasized.

We even thought everybody was woven with abuse. A norm. We projected our condition unto the world, because, ourselves, we were projections. Not individuals. But a small tightly woven communal entity of codependences, glued together by abuse, each one of us relying on the harm done by one among us for the laudable purpose of asserting our existence.

We had roles, functions, not a life per say. Choices were narrow: You could be the thesis or the antithesis. Everyday was the same. The setting never changed. We remained day in, day out, pure inventions of our sickness, the produce of our own deviant fabrications. In fact, it was an industry. We gauged productivity in terms of output minus cost to our self-esteem.

It is within that global abuse that I get the words needed for this story. They’re the bolts and screws holding the torture machines together.

You’ll soon notice there are only two emotions present in the story, for we never experienced any other, just degrees of rage (that we’d identified with ‘dislikes’), and obsessions (that we mistook for manifestations of ‘love’). Remember: It is from within that place that I talk, for it has created me, entirely shaped me. Hence the airs of phoniness, the mood of subterfuge, the sense of cheating, the falsehood atmosphere hanging over my version of events. Again, view these as signs that the bottom-line of my narrative might be sound and consistent.

Don’t expect accuracy, details, not even facts. I’m unable to convey precision and transparency. It’s all opaque down here. Truth is unknown in that story. It never once made an appearance among the patterns in place all these years. I can only show you falsification tactics by demonstrating in real-time those fine techniques that were ours.

I can hint at many disguises though, for of course they fit me too, the many costumes worn by self-servicing goodness, those borrowed by fake generosity, the allures of victimization, imagined pain, the impersonation of martyrdom. I can articulate how self-sacrifice manages to conceal egotism. How tears are strictly a camouflage for indifference. How an expression such as ‘years of experience’ is a pseudonym for a static immaturity.

Despite my desire to share everything with you, I certainly cannot be frank or candid, I cannot pretend there’s a naked authenticity awaiting us somewhere in the chapters of my memory.

The torturous paths of my thoughts can only exemplify the extent of these deformations I want to show you.

It’s in all my faux pas that you can see our peregrination over and over our own centers. Trampling on ourselves with idolization. Fixated and fanatical. A sadistic disregard for anything but ourselves, and a remorseless lack of empathy. An amalgam of brutal inclinations. Sometimes transfigured into gestures of care and attention meant to hurt. Erupting like a blow, and an all-encompassing bruise in repeated attempts to confirm the authenticity of our individuality, and of our body. This is how we showed attachment to one another. Through injuries. Helping each other corroborate our aching state of being.

Do I exaggerate? See it worse than it was? Do I amplify what were only frequent bouts of stubbornness, assertiveness, a massive, but understandable will to develop one’s greatness, I mean here potential?

One could ask: Is it that reprehensible to be impressive? To indeed know we’re worthier than others? What if it’s true? That we are? Plus, isn’t expected that, out of resentment, others would denounce us for our incredible potential?

What if they were really blocking our righteous path, what if there were no other alternative than to devalue these opponents, all the way to extinction? Why were they standing there, anyway? See how responsibility can easily be shifted and renamed.

What if omnipotence is possible, and we’re the ones chosen for that privilege? Can anyone provide evidence to the contrary? And all these enemies we had, that multitude devoured by jealousy, isn’t it normal they should envy us? And that we had to protect ourselves? We would have been fools not to.

Am I making this up? Am I confusing natural personality traits that just happen to be magnificent and powerful with the mirage produced by this contorted mind of mine?

Would I be erring when I say our feelings were mere imitations? Because we did scream, bleed, devastated by horrors. We cramped, and felt profound distress. It was genuine. Our fear was as monumental as our belief in our almightiness was. We even have plenty of scars on exhibition to confirm our pain. Actually, not many people have that many marks.

Is this hyperbolism? People never could understand us. Much less appreciate us. They weren’t equipped to do so. Our dramas too complex and sophisticated. Beyond the grasp of comprehension. There’s a little touch of divine, here, see.

This is why when some people profess to have some knowledge about us, we know they’re idiots.

Is it delirium to claim we blended hate and fear into overreactions, so muscular that they defined our character? That we always responded with overwhelming force whenever threatened? But… isn’t customary to safeguard one’s integrity? To do all we can to survive? Particularly when we’re better than others.

I hear some blame. Who blames us? Who is this? Who are you? Do reveal yourself! Better, don’t. You wouldn’t survive. That’s how commanding and fierce we are. You wouldn’t last a minute. Run. Leave us untouched and undefeated.

I might really be sick in the head, you know, transferring on my surroundings all my symptoms. Can my idiosyncrasy be the cause of misinterpretations? But what does idiosyncrasy refer to? By definition, it’s what makes me unique? Special? Different? So, so notable. Again, trapped in the circular reflections of vanity, the very engine that kept us alive.

After all, I’m the one in constant need of a cure. Since infancy, causing problems. Still today, see, trying to move against the flow of our glorious course, never happy, never satisfied. Stubbornly declining what our constitution entitles us to. Filled with malice, harboring a disruptive nature. The renegade. My outpour today so in line with well-publicized behavioral issues.

That’s indeed concrete, don’t doubt that for an instant. I’m providing all the substantiation needed to discredit my own allegations. Shooting myself in the foot, one would say. Like I’ve always done. Just to annoy others. The ace of sabotage. On purpose, flunking where others excelled simply to ruin the congratulation party. As if I was born with the mandate to tarnish all that’s around me. Why couldn’t I simply be great? And nicely follow the trends set out by our special destiny?

Yes, I was and remain the incarnation of irritation itself. The origin of vexations, fomenting displeasure as a hobby. Busy spoiling adulation ceremonies. The constant reminder that this world, our world, is far from perfect. Unable to grasp the basics of pride and satisfaction. Obstinate. Eminently fallible. No sense of honor. A vulgar provocateur, dirtying the family’s temple, throwing in disarray the praise rituals constantly put into motion, for we really had no other pastime.

Destructive Laolao, just out to make trouble, framing others so that they’ll suffer more than her. Gesticulating, so out of sync, hijacking attention away from those who genuinely deserve it. Throwing neurotic rocks in the pond of positive self-assessments, she’s the ripples distorting facts, changing the view, uglifying what took a lifetime to shape. She should have stayed longer at the hospital. Cumulating those three years wasn’t enough.

On my part, isn’t it conceit too, my belief that I created so many problems for others, and all by myself?

An absolute self-centeredness when I see myself capable of wrecking elation-prone spirits? Isn't it another kind of narcissism? The sort that is hostile, that objects, finding energy and motivation in disputes. The opposite side, but still very much part of the issue.

Yes, they wouldn’t have figured out the irrevocability of their rights, if it hadn’t been for my permanent wrongs. They wouldn’t have had so much light if it hadn’t been for my dark aspects. They wouldn’t have been able to become so righteous if I hadn’t been in perpetual need for corrections. They wouldn’t have loved their life with such suave intensity, if it weren’t for the threats I posed.

My imperfections had a mission: to stress how dissimilar we were. Reassuring them, especially their conclusion that the vision they had of themselves was impeccable. My deranged outpours a necessity: Through them, they apprehended how virtuous they were, treasuring even more their own irreproachable conduct.

I was therefore essential, not that they would thank me for it, you know. They used me to insufflate a new vigor into their sense of accomplishment. I tell you, they did require maintenance, these ladies.

As a vital mirror image, I had, of course, to be of a reversed structure. That was my job. They couldn’t pretend to be strong unless I accepted my weaknesses They certainly wouldn’t have been able to convince themselves they were sane if I, simultaneously, had tried to do the same. In the end, it gave me leverage. I deliriously came to believe I could control emotional patterns.

One might say they wouldn’t have had ears, if I hadn’t been there shouting. They wouldn’t have talked with cohesion if I hadn’t had a voice to be raving with. They wouldn’t have seen themselves so clearly, if I hadn’t used my eyes to highlight their presence. They wouldn’t have known about their own existence if I hadn’t accepted to compromise mine with consistency.

They desperately needed a public, someone who could either applaud or boo (it didn’t really matter which), a screen where to transfer their sense of life, a stage where to display the talented actors they were.

My pain was so much in demand. Utilitarian and practical. Through it, they could acquire some for their own personal use. It gave them something to feel, something to discuss. It defined their contour and poured substance into their shape. My pain became theirs. They purified it. Elevated it. Fine-tuned its discourse.

Then, they sat me in front of them and forced me to listen. Over, and over, and over again. My million nods of compliance and fake sympathy, or my failed attempts to run and disappear, the symptoms of their demands for comfort. And when they ran out of things to say about themselves, their beings thinning into the air, we would crank the carrousel again, setting madness into motion, as in slashing my own veins for example, and all would get back to normalcy. Their ballooning ego once more visible above my screwed-up head.

Regularly, crises and accusations that I took too much place. That I triggered abuse with my hysterical attitude, forcing them into violent modes of operation. Imagine: that kid playing dead will be the death of us. That girl running away from us, she’s the one abandoning, not the abandoned.

As she gets locked up, tarnishing our reputation, we’re the one’s caught between a rock and a hard place. She sucks up our energy, so little left for the good actions we had intended. She robs us of all these opportunities to show how benevolent we are. And she leaves us with no other choice than to fight back.

Indeed, there’s nothing we wouldn’t have done for her. If she could be reasonable just for a minute, we would be able to restore our shine and rank. Once that’s done, we would have the means to really help her. She’s the one we love the most. Actually, there’s nobody but her in our heart.

More, she’s the only one who can make us feel profoundly miserable. That’s why she’s so important to us. We need her. Both her melancholia and masochistic rage are vital sources of nourishment. How else would we know the world? What other means are there to make us part of something real and tangible? How can we have a pulse if her arteries aren’t throbbing with torment? If fear and anxiety aren’t propelled through her nervous system? She’s our poisoned food. She’s the test we must pass. The challenge we must overcome in order to become. To have a name, and occupy the territories we merit. The more she hurts herself, the more we grow, the more we fulfill our inner promises. In short, the more disoriented she gets, the more we know who we are: Everything, except her.

Has anyone ever been more essential than me?

That conviction, that my aches were indispensable, the heart of relationships, the cement that held our universe together, my instinctive rushes to mutilate myself as if my traumas were the condition that kept others in good shape, my wounds the demented corroboration we had flesh, all of these, my own hallucinations, were a negative representation of the illness that afflicted us all.

Contrary to what I claimed back then, I am no different. Suffering from the same type of megalomania typical of the women in the family. Also positioning myself as a crucial pivot, a nucleus, even though a covert one. My self-admiration clandestine, and listed, as a trick to survive, under the “casualty” category. If it got too rough, under fatalities, just to be sure I’d be well hidden and would outlast them. My imagination, a tool for vengeance. Judging my successes by the exorbitant price I paid to make sure, when the time was ripe, they’d get in turn punished.

That’s how we were, in that family. The women. As for the man in the vicinity, I wouldn’t know. And neither did my sisters and mother.

He’s the mystery. The incongruity. So preoccupied with ourselves, we didn’t think about checking what he was doing. To us? To them? To me? Or to himself. Who knows?

As I enter old age, the past greets me with sorrow because I cannot understand any of the parts of my own history. Although I’m sure things could not have been different. We were who we were. A simple, natural case of genuine bad luck.