My hagraven grandmother. Not your typical cute 'n cuddly grandma. No cookie baking here, folks.

Well, it has finally happened. The world can breathe a bit easier. Kittens no longer release muffled mews from inside canvas sacks. The laughter of children can once again return to the streets. A great weight has been lifted from the hearts and minds of the innocent. The kind and the gentle have nothing more to fear, for she, the one of whom I rarely choose to speak, has died. The leather skinned abomination, the hagraven, who sucked the joy from all who dared venture too near, has fallen prey to nature’s final cold embrace. No, I’m not talking about Whitney Houston, I’m talking about mother figure’s mother figure. Grandmother figure if you will.

Man my grandmother figure was a bitch. Now I don’t mean to merely imply she was a crabby, prone to irritation because she lived through the Great Depression woman. No, that would be understandable. Shit no, this woman was a down right nasty fucking sociopathic mega-asshole that would have sooner crushed puppy skulls in front of me than give four year old Sturm a hug. That’s all I needed growing up. One heartfelt hug from granny. But no that was too much to ask. It was all about cold “love” I guess, teaching me the harsh realities of the world which I guess could have been fine, except she didn’t actually end up teaching me shit. She merely reinforced the feelings of revulsion that arrived every time my neurotic, narcissistic mother sent me up to see her sadistic mentor for six weeks out of every summer. For more reflections on mother figure, please see my previous brilliant entry.

Seriously, ma? Six weeks? Did that bitch have any idea how much time that is to a child trapped in the icy, spindly hands of the enemy? Now the only saving grace was the fact that the hagraven lived in the middle of the fucking woods. I did like that part, because I spent all the hours of daylight roaming the woods, praying that I’d get mauled by a mother fucking black bear or adopted by a pack of wolves. But sadly every night as darkness fell upon the forest, so too did it fall upon my heart because I’d have to go back into that den of emotional iniquity where it resided. Her hissing voice and shuffling feet terrorized young me, planting the seeds of anxiety, self-doubt, and deprecation that would fully blossom by the time I discovered how fucking awesome masturbation was. Of course let’s not forget the guilt that accompanies the emotionally terrorized.

"Come here little Sturm. Granny needs a kiss. Just kidding! Here's a gift for you I left in the bedpan! Eat it you little bastard!"

I’m sure some of you will wave your hand and say “Bah!” as you believe I exaggerate the despicable existence of grandmother figure. I don’t. It was real. Other, more enlightened readers may be wondering why she behaved in the way she did. Well that’s easy. I can tell you. Quite simply, she was a full blown malignant narcissist. Okay, okay maybe she wasn’t as far gone as to kill my pets in front of me, but she was cruel enough to make it known that she loved her pet schnauzer far more than she loved me or ANY of my siblings (they’ll probably disagree). But I knew. I could see it in her eyes. The way she gazed at me across the table during breakfast. Every time I reached for a piece of toast or the milk she would judge and then snap because I moved to fast or made too much noise or dropped a crumb upon her favorite table cloth. Cold fucking bitch. Holy shit she was wicked.

You know what’s crazy? I think during my whole life I saw that cunt smile like maybe twice. One of those was when she and her husband sold their Kellogg’s stock when it was high and spent it all traveling the world. Good for them. No, I really mean it. You earned it, you spend it. Whatever you gotta do to be happy. Who the fuck knows what the other smile was for. Like all narcissists, the hagraven was a master manipulator and master of denigration of those she should have cared for. She made it perfectly clear that she despised her daughter’s side of the family. She fucking loathed us. Her son’s side, however, could do no wrong. Their fucking feces smelled like freshly baked cinnamon rolls. Nevermind that her son fucking cheated on his own wife of many years and that his son partied with blow while committing various crimes. Assholes. But little Sturm breaks her two dollar chipmunk bottle and holy fuck all it’s the end of the world! “You always were a trouble maker, Sturm!” (Note narcissist tactic of negative reinforcement and superiority) What a bitch.

Know what’s worse than having a narcissistic grandmother figure? Having an enabling asshole grandfather figure to do her wicked bidding. This guy was a cowardly piece of work. I fucking resent that man. It’s a good thing he’s dead because my words may well cut him to his brittle bones were he alive today. He died about the time I started this little blahg. I remember visiting him on his death bed about two days before the sweet release. Part of me wanted to lean in and whisper: “I’m glad you’re dying,” or “I hope this hurts, gramps.” But I didn’t, because unlike him and his cunt wife, I actually have a conscience. Don’t get me wrong, grandfather figure was actually nice more often than not. I actually liked him most of the time except when he was being a control freak. My anger against him stems from the simple fact that he didn’t stand up against the blatant emotional abuse his hagraven wife unleashed upon us. And for that he deserves to have his ass fucking crushed. Mother figure called him a big teddy bear. Me? I call him a spineless, slithering coward. Maybe he is the aforementioned teddy bear’s asshole. Fuck him. And fuck her.

"You know what? I'm not giving too much thought to this somatic narcissism of which you speak, I just think my shit literally does not stink. Man I'm awesome!"

So my dead grandmother was a narcissist and she passed all of her acidic knowledge on to her own daughter who in turn continued to fill my own young head with self doubt, anxiety, inner turmoil, and vapid fear. My mother was a victim, no doubt. She has truly suffered at the hands of her narcissistic mother figure and iron fist controlling father figure. It should make me feel sympathy, but it doesn’t. Why? Because she has decades on me. Mother figure should have grown up. She should have recognized the shit sandwiches her own mother fed her. Hell, I did. She should have gotten psychological help. More so it was her responsibility, nay, her fucking DUTY as an adult to deal with her own demons, especially before she dared bring children of her own into this world to corrupt them and plague them with her own fucking insecurities.  But she didn’t. Nope, the fucking bitch was lazy and cowardly. She buried her issues deep in the minds of her offspring. She became a “mother” so that she could have something to love her. She popped out kids to have little friends to talk to and vent to. Know what it’s like to be a kid and have your mother unload all her secrets and doubts about her marriage onto your vulnerable mind? It’s devastating. She only bred to fill the void in her life set forth by her own shitty parents and in the fallout created young casualties of war. She failed. Of course she had a cowardly father to set an example so big fucking surprise. Did I mention that asshole threatened to disown her when she protested the Vietnam War? What a prick fucking douche nozzle that dead asshole was. At least he can do no more harm to his daughter.

So my life has shed another malicious figure. It is good. It is freeing. I do not weep. I do not fear. Quite simply, I do not care. The narcissists and their enablers have tried their best to lead me astray, to make me fall in line with their wicked ways but I refuse. I rise above them because I am better than them. They are the shit upon my sole. They are annoying. They stink. They are foul. But in the end they are inconsequential. I will wipe them off upon the grass and carry on my own way. Mother figure wants to fix what has happened. She is hurt that I have pulled away (see how narcissists spin it all to be about them? Here are more traits). She wants to heal the damage and then have a normal relationship. Normal? You killed normal years ago, ma. No. There can be no forgiveness and there certainly can be no forgetting. If there is one thing I have learned in my life, it is that a narcissist can never be trusted. They cannot and they will not change. The disorder will even be taken off the DSM-5 probably because it is too hard to diagnose and even harder to treat. Plus most narcissists aren’t malignant narcissists and in the end can you really treat someone who is just guilty of being a complete asshole? No you can’t. The only thing that can be done with these people is to excise them as if they are tumors. Which is what they are, malignant tumors that will invade every last centimeter of healthy tissue until all is consumed. This means setting up a policy of no contact if all other boundaries fail. I am not there yet, but I may be soon.

As for the hagraven. When the ground thaws in the spring and I am called to head north to finally witness her corpse heaved into a grave, I think I may well pass, for you see it is all so unbelievably inconsequential to me. I’m not angry anymore. I haven’t been for awhile. I just don’t care. I don’t care about my uncle or his family enough or my narcissistic mother enough to stand around in a cold spring wind pretending to give a rancid shit. I’ve got better things to do, like live my life. The things I care about are far more worthy of my time. I care about my friends. I care about my wife. I care about my cats. I even care about my new and difficult  job though those idiotic teatards would claim otherwise. But I don’t care about the narcissists that have wandered around within my life, treading wherever and however loudly they please. Not anymore. And I never will again.

Peace of mind,

Sturm