Boring. Boundaries. Balance.

While catching up with friends during a very extended birthday celebration week and commenting on the year’s impending end, I reflected on how chill this year has been for me.

And how, I couldn’t remember the last time I was able to say that. That my year was not stressful. Lacking in chaos. No severe disruptions. Damn near breezy. I mentioned this to my cousin at Christmas and he immediately (and impressively) confirmed what I’d done differently this year: Boundaries. The thing my therapist had kept coming back to for forever before she graduated me some time ago. This year, I veered away from any signs of toxicity. If it didn’t bring me peace, joy, or some kind of fulfillment, it didn’t get my attention. If it was fuzzy, lacked clarity, or made me question myself, I walked away. If it made me feel icky or negatively influenced, I fell back.

Even if it was family, friends, or familiar.

They say the healthiest actions are the most boring ones. Routine exercise and eating well. Getting proper sleep. Drinking water. Not chasing immediate gratification in drugs or substances or adrenaline or attention. Not very exciting elements. And yet, my year was not dull.

I showed up for friends who needed me. I went to PoGo Fest in Jersey City. I pushed myself to progress in my salsa journey, going to socials and asking strangers and teachers to dance when I was terrified at my lack of skill. Building a hobby out of nowhere, I made connections in the new community I’d found, and as a result, I was more active and more social. With more movement, my body began to show me the importance of rest and how I needed to prioritize it more, and not just go-go-go until I buckled under fatigue. I finally spent more weekends guiltlessly doing absolutely nothing and it felt amazing and refreshing and not boring at all. I embraced the concept of rest as a necessity and not a waste of time that could be better spent. And after a day or two of nothing but loafing, I was always ready to unpause and get back out there.

I represented at my sister’s graduation when my mom was absent, cheering with pride when she crossed the stage to take her diploma. I planned a random family trip to Barbados since her own graduation trip got cancelled, her first out-of-the-country experience. For my birthday, I decided to get a second helix piercing to make the first one I got during Covid a set. I chose “mutiny” against long-time family holiday traditions, choosing to stand up for changes I found enjoyable, rather than swallowing my own desires for the decades-old practices my family was glued to. I broke tradition, but maybe started new ones. I maxed out my Roth IRA for the year. I finally decided that, whether I found a flight deal or not, it was time to book my dream trip for next year, and have delighted in researching my itinerary.

I had so many late nights, planned and impromptu, filled with dance, joy, popcorn and ramen. I wandered the East Village with a friend one night and ended up in a restaurant where we were invited to be added to their wall of customer polaroids. I went to my first SOUP PARTY in Brooklyn where you sample homemade soup varieties. I HALLOWEENED. I built a consistent morning routine of tea and gentle stretching to start the day. My message and social media response time grew even worse because I was immersed in situations that appealed to me, more attractive than idle scrolling to pass time, which equaled more presence.

I’ve long since realized that much of the chaos I’ve encountered in life has been other people bringing it to me. But this year, I didn’t need to keep anyone entertained, lest they grow bored with stability. I didn’t need to manage anyone’s unhealthy habits or anxiety or walk on any eggshells from their stress. I marveled in silent apartment time, peaceful walks, reciprocal conversations, sunsets falling behind water towers of urban landscapes and discovering more Lofi and Chillhop. And I feel nothing but gratefulness for this year. Grateful that I’ve made it this far in life and the fact that I’ve always been able to appreciate tiny, joyful things. And realizing, I just frequently found myself in the company of others who couldn’t.

If I have any “resolution” at all as this New Year approaches, it would be to stay on this path of “boring”. Of staying active and loving sunlight and reading more. Of healthy calm, doing what feels best for me and not vying for validation outside of myself. Of minding my New York business and staying out of others’ chaos, while staying grounded in my inner-peace party. That La-La land in my head. Because mentally, I made my own inner space a happy place to be. And healthy mind/body/spirit has always been the goal.

Wishing you your best boring New Year too. 🙂 Stay ninja.

~Tael

Holidaisical

This is the 3rd year in a row that I’ve bought a live pine tree all for myself as an adult living alone for the Christmas season. Nothing crazy; about 5 feet and slender, to fit in the little space between my TV and desk. The first year I tried this out, it was on a random whim under the premise that it was for my cats. You know, so they could experience an indoor tree in person. But who was I kidding? Once I set it up, I remembered my own delight at having one.

If you know me, really know me, you know I love Christmas. My favorite holiday of the year; my favorite season (just Christmas, not winter). My birthday shares the same month (Sag season, let’s go!) but I happily let Christmas overtake and surpass my celebration of birth. Since childhood, my joy for the season has never diminished. I love exchanging gifts with my people, and have never felt the gift hunt to be any kind of hassle. Rather, for me it’s like a quest, physically scouring deal-stomping-grounds for gifts in the wild, or combing through Internet searches for the best sales and hidden gems. And then, thrilling in the final discoveries like rare items plucked from a Zelda treasure chest after traversing the dungeon or completing the random side-quests to reach them.

I mail gifts to friends I haven’t seen in years. I’ve surprised co-workers with trinkets in the holiday spirit. Ever since I got my first really stable job as an adult, I’ve made it a point to make a contribution to a toy drive each year, because I want to help a kid have something to unwrap for Christmas. I love to share holiday spirit with someone else who adores Christmas as much as I do. One of my fonder holiday memories was the opportunity to volunteer to wrap gifts for a youth mentor program amidst Christmas music and a digital fireplace (sadly, they’ve never offered the chance again since). It never gets old immersing myself in the colorful lights of themed bars, the festive decor of restaurants, or the spirited bustle of urban holiday markets. I’m delighted to frolic at every Christmas pop-up activity, sipping hot chocolate and candy-cane drinks surrounded by tinsel and humming Carol of the Bells.

All this Fa-la-la-la-laaa spewing is going somewhere. For the last 25 years or so, my family has had a tradition of gathering at the “dedicated Christmas celebration location.” Me, my mom and sister, aunt and cousins, and godmother convene together with all of our gifts where the “proper” large and full tree is stationed. Then we position the gift haul around Main Tree, looking straight out of a Home Alone movie snapshot. Now, because of this long-time tradition, it never occurred to me to have my own tree as well, because it wouldn’t be the Christmas Day centerpiece to celebrate with. But this barely-my-height-gotta-keep-you-alive-for-a-month giant plant gave me pleasant tingles, just by being there. This tiny, joyful thing.

So this year, I went straight to where I knew the closest tree seller in my neighborhood was on my lunch break, soaking in some much-needed vitamin D happiness daylight in these SAD season times. And I strolled back to my apartment giddily carrying this $60 tree in my arms. “$60 for that???,” my mom would likely say. Yes. For this accessory that bolsters my merriment for the month. I’ve yet to purchase a single decoration myself thus far, because over the years I’ve amassed a hodgepodge of adornments, some left behind, some saved from being thrown away by others, and many gifted, from Super Mario lights to custom ornaments to old candy canes and stockings. I saved them all as they came my way, never foretelling how they’d take the stage now. And here in my home, there is no one to criticize my meaningful mix & match, and tell me that it’s too many colors and that it doesn’t look like a tree out of a Home and Gardens Christmas-edition catalog. I can just enjoy it as is without it needing to be perfect or prizeworthy.

I stuck this year’s tree into the overpriced stand I’d bought last year ($32 freaking dollars from a local hardware store, so clearly I gotta keep getting more trees to get my money’s worth out of it), and cheerfully regarded the Christmas representation in my own space. Then I proceeded to sit quietly on the floor, playing lo-fi music on YouTube and fondly wrapping the collected loot I’d thus far hunted. Gently folding and creasing and pressing little trinkets into pretty, presentable, packages. For me, it’s therapeutic. It’s enrichment.

It’s a reminder that these tiny, joyful things fill me up so much. And I should continue to let them.

~Tael

Why Do YOU Dance? (Or Why Don’t You?)

The most vivid memories that stick with you are the ones where you can recall the pure emotion you felt in that moment. One such recollection: sitting in my older cousin’s room as a child with some of his friends. A 90s Kit-Kat commercial came on and they all joyously sang along. I felt the excitement; I knew the jingle. So I hopped up into their circle, singing and clapping and bouncing along with them. They immediately stopped and silently stared down at me. Without knowing why, I got the hint: my attempt at merriment with them was unwelcome. That was my first encounter with dance-associated shame.

What continued to follow me throughout life was a confusing cycle where my family constantly picked on my seemingly horrible dance skills while others praised some hidden propensity within me. I got pulled into ballet lessons for 3 years because some scouts came to my elementary school and noticed some kind of aptitude. But when my family pulled me into the dancing fray at family functions, they made a spectacle of jeering at me like some kind of experiment. It became a Pavlovian trigger: dance in front of family, prepare for the ridicule. A script I could never alter, no matter how hard I tried. “You have no rhythm.” “Why can’t you do it like [insert family member’s name]?” “Hahahahahahahayousuck.” I learned early to stop trying and initially compartmentalized it as hating dance instead. I pretended that music didn’t move me.

Except I knew I didn’t really hate it. I was just sick of being laughed at for it.

At my middle-school prom (yeah, we had one of those), I wanted nothing more than to dance with my friends in a non-judgmental space just for us. But keeping up a performative self of avoiding grooving meant I didn’t have much practice. I waited until it seemed my mom had finally stopped lurking and left, then awkwardly tried to boogie down the mini Soul Train line of student spectators. But after ducking away at the end of it, my mom materialized out of nowhere and grabbed me. “I was watching you. See, this is why you need to practice,” she said. Embarrassed once again; still not up to par with her standards. But recognizing that I didn’t want my dancing to be for her standards. Because at that point, I couldn’t recall any memory of me dancing purely to enjoy myself, just a burning desire to perform “dance” in a way that my family would accept and not humiliate me for it.

I finally got that breath of freedom in college. Before then, I’d never really gone to parties. But here, it was spaces crammed with familiar sweaty student bodies and good vibes, far away from my family hawk-eyeing my movements. Like those old-school dance parties they talk about on social media, before social media was really a thing. Packed together, fogging up the windows, not even hydrating properly, encouraging any spectators to join in without judgment. It was liberating. Whether you were showing off, head-bopping from the wall, or taking cues from the latest popular music video shenanigans, everyone did their thing with camaraderie. There was unity in us all wanting each other to have a good time. I even felt brave enough to enroll in a highly coveted Hip-Hop course on campus, just for the fun of trying and freely messing up in a class atmosphere. Nobody taunted my dancing skills here.

Despite my attachment to the college-party life, once I graduated, I didn’t move to clubs or anything like that, because after a couple attempts, I found I hated the real-world club experience. It just wasn’t the same outside, no longer surrounded by the same good vibes and familiarity and pureness. And so, I found myself missing dance again and the freedom of being able to move without feeling like I was under a microscope. At first I substituted with the Just Dance series, where I found I could solo-groove in peace now that I’d moved out of my mom’s house. But it wasn’t enough. So I started attending more Hip-Hop classes (shout out to Hip Hop Dance Junkies!). Sure, part of it was a rebellious move against the constant “You have no rhythm” mantra of my family. But trying to extinguish the love of music and movement deep inside me for so long had done nothing to quell the stubborn blaze, shining fiercely below the surface as if someone only needed to pay attention to see it gleaming through my eyes like a window.

And just as no one ever judged me at the college parties, no one ever judged me in class either. In fact, the opposite. People complimented me. People said they watched me to make sure they were doing the routine right. Folks said “Wow, you’re so good,” and I couldn’t believe it. It felt so alien and contradictory. Why was I good enough for everyone else but my family? Could my mom even pull off the choreography we learned? This wasn’t some backyard Black cookout dancing; this required memorization, drills and muscle memory. All my life my family had made it seem like it was so effortless and natural for everyone else but me, but I would have paid money to see our roles swapped and see how they fared with the moves I was learning.

I got introduced to Tango on a work-trip excursion to a milonga in Argentina. After hopping into some fun mini-classes that night, I tried to take it even further back in the States. From the very first class, the teachers immediately noticed some kind of capability in me; I heard them muttering together as they watched me dance with another student. The school owner even seemed to take an interest in coaching me for the duration of my attendance. It was he who pushed me to join him and select other students at a milonga in the city, and encouraged one of his very attractive student teachers to take me into a back room for “one-on-one practice.” Swear to God it was just dancing, but it was absolutely one of the most seamless, sensually connected dance experiences ever.

The challenge to dance continued to follow me and remind me of its calling. At a rooftop social mixer, I pulled out a slip of paper from an icebreaker bag that read, “Have a dance-off”. I groaned. But I was surprised to find others around me grimacing at the fact that they’d avoided such a challenge because they didn’t want to do it either! They were just as apprehensive about dancing in front of a bunch of strangers. So what did I do? Told myself, “You got this, you’ll never see these people again,” and freestyled with my opponent in front of everyone for a good 30 seconds. And I was glad I did it. Yet again, folks made a point of coming up to me afterward to congratulate me, saying I did so well and they would have been terrified, juxtaposing everything my family had told me my whole life. Was the Pavlonian response of expecting to be snubbed diluting?

And now, this chapter of dance in my life is a Salsa journey. The one dance I never thought I’d be able to learn because the counts are so different from other dance styles, and it always looked so fast, so complex and insurmountable. But from the very first class, I wanted to keep going. It was such good vibes from the students and teachers alike. We were a bunch of beginners bumbling around, messing up and laughing together, but not at each other, simply because we were having a good time with the same goal in mind: to master this. When people tell me I’m good or that I’m a great partner or they have a fun dance with me, I inwardly beam with happiness because I still never feel that great. But I can see my progress in competence.

Sometimes I’ll watch more experienced dancers and feel my anxiety rising thinking I’d give them a boring dance because I’m not on their level. But I try to remind myself that while getting gud is the ultimate goal, not to forget the “having fun” part that I lost sight of for much of my life. Because ultimately, dance should be joyous. And you forget that when you’re so focused on performance and impressing others and not “failing”, rather than dancing with them. So I try to remember to keep my focus on my own connection with the music and my connection with my partner, because while I’m likely being watched (because someone is always watching you in Salsa), my goal has never been to dance for flashiness or to look sexy or to wow other people. If I have a good time with my dance partner, then that’s enough for me.

It also helps that people are not watching you just to tell you that you suck. They are watching for an opportunity to join your good time.

I love that I laugh a lot during Salsa, especially when mistakes are made, because they’re inevitable. If we fail a move, I encourage them to try it again; see if we nail it this time. I laugh because I’m comfortable and at ease. That freedom of dancing to feel good; I found it and I don’t want it to slip away again. And I’ve learned a life lesson that you should be dancing with those you vibe with, the ones you are good enough for, and if you don’t vibe and it doesn’t feel good, then don’t. Move on and find your tribe, (and your joy again).

~Tael

P.S. To those who’ve believed in me, thank you 🙂

When Abuse Follows You

I was groomed to hide abuse.

That’s what I’m learning about myself now.

My darling friend said I should write a book on it, because of all the firsthand trauma I’ve experienced from narcissism in my life. And more and more folks are starting to share their stories all over social media. More and more folks are not hiding their abuse.

Those of us who grew up around abuse can unfortunately hold a higher tolerance for disrespectful behavior because it was so prevalent in our childhood. I’d lay on a mattress by the front door with my best friend as we snacked on pasta and scribbled in activity books with headphones, trying to block out the shouts and crashes in her parents’ bedroom. Summer vacations spent with my extended family, I’d wake up to my aunt wailing at me and my cousin to flee next door and call the cops on her husband as he assaulted her, only to get the “nevermind” call at the neighbors. On other occasions, cousins and family friends pinned me down, ripped my shirt open; their hands wandered my body, their bodies on top of mine, their mouths sought my private places, they directed me to do the same to them.

I never told my mom any of those things until recently, as a full-grown adult. Because there was an unspoken rule not to talk about these things that we caught, even as children. And when it’s the people you love and trust in these situations, well…it becomes “normal”. Not that big of a deal. Everyone has to deal with something like this in the real world, right?

So you bring that “resilience” to the real world, accustomed to dysfunction. You’re so comfortable with it, you’ve always navigated it…that you don’t even realize…you’re always navigating it. It’s become second nature. You don’t think to run away from your “normal”. You’re just used to it.

In college, when my ex put me in a chokehold, I didn’t tell anyone. I just gave him another chance. When he did it a second time and started punching me when I wouldn’t submit to him, I left him, but I didn’t report anything. I told a couple of my closest friends and kept it moving. Oh, and I told some frenemies who claimed to care about me, but then they spread rumors that I was still seeing him, knowing what had transpired. I was never afraid though, because he was a little bitch. Only little bitches hit women.

We’re groomed to hide mistreatment.

We’re also so used to abuse only being physical, outright yelling or nasty belittling. A benefit of social media is that it’s opening our eyes collectively to the different types of emotional abuse that are so insidious. That we weren’t taught classified as abuse growing up. When I recounted different childhood experiences with my mom, my therapist said “Let’s stop dancing around the word we should be calling it, which is abuse.”

Abuse. Full stop. Because it’s so hard to connect that word with those you love. Because my mom’s intentions were good most of the time. But neglect and abuse are not always intentional. And accidental doesn’t mean it’s not there.

I wasn’t allowed to show “negative” emotion as a child. If I reacted with sadness or anger at anything my mom did, I was told I had an attitude or punished. I could not show any disapproval at her actions, no matter how ridiculous or illogical they were. That’s a key narcissistic trait though. One of my narcissistic exes once told me himself he needed to be around happy people only, because he was not capable of producing happiness himself. Also code for, “You cannot respond negatively to any of my abuse“. Narcs cannot regulate their own emotions, which is why they cannot handle yours, and will call you “emotional”. They flee from any emotion that is not “happy” or “anger” rather than dealing with it like an adult (because remember, they are emotionally immature). Which is why they need to constantly be surrounded by others hyping them up and giving them pats on the back and telling them “Good job”. They crave external validation because they cannot give it to themselves. That same ex needed me to celebrate every time he made a “sale” at his job, even though, that was literally his job every day: to make sales. So I had to celebrate him doing his basic job correctly, the way you clap for a toddler during potty-training. My last ex got mad that I didn’t automatically high-five him after a gym session. I have been with some bodybuilding-looking motherfuckers, and not once did they expect any sort of validation for completing their routine gym workouts. Because internal confidence does not breed the need to beg for recognition. But I wasn’t “supportive” enough because of this.

My individuality was not valued as a child, because my mom saw me as an extension of herself, as did my narc exes. In my last relationship, I constantly felt misunderstood, not heard, and not seen as my own person. Because I wasn’t. Things that were important to me were overlooked or easily forgotten. I was seen for how “good” I made my partner look (because I was attractive, fit, had home-making skills and participated in his hobbies), same as when I was young and my awards and educational accomplishments therefore made my mom look special in her parenting. But my unique quirks were not appreciated (they were usually laughed at), and if I had a differing opinion, or did something they thought made them look bad by association (because with narcs, it’s all about their projected image), it was all over. My personal feelings, thoughts or beliefs did not matter. If anything, they expected me to change my mind for them. I was expected to be uncomfortable so that they could look good or have their way at all times, and fake happiness even when I was miserable. If I didn’t, then I was “ruining the mood”, and the one thing a narc hates is if you ruin their good time because you’re upset by something inconsiderate that they did. But because they don’t want to be seen as a bad person in any capacity (and in their heads if they’ve done a bad thing then they’re automatically a bad person and they can’t process the shame involved), they just keep doing bad things and not taking accountability for them.

My mom is the first one to bend over backwards for someone and perform a favor that may greatly inconvenience her, if it will make her look like a savior. It’s generally a great production so that everyone knows, “Look what I did.” My narc exes were exactly the same, because it made them look like good people. But you’ll notice, they’d never do something like that for the people closest to them, like their partners or family members. Like, they’ll jump out of bed at 3am because their drunk friend called and needs a ride in the next town over, but complain about having to pause their game and drive their girlfriend home from the doctor 7 minutes away. It’s telling.

Heavy criticism is another marker. My mom never thought twice to publicly shame me for little things that didn’t match up to her standards, making spectacles of beating me or announcing my gifts were wrong, then proudly proclaiming her disciplinary actions to others. My aunt has witnessed her being incredibly cruel to me vocally on more than one occasion, and giving zero fucks about my feelings despite my being obviously visibly hurt. My two worst relationships with the biggest narcs were rife with criticism. And it was never constructive. I kid you not, my last ex brought up a work trip from 3 years prior, before we were even together, where I snuck a man into our company Airbnb late into the night for some “fun times”, so I barely got any sleep. The next morning, our group activity involved taking a yacht to a private island. I discreetly asked the captain if there was a room I could catch up on a few Zzzs in. He gladly obliged, I conked out for like 2 hours and awoke refreshed, ready to party with my team, feast, take pics, and swim in the river. But my ex made the biggest fuss about this years later for some reason. HOW DARE YOU DISAPPEAR FOR A NAP BECAUSE YOU DID DIRTY THINGS WITH A MAN BEFORE WE WERE TOGETHER. I DON’T THINK THIS WILL WORK OUT. Keep in mind I caught him going on Tinder while we were together “for validation” (narcs have ridiculous double-standards galore). There was absolutely nothing I could correct about that situation; it just happened and he wouldn’t let it go and angrily shoved it in my face for hours/days as this somehow lowered my worth in his eyes. The guy who also patronized sex workers and happy-ending massage parlors.

He told me he sometimes saw me as “his friend’s leftovers”, since I had dated his narc friend as well, and somehow thought he’d be different because of how hard he pursued me and earnest he was with his feelings (beware of love-bombing ya’ll). Another something I could do nothing about, but he held it over my head as if I’d now been demoted to a clearance rack item. Another instance he wouldn’t let go of for months, was a gaming session with friends, where a player I barely knew profanely roared at me when I beat him, which made me feel extremely unsettled. I ended up leaving because I couldn’t shake it off, and he once again claimed that my removing myself “ruined the mood”. The fact that he was well aware of my past trauma with abusive men yelling and getting physical didn’t matter. Because your feelings never matter to a narc, your discomfort doesn’t matter, your trauma does not matter. All that matters is what they want in that moment and how they think they look, at your expense. You live to serve them.

Have you ever had someone you loved callously watch you cry, turn their back on you and leave or like, pet the cat instead? Almost sociopathic, right? Normal people don’t like to see their loved ones hurt, but to narcissistic people, our tears inconvenience them. It’s literally, “Shit, they’re crying, now I gotta console them, ugh, I don’t wanna.” And yet, I’ve literally had them earnestly look deep into my eyes and say, “This anime is very important to me, I need you to pay attention and watch it seriously,” because I was looking at my phone. Double standards. Lack of empathy. Hallmark narcissistic traits.

And then the manipulation. They don’t have a great sense of self, so they don’t respect yours either, hate your boundaries, and ignore your likes and dislikes. And so, they’ll insist you do things that you’ve made clear you don’t like, and then get mad at you for not visibly enjoying it. One ex got angry because I opted out of playing beer pong and sat on a stool to watch the game instead. Another threw a fit because I pulled myself out of a game of Never Have I Ever, when a coworker kept pressing me on a question I didn’t want to answer. If you’ve been with a narc yourself, you’ll know, the anger is always severely disproportionate to the actual “offense”, due to their terrible emotional dysregulation. My ex even admitted that though he’d been promising that he’d close the gap on our relationship by moving to my state since we got together, he’d hoped that we could do drugs together and I’d be enlightened to change my mind so he wouldn’t have to keep his promise. You’re not accepted for who you are, but rather, the ball of Play-Doh you become for them to mold into whatever they need at the moment.

But we’re trained…to stay…silent.

I remember the first time I broke the silence of keeping the chaos a secret in my last relationship. After my alcoholic ex getting into 3 vehicular accidents within the first year of our relationship, and the fear I felt one night wondering if I might become a victim in the passenger side of his reckless swerves and curb-jumping. I remember him being pissed that I’d told someone, but in no way concerned for my safety, just his image. I remembered thinking how horrified my family and friends back home would be if they found out I’d been hurt (or worse) in a completely preventable accident because I’d chosen to move states to be with a substance-abuser with heavy mental issues who hid liquor bottles in his cue-stick bag and constantly pushed me to leave but I stayed because I really wanted to help heal him but staying meant constantly enduring why can’t you just think how I think and act like I act and NOT be your own person and never disagree or dislike anything I say or do and excuse all of my bad behavior? Why can’t you ever be…good enough.

And you won’t be. Not for them. You will never be good enough for them. Because they move the goalpost every time you finally reach it. And because nothing is ever good enough for them. Because they aren’t actually happy with themselves, and that’s why they’re always chasing the next high, restlessly looking to fill the void and persistent emptiness inside of them with outside stuff. They are not at peace with themselves, so they’ll never be peaceful with you. And they don’t love you for the person you actually are. They love you for what you’re doing for them, how well you’re handling their projected emotions, how well you make them look. The second your real flaws and needs come into the picture as a person, and they have to cope with actual human sides of you, the “love” they say they have stops.

Ben Taylor of Raw Motivations, a self-aware narcissist who shares helpful content on narcissistic abuse, reminds us that narcissists’ words never line up with their actions. A glaring mark of dishonesty. And that you always need to be looking at what is being demonstrated over what is said.

So, let’s take this example. One of the biggest recurring issues in my last relationship was that my ex had an “internet friend” that he’s only met once in his life. Someone he’s never really shared his hopes and dreams or trauma with or who has never stood by him through some deep shit or helped him in any meaningful way. He repeatedly swore up and down they were just friends and there was nothing sexual or anything more going on between them. But women have intuition and know when something’s up. Despite my ex willing to die on the hill of his assertion that this was a run-of-the-mill friendship, the following happened during our relationship:

  1. He liked all of the pictures she posted and commented on how beautiful she was.
  2. He showed me old messages between them of him admitting his crush on her and getting upset whenever she mentioned her boyfriend (the literal definition of simping).
  3. He tried to hide the fact that he was watching her Twitch streams when I was around (because obviously he felt it was something that needed to be hidden).
  4. He bought her OnlyFans subscription in secret, “out of curiosity” he said (even though he supposedly had no sexual feelings for her) and then admitted to me he was looking for her pics to jack off to.
  5. He mentioned she once sent him a video of her having sex with her boyfriend.
  6. Despite MANY serious conversations and ensuing forgiveness, culminating in a giant boundary being set by me that I could not “happily” continue the relationship if he continued to reach out to her, he broke the agreement we made, did it anyway, then deleted the conversations between them. He then lied to me about how they got deleted, trying to convince me the phone must have deleted it, the social media platform must have malfunctioned (guys, THIS is textbook gaslighting) until he finally admitted to it, but claimed there wasn’t anything suspicious said (though he felt the need to delete the evidence). He then refused to unfriend her after breaking the promise, which caused our relationship to end (He also immediately confided in her directly after the breakup).
  7. He came back months later asking me for another chance, saying he confessed all of his shady behavior to her because she needed to know. I later found out this was also all a lie once I actually saw the messages. He basically just told her I was being ridiculous. He then told me that he lied to me to “make himself look better” so that I would take him back again.
  8. And then, after the subsequent breakup, he immediately unblocked and refollowed same girl AGAIN and began liking her stuff, even though he’d told me he “barely thinks about her anymore”. Even after we’d made a pact to try and be friends and help each other get through this breakup together, stay in one another’s lives, remain sensitive to each other’s emotions, a source of comfort, not post anything hurtful, you know, all that mature breakup jazz when you actually care about a person? Even though I was expected to “watch what I post” and make sure I didn’t accidentally post a guy’s arm anywhere on my social media. So I called him out on it, and he apologized saying “I had no idea it would upset you, I’ve unfollowed her”, (after 3 years of this being a recurrent problem, had no idea) only to find out he friended and still spoke to her on another platform.

Believe the words? Or the actions? What is being demonstrated here? Trust, honesty, loyalty, and caring? Fuck no! If it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it ain’t a cow, no matter how much a narc tries to gaslight you into believing you don’t understand farm animals. They will lie to your face. And they think their lying is justified because they have a faulty conscience that operates as a “What can I get away with?” meter. “Did those actions display love like his words did?” No Ben. They did not. Were those the regular friendly actions of a man who’s totally not into this girl and has no ulterior motive whatsoever? No. They are not. What is actually happening is what is factual. We are so hurt by the actions and so confused when they don’t line up with the words, that we’ll lie to ourselves just to soothe the pain of betrayal by someone we loved and would have done anything for. We’ll lie and say “He didn’t mean it,” or “This is how caring looks.”

But take away all the slick words and the silver tongue. Someone who directs his attention to talk to the dog while you’re breaking down and hurt doesn’t love you. Someone who tells you, after you have to physically remove yourself from the room because he won’t take your no to sex for an answer, “You should have said no more seriously,” does not love you. Someone who says “I understand that this hurt you,” and then proceeds to do the exact same thing over and over again…does not actually care. It’s all a deceptive facade.

My mom and I have been having a lot more talks recently because she genuinely wants to improve our adult relationship. And she finally used the word herself last week. She said she didn’t realize that what she was doing back then was emotional abuse. But she realizes it now. And perhaps finally calling it what it is, by name, is freedom.

And not hiding abuse anymore is freedom.

And having the courage to radically accept the painful truth that you loved those who never reciprocated meaningful love or caring in return despite their words?

Freedom from their lies.

And freedom from the lies we had to tell ourselves to be with them, that we actually meant something real to them; the worst pain of all.

Tell your story.

~Tael

The Cult of Yelp

A softer, less aggressive term swap could be “tribe.” The Tribe of Yelp. But I used to run with a pack of girls called the “Cult Busters” in high school, with our secret codes, nicknames, and stalker-journal activities. Trust me, we were absolutely harmless.

Yelp is an urban household verb now. To “Yelp” a place. We look it up on Yelp beforehand to see what’s up. We write our review afterwards to put folks on or warn them. Other review sites have gained some niche footholds too. Google Reviews. G2Crowd. Healthgrades. TripAdvisor. But Yelp’s the OG.

According to my profile, I’ve been Yelping since January 2011. And I loved the site even before I was letting the world know my own viewpoints on the businesses I encounter. The concept of customers being able to leave authentic reviews of their experience, tips on best days to go, which waiters are awesome, tidbits only a genuine encounter would generate, a know-before-you-go insight, was highly appealing to a truth-seeker like me. But being able to leave my OWN legit mark? Praise for a spot that impressed the highly-difficult-to-impress being that I am, or VENGEANCE on an establishment that treated me hostilely? Mini-writing assessments of food, travel, and adventure?

Initiation called to me, easy.

I’m one of those writers without any professionally published works. The sort of identity that follows you from childhood, where you amassed a collection of journals, created so many stories in your head (some even made it to some form of paper), longing to be a famous author until you grew up and realized how commercialized the publishing world had become and what it actually took to make your dream pieces commodifiable.

I let the world know my thoughts through Xanga. Console RPGs were my favorite genre because of the storyboarding; they were really just lengthy, playable fantasies in immersive format – reading through the controller. I devoured books as much as I wanted to write them, overwhelmed because how in the world would I write the same 300-ish page novels I loved so much? (And it HAD to be that long to be good.)

I apparently also used to blurt out to my mom’s acquaintances that I was starving and there was no food at home when I was a child.

Pair a love of writing with compulsive truth-vomit and you’ve got the kind of person who needs to be on Yelp flexing her composition muscles with sass and sincerity.

Surprisingly, it took me all the way until 2021 to get Elite. And when they first reached out to me for consideration, my initial thought was “Please God, I hope I don’t have to start tailoring my reviews now to be more…professional.” I mean, in one of my most memorable reviews I mention that I should have fornicated in a real estate office that screwed me over, out of pettiness. Pun and disrespect intended. But I mean, it’s definitely well-earned. Not just that I really should have left my sex-stank all over Consarah’s workstation, but the Elite status for sure. An urban adventurer “writer’s” dream. Some might think, “But it’s JUST YELP.” But to loyal clan-members, it’s a guidebook to avoiding the bar where too many folks’ credit cards got compromised, or deciding if that $30 “immersive pop-up” is really worth the money, or finding the tricky entrance to the tattoo shop you’re looking for. It’s also a chance to share your unfiltered truth with the world and help someone’s decision with your inherent communicative language. You get to be heard.

It feels good. Writing out of enjoyment, and not to impress or repackage myself for others. No one edits my shit there. 🙂

~Tael

P.S. If you wanna read that review, go here, scroll down, click to page 16 and look for the “Rapid Realty” review. Man, I’m glad they’re no longer in business.