Gaslit – Kacie’s Story

This web blog is my journey out of a near fatal addiction to methamphetamine, alcohol, self mutilation and multiple suicide attempts, back to self.

Fearlessly examined is a history of decades of the pernicious Narcissistic Abuse, Gaslighting, and sheer chaos our family endured for decades by a seriously affected mother. This personality of sheer madness would later become my compass of sorts, and how I would later choose various manners of ultimate self destruction. The severe psychological abuse I experienced by first my mother and years later my second husband drove me into multiple 5150’s, a serious substance abuse disorder, and at last the court system. The court system which I’d previously had involvement with, having worked for a local prominent attorney for over five years.

Well, long story short, I tried to murder one of them. By the grace of God, and with Jack Daniels Honey Tennessee Whiskey as an accomplice, I failed miserably. A blood alcohol level of .397 ensured that not only would I not succeed, but that I would then “hide” myself directly beneath the police department following the foolish, drunken attempt.

I have publicly acknowledged my responsibility and ownership for the situations I was indeed responsible for, and have held myself accountable for all of my actions. Intoxicated at the time or not, I step into my accountability for creating terrible damage for myself, but most importantly for others, far after the abuse had ended.

That being said, numerous psychological games and tactics were executed at the time by two individuals to manipulate and control me. They’ve maneuvered their way quite effectively out of any culpability in the matter and process of destroying a life. And for this reason, I refuse to harbor their secrets by my silence.

I will continue to write with fearless honesty, as perhaps someone else might need to hear that they’re not alone. I was, and still continue to feel very alone. When family sides with the abuser, it’s a difficult if not impossible matter to process. So I process this acceptance through writing.

My purpose of breaking my silence is to promote a greater understanding and Awareness of Covert Narcissistic Abuse and to educate the general population about this serious mental disorder and the likelihood of further victimization due to lack of information and education by those that work in our court system, child protection programs and our public education system.


I Am Nothing

And fly away she did, from the insanity, the madness, the terror that stalked her by day and reached around her throat in the pitch black darkness of nearly every 3 a.m. hour. Vanishing into nothing more than an illusion, smoke and mirrors or quite simply, the biggest lie she ever bought.

I Am Nothing

by Kacie Brockman

Who am I?

Well the answer is a paradox of sorts. I am noone, and yet, I am everyone. I am nothing special, and yet, I am everything special. I belong nowhere, and yet, I belong everywhere.

I have nothing,

I need nothing.

Therefore, I have everything.

I am someone that got “IT.”

What is “IT”?


“IT” is the moment I realized that by becoming nothing…I became everything.

“IT” had to occur in order for my soul, my spirit, my mind and my life to soar free….free from fear, expectations, perceptions and all judgements placed upon me by others, and by…myself.

How did I finally get “IT?”

I had to let go, surrender, and release whoever, wherever, whatever, and why ever it was that I was seeking to destroy myself at all cost. The reasons no longer mattered. All that mattered was that I drop the past…the resentments, the mistrust, the memories, the pain, the heartache, the anger, the resentments, the need to be right, to be heard, to be believed.

All that mattered was that I drop the future, for IT DOES NOT EXIST…rather…always and only in our minds.

Once I was able to let go…what began as a light breeze quickened….becoming a strong wind that is carrying me…this once flightless, earthbound creature is now being carried by the sheer magnitude of the wind itself…this once chained and shackled being is now soaring above all worry, doubt, guilt, fear and shame. These things are no longer mine to carry…they are no longer anchors to my soul…for they were never belonged to me in the first place.

Once I opened my window of willingness, this caged bird realized she could fly.

And fly away she did, from the insanity, the madness, the terror that stalked her by day and reached around her throat in the pitch black darkness of nearly every 3 a.m. hour. Vanishing into nothing more than an illusion, smoke and mirrors or quite simply, the biggest lie she ever bought.

“But we’ve heard this song and dance before.” they say.

“She’s relapsed, again,” they whisper.

“We’ll see…,” they mutter.

My “oh so diplomatic and business attire only” response to those who continue to gossip about a child of God fighting for her life?

I may fall down 7 times, but I get the fuck back up 8.

Finnigan Begin AGAIN!


And in my mind still, I hear the distant echo of a Sergeant commanding his soldier, (or my father’s voice shouting from the great beyond to me….his one tin soldier….)

“Oh, I’m sorry…you fell down again?….


Stumbled again, did we?




How many times yo Mama have to push to get you here? HOW MANY?







I’m sorry…you’re tired?






And one day…one, Oh my Father God, GLORIOUS day…




And surrendered.

To you?


To society?


To “man’s law?”


I broke down, to the very ground I fell, weeping.

And I surrendered on MY KNEES,

before MY GOD,

because MY GOD








Today, I wake up to love,

Rather than to be loved.

41 days.

~ Kacie Brockman


Lizard Tails & Confetti

Woven so carefully by the threads of mind control only a survivor of covert narcissistic abuse can comprehend. I no longer concern myself with those who never saw anything wrong, for it was I who had to spend a lifetime navigating my way through this 3-Ring Shit Show.

Reflecting back upon the teeter-tottered reality of my life, I thought the following phrase best captures it in it’s entirety.

There seems to have been no in-between.

Reality was either…

Riding high on cloud 9!


Reality was Traumatic AF.

When growing up, if I expressed in any way that my (experience, emotion, perception, idea or belief) of something or someone was lizard tails, I was promptly corrected and somehow convinced that it was confetti.

If my interpretation was that it was confetti I was made to believe that it was in fact, lizard tails.

I never seemed to get it right.

Never understanding up from down. I thought I did. But every time I turned around I was told I was going in the wrong direction. Except in school where I finally got things right…and so I excelled.

So here are some quotes for the bipolar-botched, confusion-cursed, gaslighted game we cane to know as our “identification of self.” Woven so carefully by the threads of mind control only a survivor of covert narcissistic abuse can comprehend. I no longer concern myself with those who never saw anything wrong, for it was I who had to spend a lifetime navigating my way through this 3-Ring Shit Show.

No longer needing to convince, at last I am free to provide myself with trust, patience, compassion and a really dark sense of humor.

Through it all I certainly became adept at one thing.

To find humor in ALL THINGS.

For the good days, the bad days, the good minutes, the bad minutes… the happy, the sad ~ as all of it, any of it might change from minute to minute.

So right now I’m just learning to ride the waves.

But one day…this young grasshopper will find the balance of the crystal, calm waters within…

Until then…damn lizard tails and confetti it is.

But now…

I alone choose to determine which is which.

Thank you all for visiting!

Please like, subscribe, and share!

All my Love,

Kacie ~°°~


But Between The Footsteps

…even though sometimes between one footprint and the next, you’ll see the dirt where my knees hit the ground again and again…but every time I got back up even when I didn’t want to. Every time I got back up when I had no more fight left in me…
every time.

…But Between The Footsteps

They posted my writing on “Put the Dope Down.”


My words…

That I wrote between staggered hiccups and sobs…

kind of a big deal…

Over 133,000 people have access to my heart, my soul, my words, specifically BECAUSE…of my addiction.

My family may never really get it, and that’s ok…I think.

It hurts beyond measure that others…from the UK to Nigeria, from New Zealand to Germany, from an anti-cyber bullying founder to a former hells angel, they can see that I possess something to offer, something of value, but my own mother and brother cannot.


$$$ ?

Sad…but true from what I’ve come to clearly understand. Get a job. Get a Car. Get a Phone.

I got clean. I got sober. I got to stay alive.

And now I’m leaving the ever so small ripples to effect a positive change. A footprint… …even though sometimes between one footprint and the next, you’ll see the dirt where my knees hit the ground again and again…

But every time I got back up even when I didn’t want to.

Every time I got back up when I had no more fight left in me.

Every time.

I just don’t understand.

I just can’t understand.

Will I ever?

Will they ever know who I am?

What I’ve accomplished?

Will they ever know who I’ve become?

I guess without a dollar sign attached to me, to my name…to my life…to my existence…in their eyes it will be as if I never existed at all.

But I did exist I whispered.

“I DO EXIST,” I shout.

You can see between each footprint…the times I needed to fall.

To build within me an empire of wealth…an EMPIRE!!!

Built of compassion for others.

THIS Empire raised up from rubble and ashes.

Raised up NEW in Understanding, love…and patience for others.

I am a human…

I am not a wall street investment…

There is no ticker above my head…

but rather a light…a fire…a blaze set about my soul for the healing of humanity!

…yes, but between those footsteps…

The scuffed up ground still appalls.

Was it was worth it?

Losing everything?

Losing it after every fall?



I guess.

Maybe it was.

Maybe it was after all.

Yet my tear soaked pillow and sleepless nights don’t seem to think so…

Nope…they don’t buy it…

Not at all.

…Today I picked up my orange keychain though.

Yet to him, to her, I’ll forever remain nothing more than a breath of a ghost.

Kacie Brockman


Thimbleberry Thoughts

All of our moments should be overflowing with thimbleberry thoughts. So in planting these tiny seeds, in due time and in just the right season, the blossoms of revelations, wisdom, and nourishment might likely produce the sweet and lovely fruit for which others may receive their harvest.

Perhaps you are wondering what exactly IS a thimbleberry. Thimbleberry is a beguilingly tart, aromatic fruit that grows wild in northern climates, thriving in areas with cool summer temperatures. The large, velvety berries have a tangy taste reminiscent of currants and raspberries, with soft seeds that release their nutty flavor when chewed.

All of our moments should be overflowing with thimbleberry-like thoughts. So in planting these tiny seeds, in due time and in just the right season, the blossoms of revelations, wisdom, and nourishment might likely produce the sweet and lovely fruit for which others may receive their harvest.

Please feel free to take whichever seeds of thought you like, and scatter them to the wind, because that is precisely where a miracle may in fact, exist.

All my love, Kacie


I think this belongs to you

I now possessed a solid awareness of who I was and of who I was not. Having this simple understanding, I was able to grasp the transparent truth that this “poisoned apple” didn’t belong to me. In fact, it never did.

I Think This

Belongs To You

By Kacie Brockman

Welcome to the other side of fear; this is where the actual fun begins. All those years we’ve spent running so hard and fast have brought us here to this moment. A short distance from the finish line, some of us might be imagining the various rewards that await us, while others might be contemplating whether we even possess the right to finish this race. Consciousnessly or not, each runner is evaluating and determining his worthiness to win. Some of our wounds are still sensitive and raw, while other runners bare only their scars. The roads we have traveled have been treacherous, yet through it all, we’ve somehow become of one spirit, one tribe, and one community. We are the defiant ones that wouldn’t let go of the rope getting dragged for miles. I will not say that we’re stupid, because that is not so. But one must concede that we are some of the most optimistic, eager to forgive, and hard-headed people with the determination to “change him” type of people around. By repeatedly applying variations of our choirlike mantras, “if we could just love them enough.” And so we thought that if we suffered long enough, endured the abuse long enough, maybe they might understand how much we loved them.

And then they might just be able to love us back.

Listen, loving her enough, loving him enough, loving any of them enough isn’t humanly possible; but what IS ENTIRELY possible is spending your entire life attempting to provide them with the joy and life fulfillment that they should have gained through their own experiences rather than yours. 

Understandably, we want them to love us; but they won’t because they can’t, at least not in the way that we love. They love the way that we make them feel about themselvesThey love the fact that we love them. They LOVE that they can repeatedly hurt us and yet we return to them; reinforcing that of which they crave. They treat us as the bottom of their boots and yet there we are still.

Can you begin to see why they despise us. Why they look down on us? Why the abuse continues? This must be the clear evidence that supports their belief that they are superior to us. It makes me physically ill looking back at what I tolerated, and the precious relationships I continuously relinquished for the sake of wanting him to love me.

This was more than once, more than twice, this was, “GOOD GOD YOU’VE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME!” three times I’d been driven to the edge of sanity. Three different individuals with highly covert Narcissistic traits took me on the scenic route of their own choosing, with each gaslighting, mind-twisting, terror inciting turn I was lost before we even started. So, yeah…political correctness does not get to ride shotgun as these… (Kacie, be nice, be nice, don’t say it…) individuals would much rather be reading my obituary tomorrow morning over breakfast than my blog. They loved no one but themselves. But oh! And their little dogs too. I’ve chosen to privately refer to them as whatever I like, just as they’ve chosen for example to turn and walk away from a critically ill human being that was literally begging only for water, well, because Toto had an appointment with the dog groomer. And upon walking out the door advises said dying person (who only hours later was admitted into the ICU for 5 days) with zero humanity or compassion, “Just call 911 for Christ’s sake!” In my world as well as my blog, abusers don’t receive the privilege of being identified as a card carrying, diagnosed NPD. The generally politically correct psychiatric community can urge the public all they want to develop a compassionate understanding of the narcissist and his “lost” self, but the fact remains, it is not, nor has it ever been an officially recognized diagnosis. I kindly request that research be conducted before admonishing me or any one of the ABUSERS TARGETED VICTIMS.

My view on the meta-physical mechanics of each life’s purpose is that there is an individual lesson of great significance continuously being applied throughout our lives. In my case, the successful understanding and application I might have obtained in the earlier part of my life, I did not. So the learning opportunity was presented again yet formated or structured differently. This process would continue until at some point the student would gain a better understanding of a specific life experience. This understanding is a critical part of the purpose for which we are here in this life. But I digress…basically, the fact is I’ve never been the sharpest crayon in the box, and so the lesson was applied again, and again, and….

It is my intent by hanging all of my dirty laundry out in public, by opening my family’s closet of skeletons, by all of this writing, is that it won’t take you, your loved one or another entire family having to endure years contaminated with tormented loss, confusion and despair. I am praying this awareness be understood and processed in far less time for you.

The tricky part is that an internal shift must take place and a willingness to surrender must occur. A surrender perhaps of life held convictions or embedded belief systems has to happen in order to allow room for an “alternative truth” or “just another possibility” if you will. I encourage, invite, and challenge you to step into the light of the possibility that there may likely be another truth albeit a harsh one. I am hoping that your willingness alone will suffice. That was all it took for me and then I began to wake up from the heavy slumber of a denial system that had overstayed it’s welcome. It wasn’t long for me to feel the freedom of living an authentic life. If your willing, the Universe/God/Source will guide you to your personal truth. The floodgates will be opened as they were for me, and an end to your suffering will surely find its way to you. 

  It has for me that’s for certain. Once I got it, I mean I GOT it. It was as if the blindfold had been removed and there it was. The truth and I staring at one another with the usual awkwardness of a first meeting. This revelation occurred after I’d inadvertently landed in what I perceived would be a logically sound discussion with someone I admired, trusted, and deeply loved. It did not go as I had planned, and before very long, my heart was shattered. I understood early on that alcohol was a factor, so I attempted to disengage, that one attempt to assert a boundary just spiraled into another lecture from this intoxicated and irrational person. But the conversation continued into the next day, by his initiation. I believed that as it was morning, perhaps we might have a more productive outcome. I was asserting myself for the first time ever and establishing imperative boundaries for my personal preservation and growth. It wasn’t well-received at all.  

A covert narcissist is often just too arrogant, lacking the understanding that one needs to gather authentic intelligence or facts to back up their allegations. Narcissists in their grandiose notion of superiority don’t believe they should be questioned and that by their status alone, they should never be required to prove anything. But initial lies can only survive so long, and then there’d better be some real truth to move forward. 

Having no real substance to support his argument, he went directly to what has proven successful in the past. In my case, I was not nearly as emotionally healthy as I am today nor was I as educated. So facts to support any false claims, and there were quite a few, well, they just weren’t necessary back then. The only card ever put into play was the one which I consistently provided, the “scapegoat of the family-drunk-addict-pathetic-excuse-for-a-mother-perpetually-unemployed” card was placed face-up on the table and that was that. Game over and so there I’d go crawling right back under my rock with my bottle of vodka.

After later analyzing the conversation, I understood what had just transpired. I gained an immediate awareness about the culprit and the exact nature of what has been at the very core of every relationship, personal or professional and even the relationship I’d had with my children as well as myself for over 49 years.

The specific points of contention were my unwillingness to yield to him and also the fact that I’d made many, valid points that could not be reasonably contested. Within moments of the realization that my boundaries were not to be moved, came a myriad of deflections, projections, thinly veiled insults, blanket statements, and straw man arguments. There were many flying in but could fine no landing zone. I now possessed an acute awareness of who I was and of who I was not. Having this simple understanding, I was able to grasp the transparent truth that this “poisoned apple” didn’t belong to me. It never did. I have repeatedly acknowledged ownership of my wrong doings, and have taken the difficult but necessary actions to correct or repair the damages that I alone created. But this poisoned apple? Perhaps it was the alcohol that exposed his betrayal. . Regardless, a shallow attempt to conceal his contempt for me had been noted. His affect was bitter and his words saturated with hostility. As the lies began to take center stage, the accusations began. What I think hurt the most was the fact that I’d been completely duped once again into believing someone loved me. As the lies took center stage, the carefully crafted but equally as cruel criticisms made their poorly costumed entrance. Accusations were lodged that I was making accusations, and from thereon the entire performance was a comedy of errors as the improvisation of the truth began and the curtain closed with applause as several texts not intended for me, but clearly about me, were then mistakenly sent to me. This was the day I recognized “the poisoned apple” for exactly what it was. And so I refused to take it because it simply wasn’t mine to carry. This belonged to him and him alone. So there I left it, every single bit of it.

ALL OF THIS – this that you’re seeking, the knowledge and understanding of the various traits/tactics/inner workings of the narcissistic mind; Investigating every website that refers to NPD, gaslighting, exposing the narcissist; ALL OF THIS – this that you’re doing, all the fighting back against the blatant lies and the absurd injustice, the hours of documentation, and the therapist appointments; scrambling your brain in a desperate, yet futile attempt to make others understand what you’ve been through;

ALL OF THIS – this that you’re hoping for, holding tightly to the notion that by understanding the narcissist, their wounds, how to communicate with them they’ll magically wake up to how much you love them; fantasizing what it will look like on that glorious day that you and your child will be vindicated and the truth will be set free;

So even all of this does not hold the answer for which you so desperately seek. It is, however, leading you, guiding you and gently nudging you to awaken to the one true answer.

Aren’t you tired of repeating the same lesson? I will attempt to explain what happened for me, where my answer came from and what specifically the answer was. Let me first say, that initially I did not like it one bit. But then I realized that if this were indeed the answer, then a large portion of my current heartache and the likelihood of future suffering might actually be eliminated.

The answer I discovered was that all the years of misery and suffering was not necessarily caused by the abuse and cruelty of the narcissist. In fact, the lesson has never been about them at all really. It is and always has been about one person,


I told you you wouldn’t like it. Because surely after the sheer hell they’ve put us through, having tormented us and possibly our children for years, stripping away our dignity, self-worth, and oftentimes our sanity, by God this belongs to them! Not us! Right?


The Mirror, remember?

They were showing us what we just couldn’t see, or refused to see.

They were simply treating us precisely as we agreed they should, and continued to mirror the value we’d placed upon ourselves long before they even came onto the scene.

Because every time we tolerated one minute more of the abuse? We became their cosigner. Every time we accepted one hour more of their behavior? We agreed with them. Every day of compliance with an assigned role of being a scapegoat, or the receptacle for everyone’s secrets, shame and lies? We acquiesced and gave them our blessing.

We subscribed to every issue.

We cosigned every deal.

Every time we engaged in irrational and illogical arguments that could go around and around for hours?

*God…Please let these words, my words, this explanation touch someone who so needs to understand this right now. Please pour your light and understanding onto this one gravely critical fact…*

The times they succeeded in driving us to our knees as they threatened to kill themselves? When they held the barrel of a loaded shotgun in their mouth? When they grabbed a 7 month old infant from his sister and held a hunting knife to his throat? By God we conceded to every one of these horrors by choosing to wake up the next morning in that same monster’s bed.

We permitted it by staying. We allowed it to continue by keeping it secret. Please make no mistake…

By our silence, we shook hands with their insanity.

Now we need to answer the question, “Why?”

Why did we stay?

Because we loved them? Are you kidding me? Who loves this type of creature? At the core of this exam, that will not suffice as the answer.

Absolutely not.

We BELIEVED the abuse was measured out in direct proportion to our worth.

We BELIEVED that we weren’t valuable enough to protect ourselves.

Read that again.



Allow this to marinate.

Your value is defined by what you allow.

Your value is set by you.



As the lightest twinkling of an awakening begins, I say to you,


This is the space where healing can finally begin.

You are not alone. And you are so fucking worthy.

~Kacie Brockman

#maybehedoesnthityou but,….

#Maybehedoesnthityou but he won’t let you go home or see your friends very often or at all.— Akilah Hughes (@AkilahObviously

#maybehedoesnthityou but he tries to control who you talk to, where you go, what friends you can have, and acts like it’s out of love.— sailor mourn ⚰ (@detricotage) May 9, 2016

#maybehedoesnthityou  but he constantly criticizes your clothes, your makeup, your body, instructs you to work out and be more ‘feminine.’— Laurie Penny (@PennyRed) May 11, 2016

#MaybeHeDoesntHitYoubut he makes sure you believe that you’re too broken/damaged to ever be wanted by anyone else— Just Juanita (@Just_Juanita May 9, 2016

#maybehedoesnthityou but he cheats left and right, and makes it feel like it’s you’re fault that he did it and that you can’t leave— lauren (@l0ve_lauren) May 11, 2016

#Maybehedoesnthityou but he’d convince you to hate your parents & friends and to push them away completely because they didn’t like him.— Queen Bitch (@MacaelaRipley) May 11, 2016

#maybehedoesnthityou but he rips your infant/toddler/small child from your arms and threatens you that you will never see your baby again. #maybehedoesnthityou but maybe he threatens you that he’ll convince the court that your unstable and bipolar so you will never have you child. #maybehedoesnthityou but has forced sodomized sex against your will with small child in bed at the same time #maybehedoesnthityou but he follows through on every single threat he’d made during the marriage! #maybehedoesnthityou but convinces everyone that none of this happened and your just a jealous or bitter lying albatross – February 16, 2020 -Kacie Brockman

#maybehedoesnthityou but he tells you he’ll kill himself if you break up with him.— Jenny Jaffe

#maybehedoesnthityou but he never lets you forget that he could leave you for someone prettier, less “slutty,” less emotional, less damaged.— Ella Dawson (@brosandprose) May 9, 2016

#maybehedoesnthityou and he treats you like property and not a person— Keegan Kenzie (@Keegannnnn)May 9, 2016

#maybehedoesnthityou but he says you should be grateful he doesn’t— audrey honeydrone (@singing_ghosts)May 9, 2016


People Are Kept in Boxes

We live in a world where strangers can see our gifts but those who already knew you cant get past the box you originally came in.

Sanjo Jendayi

People Are Kept in Boxes

“You have to write the book that wants to be written. And if the book will be too difficult for grown-ups, then you write it for children.”

Madeleine L’Engle

People are kept in boxes,

That people make from trees.

People think they’re locked up

When they’re already free.

People work and people die.

I’ll never get exactly why

They fill their hearts with lots of things,

Like fancy shoes and diamond rings.

And people grow more people still,

But then they’re taught how not to feel.

New people don’t know how to cry

So when they’re hurt, they only hide.

People are kept in boxes

When they believe the lies

That they are worthless garbage

Meant to wait in line to die.

People have learned a simple phrase-

Three easy words and then they’re paid.

People love and then they hate,

Left to face a date with fate.

People are kept in boxes

That people make from trees.

They’re buried on an autumn’s eve.

Without believing they were ever free.

People scare me more and more.

Stumble twice, they slam the door.

They mistreat souls they’ve yet to kill.

People in boxes don’t really like me,

– but I love them all. I love them still.

“You need never to step outside of the “box” because there simply never was one.”

Kacie Brockman


Thou Shall Not Set Boundaries in This Family

I deserved better, not only from them, but also from myself. What they ceased to recognize is that I was no longer the timid, people pleasing, always agreeable doormat that they’d all come to know and love. I had discovered my voice, yet they preferred I had just continued drinking the vodka.

Thou Shalt Not Set Boundaries

“It’s too easy to criticize a man when he’s out of favour, and to make him shoulder the blame for everybody else’s mistakes.” – Leo Tolstoy

Sadly, my family required that I continue to live up to their highest expectations as a pathetic, unemployed alcoholic doormat. Believe it or not, being an employed alcoholic garners you a higher position in the family. Being an unemployed alcoholic garners you isolation, abandonment and the darkest nights of your soul.

If only I hadn’t have told prospective employers that I had a felony, a kid, no car and I couldn’t work around alcohol. Maybe then my family wouldn’t have thrown me and my little boy away.

I have come to a place in my life that certain types of communications have become intolerable. Once they were accepted because frankly I didn’t know any better. But today I do. In fact, I know that boundaries were quite in opposition to my mother’s narcissistic agenda our entire lives.

I deserved better, not only from them, but also from myself. What they ceased to recognize is that I was no longer the timid, people pleasing, always agreeable doormat that they’d all come to know and love. I had discovered my voice, yet they preferred I had just continued drinking the vodka. My youngest daughter- I just realized is The YOUNGEST ACTUAL ADULT in our family and even she has a far better understanding about all of this than the two senior members still attempting to dominate what is rest of our family through deception and threats which are not always so carefully veiled.

I’m quite confident that with this “seriously poor attitude” of mine, any opportunity for growth to climb up the ladder in this family is pretty much nonexistent. I caught a glimpse of what’s up there, beyond the top of that ladder, and from what I can tell, I’ve got much higher property values right where I stand.

They told me to go get well. -so I spent well over a year “getting well.” In reality I’ll most likely be addressing recovery in one way or another for the rest of my life.

Perhaps they might like to catch up. – but it’s an awful lot of work and a serious time investment of which so far none are willing to take on. There’s that hostile and aggressive attitude of mine again. But after hearing mean and nasty remarks made about you to you via a misdialed text it’s beyond painful.

“I found peace of mind when I walked away from small fights not worth fighting. I stopped fighting for people who gossiped about me. I stopped fighting for those who didn’t respect me. I quit worrying about those who wouldn’t value me for being me.” ~Dana Acuri

I am still surprised in regards to just how strong a denial system can actually be. And even though I’d broken through a large portion of mine, I truly believed that they were the healthy ones! I’m just so grateful that I possessed the ability to recognize how very sick I had actually become, and be willing to change it.

I was recently informed that by calmly defining clear and definite boundaries which included refusing to tolerate or engage in any future discussions that I identify as belittling or being strategic in nature or appear as a manipulated set up- that I was being insulting, rude and aggressive. And then three times accused of drinking.

They “Hope I’m working my program…”

Establishing boundaries…standing up for myself as an intelligent being, oh…and basically with a conscious decision to remove myself from emotion-so that for once I’d be taken seriously….I simply said,

“NO MORE.” These same words I’d said 6 years ago to my abuser, have brought about similar consequences. A disapproval masked by an immediate delivery of a defensive and dominating deflection. (I swear that tongue twister was not planned out. I couldn’t have made that work if I’d tried!)

Simply an attempt to establish boundaries accompanied by an explanation that the bar had been raised and the level of respect which I had previously accepted would no longer be. If, for example, I’d not asked for financial help in the last year, then for what reason should I be expected to explain why I didn’t currently have a phone line? With care, I constructed my words so as to ensure that the full expression of love would be understood for the basis of this conversation both for myself and for him. I explained that I needed to protect my fragile self-esteem and sobriety. Yet every one of my explanations and attempts to communicate any of my feelings were received and interpreted only as a defiant attack upon he and the family. (I’m assuming he’d been referring to the family, as he kept referencing “We” & “Us” throughout the discussion when I clearly informed him that I was addressing him alone in regards to the way the night prior he’d been quite demeaning to me while intoxicated.

“Stop looking for a scapegoat in your life but be willing to face the truth within yourself & right your own wrongs” ~ Eileen Caddy.

That Bus I was thrown under? Not sure why it was necessary to switch gears into reverse and then right back into Drive again. My mission to spread public awareness about Covert Narcissistic Abuse is founded on a solid foundation and my resolve has not wavered. Every single relationship that is lost due to character assassination or smear campaign just proves to me exactly why I CANNOT back down, and be assured, I will not back down. Your threats of relationships with my children possibly being severed, no longer carry weight or substance. I WILL NOT BE MOVED. Nor will I be intimidated by your illusory reality ever again. This purpose is not even my own any longer. This is God’s show…HE IS THE DIRECTOR- HE IS IN CHARGE- AND I AM ONLY ABLE TO FACE GIANTS BECAUSE OF MY ABSOLUTE FAITH, TRUST and RELIANCE UPON HIM.

Ample opportunity was for provided for both to stop the charade. I just wanted healing, honesty and a willingness to engage in an open dialogue with one another absent any deception that was occurring, one of whom even finally offered an unapologetic, “I’m bored, and I sit here alone all day. What do you expect? Don’t talk to me about anything then.” Every pure and true act of love that I’ve extended and every truth I have begged for was coldly ignored or straight up rejected.

I live in silence no more. As three separate therapists tried for 5 years to guide me into a truth I couldn’t bear to accept.

There was a REASON WHY I chose HIM.

We seek out what is Familiar – We seek out what looks like family. “HE” was much worse, so much worse-no one believed me then, either. It’s excruciating when people believe the perpetrators over the victims. SO WHY EXACTLY DON’T PEOPLE BELIEVE US?

Today, We are a nearly 12,000 strong community of Gaslight Survivors that as a collective voice refuse to be intimidated by the relentless incoming cannons you shoot at US! The innocent ones, the ones YOU abused, the ones YOU manipulated for decades, and yet when you’re perfect “image” is put up on the block, the complete absence of any conscious, integrity or soul becomes nauseatingly transparent.

The attacks have begun…All the
“mentally unstable”
or the tired and worn out
“substance abuse”
“jealousy over So & so “ and/or the…
“She’s just bitter….””…can’t stand to see me happy” artillery has been launched.

I am the kindest freaking human being in the world! So seriously? I forgive again and again and again. I’ve never once claimed to be perfect, but I did not deserve this in my childhood, my second marriage, and certainly not now. Not one of these people, with all their money, real estate, 401Ks or material possessions could pass a polygraph. What abuser can? I’ll tell you who could though…this “white trash, unemployed, AA card carrying, X-felon and cookie baking, garden growing, simpleton grandma, that’s who!

All the toxicity, a completely fabricated history, MY HISTORY, which until I implemented “NO CONTACT” would still be force fed to me. If I posed too much opposition to the “spun story” then it would be fed to someone else with a naive or trusting nature. Hell, the story would be recited to anyone at all who’d listen, and all the while a deliberate undermining was taking quietly erodying what was left of my life, my relationships and my reality. The only way to survive was to walk away. The last conversation brought me back to the sheer insanity of trying to maintain a clear and logical conversation with someone who is deliberately trying to create confusion with a nonexistent scenario within the conversation. It’s an impossible conversation which always ends up with you being projected as the antagonist.

The conversation being referred was a flighty attempt out of what I imagine could only be sheer desperation and intoxication, to create “a something out of nothing” spun story….Ironically coming only a few hours after I’d effectively maintained an articulate, logical and nonaggressive discussion, in which I had for the very first time in my life set rightful boundaries. After an unsuccessful attempt to violate said boundaries, came the bitter sting of a completely unsuspected betrayal. Receiving texts clearly not intended for me, I had now become the complete antagonist in the conversation earlier that day. How had I become “The Bad Guy?”

The Flipping of the Script

By seeing through the bullshit basically. I had addressed the deflection, inference and the subtle but steady undercurrent of disparaging and dismissive comments intended basically just to trip me up. So now the script had been rewritten. *Flipping the script. Now the story was, “I’d probably been drinking, was aggressive, rude and insulting, and blowing his phone up all day while he was at work and wanted to just be left alone” Well okay then, I just hope someone has a fire extinguisher nearby when his pants combust into flames.

“It’s too easy to criticize a man when he’s out of favour, and to make him shoulder the blame for everybody else’s mistakes.” ~ Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace

“ I don’t know what she is trying to do. They are insulting , rude, aggressive. I told her last night I doubted she is sober. She is going on and on. So tired of it.”

So the feigned concern has been noted and documented. Both may now drop their “Go-To Plan” as the “We’re just so concerned about her, her mental health or I think she’s drinking again…or, or something.” act has worn out it’s originality and audience appeal.

Mr. ABCDEFGHIJKLMNO…the night before was attempting to convince me that he was not significantly impaired by texting almost the entire alphabet to me. As one might gather from the ridiculousness of this, yes he’s had multiple dui’s. Perhaps he reckoned that I might just not notice the previous nonsense he’d already texted…the alphabet….smdh. I would never in my wildest imagination believed that I would not provide this person with cover for his past mistakes. I’ve always kept a shield of silence for both of them until now. I can only survive so many injuries from their lack of compassion, communication and covert manipulation. Walking away is evidently the only choice they’ve left me.

This is their “go-to” or method of operation when someone finds them out. Well the recent attempts to undermine my credibility were so poorly executed by that sadly intoxicated family member whom I previously would have laid down my life for.

The proof is in black-and-white – the conversation’s transcript as well as clear attempts to divert me from staying on point throughout the conversation. – The mind games that I was now so familiar with were unsuccessful so then when his attempts to flip the script failed miserably, he came back dangling the proverbial carrot which I’ve been chasing all of my life.


This encounter perfectly exposes an assortment of textbook narcissistic tactics and it will be in detail and publicly posted only because of the following:

I’m done sheltering evil with my naïveté and my silence. Love? They’d rather see me in jail or dead than for me to break my silence.

Anyways…What’s Love Got to do with Any of it? I’ve only enough love left to spare for the pure and honest hearts left in this world.

They’ve attached to me over the years, their wickedly sharp barbs of Guilt, Secrecy and Shame which I carry NO responsibility for, thus I have laid all of it down at their feet. It was never mine to carry. Not then, not now, not ever.

“Every group feels strong once it has found a scapegoat.” ~Mignon McLaughlin

This is THEIR secret, NOT MINE.

although it continues to pain me deeply… I did not start the fire.

It was already burning before I even took my first breath.


Sprinkled Encouragements

A Life Without Dreams is Like A Cupcake Without Sprinkles…Encourage a Friend and Share a Sprinkled Encouragement or Two!

Sprinkled Encouragements


There’s Still Time To Change The Road You’re On

There’s Still Time To Change The Road You’re On

Kacie Brockman

“Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.”

Robert Frost

Allright, well 3rd times a charm. I have apparently broken about every rule of thumb to be a successful blogger…but then again, I’ve never been in it for success. Creating a ripple is all I really hoped to do, and I believe that is in fact, happening…however small and seemingly insignificant, the ripple is spreading out wider and wider.

I don’t care if anyone remembers my name, because I really wish I’d never had one at times. I know that sounds quite melancholy, yet it’s a simple truth for me. I never fully identified with my name, or self even. It just seems that we are given a name and then a little child career. Now within that career, we little humans can be molded, shaped and formed by our parents, or caregivers, and really the identity never belonged to the child. Well, that’s how it happened for me, and neither did my reality or any of my feelings or perceptions. There just wasn’t a me in the equation.

There were so many things I remember wanting to do as a child, but I could not. It wouldn’t look right. Or the clothes I was dressed in I certainly rarely had a say in any of it. Of course as a young girl I never really cared that much except that I hated lace dresses and leggings. ugh. Absolutely despised them. the lace was stiff and itchy, the tights were, well, tight and always drooping down to my knees so I had to walk funny because for whatever reason they never could be pulled up all the way. So while the boys in our family or friends would be playing and having a good ol time, there I was waddling and scratching and trying to stay clean for mama.

I hated baby dolls with a passion, but Mama loved them. I just never took to them and thought they were creepy. That never stopped me from receiving one every year on my birthday and since we were quite poor that was typically the only toy I ever got. My best memory of a gift was the one year I got a box of crayons, the giant box with 64 colors back then, a box of markers, and lots and lots of construction paper and a large drawing pad. Finally, a real present. One at last, simply for me. I still remember how happy I was coloring and creating for hours alone in my room. I was most happy being alone. Because I could be me. Forty years have passed, and not that much has changed. I never seemed to fit in anywhere…but when I was alone, there was no fitting anywhere, I just got to “be.”

The big 50 came and went without much todo. None in fact. And I was perfectly ok with that. I have certainly gotten far too comfortable going to the store without makeup, now staying home every Friday and Saturday night. I’ve done all the cruising, dancing, mingling and flirting I suppose that one can really do. Typically ending up feeling even more alone, and still remaining with the knowledge of being so apart from the rest of the world. I found myself quite content to sit and watch a good round of Family Feud, or read scripture. I know I sound like 80, but alas…it’s been a difficult road, these 50 years…so I put on my flannel gown, feed my cat, and go to bed whenever the hell I want to go to bed, and I make my own rules, and I choose my own friends and no one is the boss of me…anymore. A lonely liberation indeed. So lonely if fact, suicide sounded quite nice. I ran the film in my mind, wrote the notes, packed precious belongings for each of my children and planned the day. As selfish as it seems to many, I was tired. No, I was more than tired. I was sick. I was exhausted from living up to what everyone expected me to be, for I had become so much less, and a constant disappointment and black sheep, even within my own family. I was in immense emotional pain trying to numb it by any means possible. So as the last candle went out on my cake last year, I was ready to buy the burial insurance and headstone, and quietly take the next off ramp, But then something happened. Something really big happened and that changed everything. Everything.

I went straight to Hell.

I don’t mean figuratively or metaphorically I mean I went to Hell. I got the Grand Tour. Ok, well Hell is not very pretty. It was black, and lonely, and it was for eternity…Now I’m making this sound quite mild. It was sheer terror. I still cannot describe it as horrifying as it was…people just can’t grasp what I’m saying. It was BLACK…BEYOND BLACK… and yet I was AWARE. Fully 1000% aware, that this was eternity, no sleep, none of the 5 senses we have in this physical world….just black and I was PART of the black. It was something I’ll never forget. Later when I could kinda-sorta wrap my head around it, I knew I had a whole lot of living left to do. A whole lot.

So I realized that this life, MY life has been lived for everyone else but me. I think sometimes that can be considered noble and right, but not in my situation, for I was doing it for all the wrong reasons, and there were those reaping the benefits of my sacrifice for all the wrong reasons.

So yes, I have a label chosen by my parents, but see, I arrived here in form, or matter if you will,with no identification whatsoever, other than a spirit wrapped in bones and muscle and screaming to high heaven perhaps for the simple fact that as I was coming down the birth canal, all of a sudden, I realized this is NOT what I signed up for. Well, spiritual amnesia or not…apparently I did in fact sign up because even after three 5150’s, here I am…still.

Living for everyone else began taking a very high toll on my spirit, and I simply wanted out. So if you were wondering why I personally saw Hell, it was because I didn’t want this life any more. Now let’s get real clear on this… I said THIS life. I didn’t comprehend that I could change THIS life around. So I thought I was stuck with it, and I tell you what, I didn’t want one thing to do with staying alive if THIS life was it. Because it was far too painful, far too lonely and far too cruel for anyone in their right mind to even want to continue to exist in THIS life. So when people tell someone to, “Go to Hell!” I jump up and say, “No, no, no, no, no! Don’t say that!…You do NOT understand…”

Sadly most people I’ve explained my experience to don’t believe me. It’s awful. It is so awful knowing what I know for certain…and no one believing me. Especially those I love. It’s become maddening at times. But I have to accept that they are not able to hear, understand, believe or accept many things. This sucks. Really. But I’ve had to accept that it is what it is. They think I’m crazy, I know I’m not. I’m trying to save them, they stay in the dark, wandering and lost.

But I won’t stop. Because someone will in fact, hear me. Whether you’re doing something you know you shouldn’t, carrying on an affair that you know in your heart is wrong. Stop. Just stop. If you have found yourself trapped in a series of lies and deceit, stop. Just stop. Whatever life your living right now that you know is not in direct alignment with the highest potential for which you were born to live, stop. Just stop. Look around you. This is it guys. This is it. If tonight should be the night that you take your very last breath, would you be pleased with all that you have accomplished in THIS life? Or would you have a deep, gut wrenching regret eating away at your soul while you leave THIS life? You can change direction, it’s up to you. There are a billion other lives you can choose from to create, to become. You never, ever have to stay locked in a box that someone has placed you in…even if it was you.

There’s still time to change the road your on. Turn around. If you need to start all over, then do so. It may be your one last shot. I turned around. One of the most terrifying decisions I’ve ever made in my life, leaving behind a world of familiarity and false pretenses, I embarked on becoming well, me. I no longer wake up with dread and fear. For as long as I can remember this is how I would wake up.

Today I wake up with peace and joy and excitement. I used to awaken with panic and anxiety. It is gone. Completely gone with no need of any pharmaceuticals, cannabis…or ANYTHING. A highly personal spiritual evolution and shift occurred the moment I chose to take God’s will as my own, and let go of other’s will for me. Aligning with my Creator’s will, has freed me from bondage and my soul flies fearlessly from form, from matter, from THIS life, I have become, Me.

And one of the best side effects?








Written by: Kacie Brockman


I Am Worth a $10,000 Cup of Coffee, and So Are You

For 9 weeks I laid there, everyday waiting with a fragile mix of trepidation and hope, the birth of my baby boy. I did not care in which manner God determined that he be packaged…all I asked from God was to believe in me. To believe that I would do everything within my power to provide him with a life of happiness and that I would protect his life at all cost.

I Am Worth A $10,000 Cup of Coffee And So Are You

By Kacie Brockman

Of course I realize how obscene a Keurig costing $10,000 is, but this King of Keurig’s represents something far deeper than that.

If any of you know, the story of Jim Carrey and how when he was an unknown comedian and  very poor he wrote a check to himself for $10,000,000.00. And he wrote in the memo: “For Acting Services Rendered”    

On the day when his father died, Jim Carrey placed the check into the casket and believed that one day he would in fact, earn $10 million. A few short years later, he would be able to cash that check.

In 2008, when I was pregnant with my son, as some of you might know, the pregnancy was quite difficult.      Five doctors told us that he would not live. They couldn’t even give him a 1% chance.     I had already lost one baby boy in nearly the same manner 4 years before.     

With this pregnancy I remember having just read, The Power of Intention by Wayne Dyer.   I absolutely refused to believe that this was going to happen to me for a second time.      

I had 2% amniotic fluid and was on my back from the time I was 20 weeks until I was 29 weeks.  The entire time placed on bedrest in a highly skilled,  high-risk maternity unit.      

Every single day I imagined holding him, kissing his tummy and  tickling his toes. I visualized it. I saw it. Because I knew I could not endure a second loss like I did the four years prior.  I simply refused to believe it.      

I told the doctors, “I don’t want to hear your reports. I don’t want to see any of your statistics. I don’t want to know anything.”  I told them to do whatever they needed to do to keep my baby alive.   

For 9 weeks I laid there, everyday waiting with a fragile mix of trepidation and hope, the birth of my baby boy.   I did not care in which manner God determined that he be packaged…all I asked from God was to believe in me. To believe that I would do everything within my power to provide him with a life of happiness and that I would protect his life at all cost. (That’s another story altogether.) I believed with everything I was that this baby was going to survive and I would regardless of any/all circumstances, I would raise my son.

At 29 weeks my son was born. He weighed 2 lbs 10 oz.  He was in the NICU for 77 days and I took my baby boy home on my original due date.

So here is my new belief.

I believe that I will one day have a large home. This home will provide love, warmth, kindness, compassion and temporary shelter for women waiting for a bed/space in a substance abuse rehabilitation center.  

That small window of opportunity also called the “window of willingness”  can be closed and the opportunity lost within hours or days of the addict/alcoholic having reached out to get clean and sober during that brief waiting time in which a bed or space becomes available in an inpatient recovery program.

I want to be able to provide that safety net of a transitional recovery home, providing shelter for the few days or weeks that their window is open might save a woman’s life.

This Keurig coffee maker represents this dream.
This will be the coffee maker that these women  wake up to every morning. Because I want them to know they matter and that they deserve a $10,000 cup of coffee.

Not only that but to say:



I don’t need to know when, how, why, or where… all I need to know, all I need to see, and to visualize… is the end result, down to even the smallest of detail…like that of a $10,000.00 Keurig, mint green coffee maker.


I Am Your Reflection, the Mistake You Cannot Change

“The mother’s comments set a foundation by which people begin to view the target/her own daughter. Onlookers have no idea what’s going on. They see a seemingly nice mother trying to help her daughter. They believe the stories that the narcissist spreads, and come to believe the daughter is the problem. In private, the daughter is frustrated by the abuse, which makes her mother’s false allegations seem believable when she tries to stand up for herself. If she shows anger or sadness, the narcissist mother is quick to tell others than she is “out of control” Many times that behavior is a reaction to years of abuse and only shows up when the narcissist is instigating a fight. The narcissist mother will pick at the daughter then blame her for reacting.”

I Am Your Reflection

The Mistake You Cannot Change

Foreword to Kaleidoscope by Kacie Brockman

Kaleidoscope, a poem of colossal depth and meaning provides an idea of the tedious and tumultuous relationship between my mother and I which began around the time I wanted to pick out my own bra I suspect. Kayla Casper has been able to capture what from my experience and observation, perfectly describes the innately complex relationship between a covert narcissistic mother and her grown child. With poetic beauty and innovative style Ms. Casper has been able to penetrate through dimensions of disbelief into a world that is nearly impossible to explain or express to another who’s not experienced it. I still find it hard to share with even my closest friends.

The traumatic integration of reality with the warped history I’ve ever only known is still very confusing and complicated. I’ve been able to manage riding the waves of varied emotions by writing day and night. I write while attempting to wrap my mind around this idea, this concept that a person can act as if they love you when they just simply don’t. And it’s not just that they don’t love you, it’s also that your suffering brings them some sort of satisfaction. I don’t know if I’ll ever understand. And perhaps it’s best that I don’t.

What I do understand however is that this is the only way for my child and I to be safe from here on out. Going “NO CONTACT” is not by choice, but rather, by no other choice. Because as in her very own words, “I’m a bored, lonely old lady with nothing to do all day. What do you expect? If you don’t want me to talk about anything, then don’t tell me anything.” I just realized as her words were pouring onto the screen in front of me, maybe that was her way of telling me that I wasn’t safe with her at all anymore. Perhaps as a mother’s innate, instinctual makeup demands, she … maybe she was keeping me safe for the last time, even if it meant keeping me safe from her. Wishful thinking it should be that the Wizard ever loved any of them. (Mascara soaked memories are ferocious after midnight my friends. …. I would not wish this on my worst enemy…this is f ****** brutal.


We are broken.

We dream in nightmarish landscapes that echo back our wasted time

Hollowed versions of ourselves scream and shatter us to the core

We lay our lies on moon beams and wake with our conscious bare

Our hopes lie wounded on time’s ailing back

I am your reflection, the mistake you cannot change

The mirror that you see your own failings within

Years of my life are etched deep into your frame

My life running you ragged you wear bitter indifference on your face

You, a figure that’s disfigured in the kaleidoscope mirrors

The me that you see, a shatter picture

Your eyes stare blankly passed my face

Child to adult a flash of just moments create you to I

I am the error, the left over piece in the assembly of your life

Important yet unknown and seemingly useless

I am the shadow that follows you through time

The mistake that goes awry

These hollowed hearts gain no solace in vanities arms

Time is failing as the wound begins to fester

You’re the idea that has corroded with age

each year more rust forms on this broken dream.

With our heads held high with the same stubborn pride

We’ll descend into the shattered pieces, sit in ill contempt

We are pieces torn asunder our path littered with stars made of glass

Fragile and cracked we fall into the bleakness of our relation

We are broken, and I’m out of duct tape.

Kayla Casper

undefined We’ve heard about parental alienation, but there’s less commentary on family alienation. It seems to be the hallmark of a narcissistic mother–especially with her daughter. Narcissists of all types are dedicated to discrediting their victims by portraying them as crazy to friends, relatives and acquaintances. They usually start before the victim even knows there is a problem. Then, when the abuse starts, the narcissist has already planted a seed in people’s minds to make them think the victim is not trustworthy. It destroys the support system that the victim of a narcissist so desperately needs!

Narcissist mothers love to smear their daughters under the guise of caring. “Oh my poor daughter. I worry so much about her because she has mental issues.” The daughter might not have mental issues at all, (or she might be depressed or upset about the abuse she’s experiencing!) But, the mother’s comments set a foundation by which people begin to view the target/her own daughter. Onlookers have no idea what’s going on. They see a seemingly nice mother trying to help her daughter. They believe the stories that the narcissist spreads, and come to believe the daughter is the problem. In private, the daughter is frustrated by the abuse, which makes her mother’s false allegations seem believable when she tries to stand up for herself. If she shows anger or sadness, the narcissist mother is quick to tell others than she is “out of control” or “bi-polar.” Many times that “bi-polar” behavior is a reaction to years of abuse and only shows up when the narcissist is instigating a fight. The narcissist mother will pick at the daughter then blame her for reacting.

More aggressive narcissistic mothers will drop the pretend concern and go straight to trashing their daughters. They often make up elaborate stories and portray their daughters as druggies, delinquents or as being out of control. The daughter doesn’t stand a chance because she’s been smeared so long that her family doesn’t actually see her for who she is. The narcissist has successfully alienated her from her family…and often anyone who might help her with the abuse. Many daughters of narcissist realize that they have lost their entire family, and the mother’s campaign against them has been so thorough that no one wants to hear the daughter’s side. ~ Joanna Moore, Narcissist Abuse Survivor and author of The Faces of Narcissism

A Conscious Suspension of Impossible Possibilities

Kacie Brockman

“All my bags are packed I’m ready to go.

I’m standin’ here outside your door.

I hate to wake you up to say goodbye.”

Denial, who’d been my companion and protector since youth, had suddenly been evicted from the premises, and yet ironically, it was I who was to experience the abrupt landing on the sidewalk of reality. Several beliefs I had never thought to even question before began tripping me up with unexpected, undesirable and difficult to process emotions. Remember, I’ve been successfully dodging those critters for nearly 4 decades. As unwelcome as uninvited and intrusive relatives, these emotions began to arrive at the most dreadfully inopportune times. Before a memory from long ago might drift in and out of focus, perhaps something that had puzzled me for years, but remembering now with this 20/20 awakened awareness, I’m able to experience the memory differently and that allows the pieces of the puzzle to fall effortlessly together. It does not come close to erasing the pain of saying goodbye to my mother, but there is some comfort in those moments when memories surface and then almost before they have a chance to ring the doorbell, clarity and understanding have arrived to greet them.

I need to mention that although there were indeed many good times spent in one another’s company, my mother’s relentless rewriting of a substantial portion of my life’s experiences and perceptions had become unbearable. Forty years of garbage had begun piling up without so much of an, “I’m sorry.”

But before all that trash got taken out, it had been piled on top of the beautiful memories Covering/smothering and co mingling all the memories together, until they just weren’t anything at all anymore. Never were apologies made; no opportunities ever provided to talk about why it was ok to tell people in town that my brother was dead, when in fact, he was merely gay. I never heard one apology for the creepiest of times when my mother’s “Zero Respect for Boundaries” carnival came to town just shy of 2 years ago.

My own mother had begun to obnoxiously weave herself into a budding romantic relationship of mine. She’d begun talking about him alot, and before long informed me that they’d been talking by phone. She went so far to tell me about a fantasy she’d been getting carried away with. As with nearly every incident I’ve ever encountered with my mother, I would without exception become dismayed and dumbfounded with the level of absurdity that accompanied her side shows, which I prefered to call, “her acute, dissociative states”. I really did try to provide her leniency in regards to her age, and a possibility that the onset of senility might be a factor. Yet observing her interactions with others, whether in personal affairs or business matters, I quickly arrived at the conclusion that although this was my preferred outcome, there just weren’t any facts able to support it. What facts were able to support however, were that she was sharp, edgy and clever.

So sometimes, even a doormat such as I was, is not always able to just lie there being, well…a doormat. As my mother moved in on the man I was dating, and in addition was half my mother’s age I became not only extremely perplexed, but a quite a little bit pissed. Invariably the moment arrived when although being a reasonable woman, a patient woman and an intelligent woman, I was also a woman that had limitations. I could swallow only so many macaroons, lemonade and various soliloquies from my mother describing her fantasies or contemplating intimacy with my gentleman friend. While the cookies and lemonade stayed down alright, the following words projectiled all over her happiness, “You realize Mom, this is bordering on batshit crazy, right?” So there you have it…yet another time in which I took away my mother’s happiness. This situation exemplifies the multitude of disagreements or shit storms that have occurred through the years, and also indicative of how the majority of her pathological performances would begin.

Repeatedly these lies, rewrites, and abandonment were synthetically woven together with a “tough love” fabrication. I know cheap when I see cheap. The story she would present to others ensured that she’d have 100% support. She believed that because I did in fact, fall off the wagon, everyone would be on board (drinking 1 bottle of vodka after 6 months of unsupported sobriety/or what is known as being dry drunk.) In the exact same manner as my ex Narcissistic Husband, she encapsulated the events that followed within the context that I “lacked all credibility due to”…”fill in the blank,” or which this time was the obvious intake of alcohol. Which I’ve admitted to. So confident she was to be able to convince me of her revision being that “I was simply unable to recall any of the subsequent events”. Please indulge me if you will, I’d like to finally break this down, because I am beyond done sheltering evil with my love. So in regards to her implementation of tough love? Well, she’s been utilizing that phrase since my brother turned 14 and she sent him away to a boarding school, and again at 17 when he announced he was gay, tough love started to become the only love we we could be sure of. So when mom’s typical spring cleaning came around and it was my turn to be thrown out, I wasn’t too surprised except for one thing. It was the decision by my brother to participate in the exact same dysfunctional, systematic measures of abuse that had nearly killed him decades prior.

By late summer of 2018 I’d managed to accumulate close to 6 months of sobriety. I own the fact that I had neglected to establish any support system, such as attending AA meetings for example, and by not doing so, a relapse was only a matter of time. I sold a small personal item on social media and because I didn’t have a vehicle, the buyer was more than happy to trade a large bottle of vodka for the item. Numerous times I’ve explained that I’m an alcoholic, so I did precisely what alcoholics do. We drink to escape, to numb, to provide relief for a deep wound that can never be healed. And so the alcoholic drank the vodka. One Large Bottle. I ended up turning to my neighbor and she phoned my mother because in my intoxicated state I was crying and saying that I just wanted to die. The only other call made was for an officer to come and assess the situation. He came, we spoke briefly. He left. I went back to sleep. The following afternoon I received one phone call from my brother who I could have sworn was having some speech difficulty, to inform me that the entire family was on board with a unified but independent decision they no longer wanted to deal with me and that I needed to get well without them. There were no proposed guidelines, no established goals, no criteria what so ever to work towards a reunification. I was simply being disposed of .

The problem was, I believed the messenger was intoxicated during this call, and my suspicions were confirmed the following day. After telling me to shut up and listen, (quite the over used order of compliance in our family) AGAIN he was struggling to speak clearly. And AGAIN he proceeded to inform me that the entire family was on board with a unified but independent decision they no longer wanted to deal with me and that I needed to get well without them.

So I did.

Funny thing is about dysfunctional families, most members of the clan tend to spotlight the easy target. Now should the light or attention ever begin to slightly drift towards them, they are quick to deflect it. If no real evidence exists, they’re often observed frantically grasping into a mist of possibilities as to why the light belongs to the family scapegoat. The fact is, my dysfunctional family liked it much better when I drank. Because I was far easier to control, manipulate and blame. As it currently stands, I have become nothing but a terribly annoying mosquito which refuses to go away quietly. And the reason I refuse to go away quietly is because I was NOT the abuser, I was NOT the one destroying the peace, and I was NOT the corrosive toxin continuously causing chaos by distorting every interaction, even authentic and kind gestures have been portrayed in a light so dark it’s unbelievable. The final reason I refuse to go away silently today is the same as it was in 2014. It is the one solid fact, that this (abuse) has always been their secret to hide, NOT mine.

The following statements were directly and continuously repeated by my mother to me in an attempt to alter my perception of the events surrounding my relapse with vodka. This event became the catalyst for the discard phase.

My mother did not find me passed out. My mother did not find me wandering down the street nor were there were a swarm of police officers positioned outside of my house. There were not 2 bottles. There were not 3 bottles. I did not post anything against anyone on social media. The house was not filthy or in disarray. She did not hear sirens, She did not receive a call from the physician”s office on a weekend. She did not leap into her car and come flying up the hill. She was not stopped by the chief of the department, telling her to go home as they had it handled. (GOT to love her self-portrayal of hollywoodesque-heroism) She did not do any of those things. She did not hear any of those things. I’d place a high stakes bet she never even arose from her sitting chair before executing one of the most abusive and dangerous of Narcissistic known tactical assaults.

She deliberately restyled a polished version of events as a totalized, catastrophic and grave scene that had never even taken place. She then supplied this blockbuster screenplay of events to the family, i.e., her clan, effectively coordinating an absolute compliance and alliance of all family members to immediately and permanently cut every possible tie and cease all future communications with me.

And they did.

Well, all but one.

Isolation and deprivation from one’s entire family can carry you right to the edge of where your existence ends and something else, I’ve yet to comprend, begins. The strings to her puppet, still narrowly attached, were rapidly deteriorating. My mother knew her time was growing short and I’ve come to believe that this is what the entire last 2 years of cat and mouse has been about. She knew that in order to get my family back, I was willing to do almost anything.

Except for one thing.

I’d confessed many sins to my mother, but I refused to provide her with the one confession she so desperately wanted, and ultimately needed. Throughout my life, she had created various illusory tales in which she was either the hero or the victim. I genuinely believe this was the one story she had backed herself into a corner with. She wanted my confession to doing something I had never done to either one of my parents. She wanted me to admit to physically assaulting her.

Only one incident of any physical nature ever occured when I took a solid blocking stance, with my hands down at my side as she attempted to enter my home without my consent. That was the only time I had encountered any physical contact during a disagreement. Boundaries with my mother have never been acknowledged let alone respected.

Throughout my life,there’ve been times that I have lied, and there’ve been times I have told the truth. By following the guidelines set forth in the program of Alcoholics Anonymous, I’ve been able to step forward and claim ownership of the consequences for my lies and or wrongdoings. And as for my truths, there are three absolutes which I shall never depart from. I will forever stand firm without wavering, under any threat or condition.

I’ve never threatened either one of my parents or raised a hand to harm or imply harm to either one of my parents.

My child and I were both deliberately and systematically abused and under constant threat during my second marriage to his father.

Not once have I suggested, coerced, cajoled, encouraged, manipulated, or frightened my child into making false or misleading statements or accusations. Any statements made by myself or my child were not ever of my own creation but of our combined and/or individual experiences with our abuser.

My God is a mighty God. My God has repeatedly opened doors that no man has been able to shut. It is now that I understand also closes doors no man can open. By choosing to follow His will for my life through recovery, along with a fresh exposure to a new life, new friendships, and activities apart from my mom, an amazing awareness about myself and others began to take shape.

Becoming increasingly aware of her various approaches and styles of communications, I started to see a pattern developing between her and myself. Now the patterns were most likely already in place for decades, but it was at this point I became aware of them. It was as if she had become a transitioning algorithm. When one approach would not provide her a desired response, she would change it up. I started to realize that she was often initiating a conversation with to elicit a possible admission of guilt for something I simply refused to admit. She would pose that I because I’d been drinking, which I hadn’t, or because I was high, which I wasn’t, that I just didn’t have an accurate memory of that day. No matter how she approached the topic I consistently refused to supply her with a confirmation of her varied accounts that I had ever physically, verbally or in anyway assaulted her.

The fact is, Narcissists use various strategies, alliances, and tactics to get what they want. Communication with a narcissist quickly becomes an insane entanglement within their irrational and illogical world where anything they say is law and not to be questioned. I clearly recall when at about 13 years old, I became less intimidated and started to share memories of events independent from her or voicing opinions that opposed those of my parents. Assessing the timeline of critical events occuring in my teen years, this is precisely the same time I was informed that she’d become concerned that I was on the verge of having a nervous breakdown. She rode that donkey for years let me tell you.

Enduring a suffocating childhood consumed by the asphyxiating vortex of innuendos, suspicions, observations or suggestions that I was always teetering on a nervous breakdown. It was as if the stage was always being set in the event…

Words echoing a nightmare I cannot awaken from ….I just dreamt of it, that’s all.

It was only in a dream that a piece of the puzzle is falling and as it falls

it’s descent begins to slow as my attention remains transfixed upon where the intended purpose for this piece is exactly.

I begin to realize that it is I who has suspended it midair.

By my will alone, it now hanging precariously in limbo going nowhere,

not being allowed to fit



Just like…me.

Seriously, clarity and understanding need to answer the door right now.

I need to stop. Because this is when pieces sometimes fall where they should not.

There’s a reason why I chose him,

and him

and him.

The Malignant Optimism of the Abused Sam Vaknin, Ph.D

“I often come across sad examples of the powers of self-delusion that the narcissist provokes in his victims. It is what I call “malignant optimism”. People refuse to believe that some questions are unsolvable, some diseases incurable, some disasters inevitable. They see a sign of hope in every fluctuation. They read meaning and patterns into every random occurrence, utterance, or slip. They are deceived by their own pressing need to believe in the ultimate victory of good over evil, health over sickness, order over disorder. Life appears otherwise so meaningless, so unjust and so arbitrary…”

“So, they impose upon it a design, progress, aims, and paths. This is magical thinking.”~ Sam Vaknin, Ph.D

~So, it appears I had magical thinking. She didn’t say those words to keep me safe. She said them to keep herself safe. They were just a cover to hide her true intent. I suppose that makes things very different. Again.

The Faces of Narcissism Joanna Moore Publisher: Amazon.com Services LLC ASIN:B00OZIK2EC Publication Date: October 28 2014 Type: Non-Fiction

Written by: John Denver Lyrics © RESERVOIR MEDIA MANAGEMENT INC, BMG Rights Management Lyrics Licensed & Provided by Lyricfind

The Malignant Optimism of the Abused Sam Vaknin, Ph.D Publisher: Narcissus Publications ISBN-10:8023833847 Type:Non-Fiction Copyright 21 Sep 2003


15 Days

*With mascara stained memories painted down my face, memories of nightmares I can NEVER erase. A faint whisper just barely escapes, “i can’t do this…all out of luck,” and there away flew, an echo so silent , of my last flying, “Fuck.”*

15 Days

Ok…here goes nothing…

Quitting Meth, after nearly 1 year of daily use. This was a year long relapse.
Things I have said or screamed in my head 
over the course of the last 15 days:

Days 1-2 *sigh*

Ok…well it’s gone. 

I’m gonna be just fine.

It might hurt a minute,

Not gonna lie.

*Reassuring thoughts to self on eve of day three*

It’s gonna be ok.

Body and bones weary, yet still fighting sleep

Beginning to pray,

With pathetic promises,

I’m scared I’ll never keep.

Then…Day 3
*Tension and temper beginning to rise*


No…but seriously.

Fuck this. I feel like shit.

I’ve changed my mind.

There’s no way I can quit.

Now come days four through nine.


Please bring it. I promise, just one more time.


















*took too many pills…but woke up* another failed suicidal try.



Days ten through thirteen

Mind is breaking-

Body fighting to get clean.

Soul is aching

Words vomit from me, shrieking,

vile, cold and mean.

So brittle these emotions,

Bleeding and raw,

C’mon, someone pick up, answer my call.

The back of this camel can’t take anymore straw.








*Still screaming*












God help me.

Please God.


I cant do this anymore.

I fall to my knees.

I can’t. 

 Help me God.

Not another day…

Isn’t there any other possible way?

I cannot do this. 

*With mascara stained memories painted down my face, memories of nightmares I can NEVER erase. A faint whisper just barely escapes, “i can’t do this…all out of luck,” and there away flew, an echo so silent , of my last flying, “Fuck.”*

*Slumber finally broken, I’m starving for bacon.*


I give up.

I surrender.

You all fucking win.

Goodbye to you, Shit.

My once-upon-a-time “savior”,

My imaginary “friend.”

And this was just yesterday.. 

It finally 
Day 15…Clean…serene…I think I might be…no, 
Oh my God…maybe…could this mean maybe….Free?


Yes. Free.
I’m finally free?

A hiccup or two more fucks possibly,

Oh my God.

Yes. I feel it.


Thank you God!
I’m finally me?


Who just 15 days ago,

was just too terrified to be.


15 days



This is my truth. I’m on day 15.  

In 10 minutes exactly, I’ll have 16.

But if I gave you my name?

I would lose it all.

Every. Single.



Change is Hard

If people refuse to look at you in a new light and they can only see you for what you were, only see you for the mistakes you’ve made, if they don’t realize that you are not your mistakes, then they have to go.”

Steve Maraboli

Change is Hard

Of course, change is hard. It is always hard. That’s the one thing about change, is that, well, it never changes.

2020 has arrived, and I have the opportunity to choose a contrasting color, and create an innovative and fresh new picture. I’d let so much of my life be colored, scribbled on, or crumpled up and tossed on the ground by other people. It never became much of a picture at all.

Today I am designing an extraordinary piece of art. Do I know what it will look like when completed? No, of course not. But I have an idea. I have a conception, because this time, it is me who is holding the brush.

When I paint, I put the paint on my blank canvas, and I smudge it around a bit, not yet choosing what it is I’m to paint. If I analyze it too hard, or I try to recreate a Society 6 or a Deviantart form I’ve envied, I fail miserably. But if I wait a bit, relax, and keep shifting and stretching the colors in different techniques with varied strokes, invariably, a marvel occurs. An image appears and one I admittedly had not thought of consciously. As the art begins to express itself as it takes shape, and there is a quickening in my spirit, and so I begin.

I have shifted the course of this website, and what it still will ultimately become is not known yet. We’ll call it an intuitive creation and collaboration. Everything ultimately hinges on submissions by visitors, contributions of material and organic growth (word of mouth/likes and shares), as I lack the financial means to purchase advertising or market at this time.

The entries on this blog, that writing before 2020 came from a surely broken, and betrayed woman. Having felt utterly abandoned, and discarded, I was a woman who never intended to harm anyone. But I did hurt others and paid dearly. I still will continue to write as my addiction from drugs, alcohol, and self-injury has evolved into an addiction to every thesaurus, Grammarly, word hippo, and writing tools I can get my hands on. I have become a fearless idiot; I suppose, one might say.

So The Write Effect accomplished what it needed to for the time being, and that meant to clear away the previously immovable boulders blocking the life flow of ideas and energy. The injury and residual damage that combined and collected from decades of emotional control and psychological abuse is no longer mine to own. I am no longer the keeper of guilt and shame. Thus as I am evolving, so is this site. The Write Effect has taken a new course of direction; moreover, that is to create and affect positive change in the lives of others, as this was never about me. But about God’s will and so I begin wavingwhite.com, a new voyage, with a final foreign destination.

The trauma of narcissistic abuse required that I adopt many unhealthy coping mechanisms, which addiction and alcoholism were always the front runners. I know that at the time, these mechanisms saved my ass from further self-injury and suicide. There is room for zero debate on that with me. I also believe in the chemical “hook” of addiction, which I’ve written previously. But there is a way out. And this is why change needs to happen.

Change is messy, inconvenient, confusing, and frustrating as my writings will showcase from time to time. Until the submissions of recovery from addiction come rolling in, you’re stuck with me.

I am still working on email mapping for the domain but you are encouraged to continue to submit your stories of recovery and how it has changed your life. For the time being my personal email may be used as well. It is a secret menu item from Jamba Juice…not so secret anymore. 🙂 Pinkburst@outlook.com. Thank you for your continued patience as I have worried that I might have gotten in slightly over my head, but that’s what dreams do, right? They take you into the deep end, and it is only there that you learn how to swim.

God Bless

Kacie Brockman -Recovering Alcoholic/Addict.

Remember, you can always redefine yourself. That’s one beautiful aspect about change. You are never stuck in a box that you or someone else placed you in.


Catch Me If You Can

As the once majestic horses climbed and descended pitifully impaled upon their poles, we should have realized that we would soon become them. Piercing through our existence was the dark entity we knew only as our master. Mercilessly driving us to go up and down for eternity and round in circles for infinity. And all anyone could do was watch in horror…or turn away.

Catch Me If You Can

Euphoric Recall – One Addict’s Interpretation

Part 1 of 2

By Kacie Brockman

 Euphoric Recall during early recovery from substance abuse can be brutal and relentless. Triggers are the mosquito-like ghosts of just about anything your consciousness experienced during active addiction. Body and mind have been chemically and/or neurologically changed and a hyper-awareness of what might normally appear insignificant can “trigger” or awaken Euphoric Recall. This can be people, places, and things as we all are aware of, but it can detect even the bare minimum of a correlation and become a trigger. The smell from a neighbor’s barbeque, the tart iciness of a slushie, or maybe simply the sound of a cat purring. It’s crazy, right? So why exactly then is it that Euphoric Recall is the main culprit in so many relapses? This two-part article intends to redefine this discreet little homewrecker, many of us in recovery have at times considered harmless, or just a daydream. Alcoholics and Addicts alike, both in and out of recovery frequently like to meander way out to our mind’s backlot of memories, many of them fragmented, but nonetheless continue to linger around waiting to be picked up and polished off.

Considering that we might wait for days sometimes for the tiny ping of a returned text notifying us that the connect has come through. Driving 30 miles out of town, 30 miles back, only to then tweeze leg stubble until the sun rises too quickly as if to chastise us before the rest of society does. While we are pursuing bits of nothing that ever lasted, nothing that could be touched or tasted, or heard or seen, our very real, tangible, life sustaining reality is crumbling at our feet, yet we barely take notice.

Now once upon a time, those tiny specks supplied the perfect safety release. All the intrinsic and pervasive emotions, the shit emotions they could be called, would simply vanish into thin air. Emotional trauma, chaos, fear, anxiety, rage, confusion, humiliation, isolation, abandonment, not-good-enough, rejection, all of it, any of it was gone. POOF! Just like that. They were GONE. EVERY SINGLE BIT OF IT…. GONE. I’m really trying to make a point here guys. GONE.

I was 11 when I conceived of suicide for the first time. My son is 11. This continues to bewilder me. What on earth could possibly have occurred in that brief period of an 11-year-old’s lifespan to bring forth the need to escape reality that badly? I was 13 when I found my first safety release valve, and so I stayed alive. I truly believe these mechanisms evolve out of the need to sustain life. I cannot substantiate that with any empirical evidence, or any evidence at all for that matter, other than the fact that I am still here to write this article. How about you? How old were you if or when the thought of dying drifted across your mind and sounded better than living? So tragic that what we believed was saving us was taking us into a new dimension of fear, the kind that only nightmares are made of. So, let’s recap, shall we? Euphoric Recall will have us analyzing our first few times of riding the carousel of catastrophes. We blot or blur out most, if not all, of the miserably misguided events that soon followed. All that remained was unparalleled confidence, bliss. Still, most of all, we’d been extricated from some emotional wreckage, that which many of us were far too young even to identify, let alone articulate and navigate through. That which we were experiencing when we initially got loaded or high or buzzed or stopped eating, we would then spend a significant portion of our lives running after that which we will never catch. Does that appear to be a logical, rational being? Or does that sound sick? Sadly, many who’ve not experienced addiction themselves or up close and personal have decided that it is within the addict’s cognitive capacity to think about the behavior and the consequences. So it is determined that they possess a clear and deliberate attempt to manipulate, lie, cheat, steal, betray, harm, even in the worst of cases, kill?

As I am about to deviate off-topic, please stay with me. Weigh the possibility of a chemical or neurological “hook” that is fastened into the mind of a future addict. What if it was not only plausible but probable? What if, the first few times or so that experimentation occurred, a bond or attachment to specifically compatible receptors did, in fact, occur. So hypothetically, a particular genetic disposition or makeup combined with trauma (i.e., post-Vietnam addicted vets) determines why one is an addict, and one is not. Now take the word (hypothetical) out and replace it with the word “Scientifically.” How does it all look now? Are we still the dredge of society? The junkies, the addicts, the unsightly homeless population tarnishing your exceptional communities? Are we still the lepers that you read about in Church on Sundays? Because if we are, look beside you. Your son, your sister, your spouse…it can occur at any time to anyone. I was 42 when I tipped over and became an alcoholic, and I was 44 when I became addicted to crystal methamphetamine. Before that, I was a child care provider and worked in the legal field. It can strike anyone at any time. So don’t just look beside you, look in front of you, into a mirror. It might just as well be you. “There but for the grace of God goes John Bradford.” 

Scientific research is, in fact advancing in the field of addiction and recovery, that one person’s brain is far more susceptible to addiction than another’s might be.

Biology of Addiction, Drugs and Alcohol Can Hijack Your Brain

SAMHSA’s National Helpline – 1-800-662-HELP (4357)

SAMHSA’s National Helpline is a free, confidential, 24/7, 365-day-a-year treatment referral and information service (in English and Spanish) for individuals and families facing mental and/or substance use disorders.

Carousel of Pain

Euphoric Recall – One Addicts Interpretation

Part 2 of 2

By Kacie Brockman

Trigger is the ever so slight nudge of awareness to Euphoric Recall. Euphoric Recall is the memory of the first ride, or the good times. And when these memories are held onto for too long, and polished just so….almost as if a genies lamp were to be polished, suddenly the harmless daydream erupts into a cloud of circus-like confetti blotting out years, perhaps even decades that we spent in chains, bound to a ruthless master. Some of us might stay just a bit too long, holding onto that memory. As we commence to look around, we see the last of the confetti floating to the ground softly, encompassing our feet, and we relive going to the amusement park for the very first time.

There was nothing like the first time as we climbed onto the carousel of what we believed would be the ride of our lives, the epitome of absolute unbridled freedom. Some of us chose the beautiful running horses while others picked the curious, exotic animals. And when it began, how exciting, and fun and free we felt for the first time, we were ungoverned adults now. While the whimsical melody played along, many of us believed we were free from control, we were adults now who should never have to answer to anyone ever again! But alas, the ride ended much to quickly and so we wanted to go back, and again. But suddenly the ride changed, we didn’t know exactly when but it stopped being fun. And then, it started to become scary actually. Before long were we thrown off our magic carousel and forced to walk, sometimes crawl, or run even as we were chained to the ride. After a minute, the brightly colored animals were now dark and gruesome, as if the electrical current surging through the machinery was far too hot, burning and charring the exotic zebras, giraffes, and gazelles black from the inside out. The once carefree experience of the ride had destroyed its very own. So it only seemed fitting that we became the animals which we once carelessly floated upon, and it was us forced to go round in circles, over and over. It was as if the lethal acidity was feasting upon our pain and despair. By absorbing all the energy produced from the misery of thousands and thousands of poor shackled souls, the show could go on. We became nothing but a sideshow of suffering, while the corrosive compounds and lethal toxins we proceeded to consume in vast quantities began to play havoc with our minds.

All of this to silence the consuming fear. I can recall the relentless and merciless vows of retribution that my sickened mind would convince me of should I ever break loose and run for freedom? The irony of this entire metaphor is that it is the ride, it is our addiction that will deliver these horrifying consequences, not surrender, recovery, and step-work. Looking back, most if not all of us realize that the sense of sheer dread created by this masquerade of some meridian was all an illusion. Smoke and mirrors. As the once majestic horses climbed and descended pitifully impaled upon their poles, we should have realized that we would soon become them. Piercing through our existence was the dark entity we knew only as our master. Mercilessly driving us…to go up and down for eternity and round in circles for infinity. And all anyone could do was watch in horror…or turn away.

You precious recovering soul who’s reading this right now, you might have the face, the voice, the experience that another one of us needs to connect with to stop the madness, the sheer insanity of such an imprisoned hellish ride. Your account of surrendering might hold the key for many to consider recovery by surrendering to freedom. Your unique experience might illuminate a different path, something they haven’t tried before. Fighting against the machine alone is futile, but if they can identify as us, like you, they might be able to resuscitate their fighting warrior within. Your voice in the rooms, your very presence and experience might jolt the newcomer to look up for that oh so precious 60-second window to leave behind the shadows and the shackles of the caustic carousel that’s spiraling towards an inescapable tomb.

Kacie Brockman

The Letter & The Lighthouse

His irrational and unpredictable rages which initially brought me to my knees subsequently became my morning cup of coffee.  My new normal if you will.

The Letter And The Lighthouse

By Kacie Brockman

Roughly 5 years ago I came to be captivated by lighthouses. There was nothing in my youth or past experiences that would explain my fascination with them. I began thinking about their absolute magnificence and significance. I also became highly aware of each time I would see one and how it eerily connected to some type of experience I was having at the time.

On occasion, I’m able to create a deep well of thought or emotion around what typically for others is a very simple concept which is what I did with lighthouses.  I began to visualize how many ships, how many sailors, captains or crewmen were petrified, frozen in fear during the darkness of night and trying to do everything they could just to survive as the violent waves of a ferocious storm relentlessly tossed their ship about. Perhaps it was during those panic-stricken moments when they thought all hope was lost, that they saw a light. They saw the light from the lighthouse, which would ultimately guide them safely back to shore.

In 2013 I desperately began searching for rescue. I didn’t know what to do as my ship was being tossed about in a violent and abusive relationship. His irrational and unpredictable rages which initially brought me to my knees subsequently became my morning cup of coffee.  My new normal if you will.

Interesting that I should still be able to recall that, as it was over 6 years ago and according to many a story I’d simply invented. Periodically I still recoil at the fact  that I was told, “We never saw anything that would indicate that you were ever abused.” His perpetual insistence that “No one would believe you anyway,” was right on point because he was always right. I can still hear the echoes of his voice asking me, “Dontcha think?” He repeated this personalized mantra again and again until it became embedded in my psyche not only for the next 5 years, but even now. Because according to him, I just never did…think.

Back to the lighthouse.  I would notice it in various elements of my life and then provide it with a meaning or relevance to parallel experiences. Thus last night’s realization having pierced me so deeply, I again remembered the lighthouse and it’s invariant association.

In 2014, I believed my family was my without question, my lighthouse. I certainly assumed, if  I got up out of that house and really left him for good that I would have their love and support.   I imagined that once they knew the entire truth, that I would be safe. Sadly, imaginations are precisely that, imaginations.

For various reasons, of which I can only speculate, the tables were turned against me at every crossroad. I somehow came to be at fault for everything. I was at fault for taking him back to the home. I was at fault for leaving him. I was at fault for not planning it out the exit out of the marriage better. I experienced a car accident and was clean and sober at the time.  I was not at fault according to CHP or 3 Witnesses. Nevertheless, when I arrived back home, I was indeed found to be at fault. I was at fault for not putting the washer lid down, the shower curtain back the way it was supposed to be, or for not closing the garage door.  I was at fault for stuttering and being confused and lost and afraid.  Though I had intermittently used drugs for a time right before the separation and right after, which I had independently come forward and confessed, that became the sole focus for nearly everyone.   For some, the fact that I acknowledged my role in the ensuing chaos made all the difference.  For others, the false accusations and storylines ensued and grew more elaborate by the hour. E-mails I still have provided such a distortion of events and theories kindled and brought ablaze to profoundly illusory statements. I suspect the reason for which was deep hostility harbored by both mother and my older sibling. Those grievances were indeed justified, as I had certainly brought with me enormous discontent and chaos into their already troubled lives. Yet the manner in which these resentments were expressed was vindictive and vengeful. Ultimately the culmination of everyone’s dysfunctional attempts to rationalize or repair resulted in a hellish nightmare from which not a single one of us could escape.

I made a difficult discovery last night.  As I was going through some of my belongings boxed away in my garage I found a letter unopened. A letter I had written to my family at a critical point of our family’s ultimate collapse. I had hand-delivered it to my mother. It had never been opened. It had never been read. It might have changed the course of everything had any one of my family been privy to that communication. Regardless, she held onto it only to be found after 6 more years of suffering endured by all. I imagine she must have felt reassured in knowing that no one would ever read those words.

The letter contains the desperate words of a  woman left with very few options. Each sentence a plea begging for someone to save her child. Every word was mine. And each one breathed my soul as I petitioned and implored my family for help.

By design or by default, these words will, in fact, be given attention to. They will be read. They will be known. If not by her, then by God, by everyone else. Too many instances she has been given, to do the right thing. Too many times she chose not to.  My love is no longer a harbor for her sins. My silence no longer provides a refuge for her secrets.

The truth comes out in the end people. Whether you like it or not. Mine sure did.  Most truths I came clean with independently, others, I got my hand caught in the proverbial cookie jar. And when it did, my mother was sure to tell everyone, every time. So in effect, perhaps the nut doesn’t fall far from the tree.

However hard you try to hide it… the truth always comes out. I guarantee you, it is best to not lie. If you have lied or have been deceptive in an area of your life,  come clean before it’s too late. And if you’re looking for a sign?

This is it.

By choosing to remain trapped in a lie, you just might want to be prepared to get caught and face consequences much steeper than had you provided the truth.  And trust me, time always, ALWAYS delivers the truth.

With the blink of an eye, they will put you in the ground. They will weep at your funeral to intercept any compassion and empathy for themselves. To describe the level of sheer disconnection the narcissist is able to achieve, allow me to provide an example. When I returned from a 72-hour hold in February  2014, just a week before I wrote this letter, my mother said to me, “I hope you enjoyed your nice little vacation.” Three weeks later I was arrested for attempted murder with a blood alcohol content of .397, a nearly fatal absorption level for which I was initially hospitalized. Roughly one week after my arrest she hosted a slumber party in her home and posted it on social media.

At this time an impossibility remains for me not to speculate on how circumstances might have been different if someone, if anyone had simply opened…

The letter or the lighthouse.

Kacie Brockman


Walking Barefoot

Life is our playground and our sandbox. So it’s about time I started playing and creating. How can you be afraid to play? How can you be afraid to create? Only if you’re waiting on somebody else’s opinion of how you play or what you decide to create do you actually accomplish, well, …nothing. Not a damn thing. For 49 years I’ve been waiting on someone else’s approval, pat on the back, good job, agreement, gold star etc. Not anymore. It’s no longer, “One day I’ll start that blog…One day I’ll write that book…”
No. Today, this day, is day one.
No more dreaming, no more wishing, no more talking. It’s Game Time.

I thought I could do this chronologically but that’s not going to happen. So then I thought my blog? My book? Well then, my rules. And here are the rules:

There are no more damn rules.

I followed them my whole life until life stopped me dead in my tracks and the very earth’s foundation began shifting like sand in an hourglass. Cognitive Dissonance became a very real construct in my scrambled world. My entire belief system was shaken (not stirred) to the core of my being.

Following the rules keeps you safe. I promise it does. But do you feel joy, contentment, fulfillment? Does following the rules make you happy?
That cookie cutter mold (Social Image) that you have spent your entire life creating, conforming, enhancing, or forcing yourself to be, is it really you? Do you even know?

When I say rules, I don’t mean the necessary law abiding rules of a civilized society, I mean the “rules”-the unspoken ones, the ones that if you don’t follow you are frowned upon, or not invited to someone’s wedding, or talked about behind your back, or excluded from a circle of friends perhaps.

I’m over it. I was recently told that I lacked a filter. I was honest about my feelings by simply allowing a physical response to an emotion of sorrow move up, out and away from me. Teardrops. I was very hurt and had yet to process the new and uncomfortable, no, downright painful information I had just been given. And right away I was perceived as being difficult, or not having the reaction or response that I should have had, and that there was just something different about me and something wrong about me. I didn’t used to lack a filter. I had tact and a courteous manner and I could fake a handshake and a gentle smile, but when you’re backed into a corner and you’ve jumped through all the hoops and you played all the games and you’ve danced all the dances, knowing all the choreography by heart, because at the deepest level of my being, EVERYTHING I did, everything I said, the friends that I surrounded myself with, EVERYTHING was to ensure at all cost never having to experience the following: judgment, abandonment, ostracization, exclusion, isolation-and rejection. Yet every single one of my deepest terrors still occurred. I manifested every single one. Everything I feared, everything I navigated my entire life so carefully around so that would never happen to me, well, it still happened.

So now what? Do I dance the dance again? Do I jump through hoops again? Do I fold my napkin properly across my lap? Do I tell you everything‘s fine when it’s not? Do I talk about the beautiful weather we’re having? Do we sweep all those nasty little dust bunnies of life’s experiences right under the carpet again?

Or…Can I be real finally?

I am unladylike. I am honest. I stay up too late and I sleep in too late. I haven’t shaved my legs in weeks…and it’s summer. I don’t always think things through. I don’t fill my gas tank until the red light has been on for a few days and I don’t pay my utility bills until the 48 hour notice. I pick up hitchhikers every once in a while and we talk about Jesus, the cosmos and the best taco truck in town. I drink out of the milk carton. The other day I flipped off a driver that passed dangerously on my right while I had my child in the car… and started using curse words my child’s never heard me use. He was impressed.

I am beginning to feel emotions that I have not felt since the age of 13.
At which age I learned to adapt and endure multiple traumas by inducing a numbed perception through self injury and subsequently alcoholism and drug addiction.

The first thing you get to experience in recovery is emotions. Feelings. For some that may seem a very simple concept but when you have existed for close to four decades dodging, swerving and leaping over them, it’s quite a challenging and difficult experience to acclimate yourself to.

Yet, Today I wear them openly. I cry too much, I laugh too loud, I wear clothes that don’t match, I’m too loud, I’m too lazy, I’m a whole lotta “too much” everything.

And you know why I think that is, because I did follow all the rules all the time all my life. And something shifted and the transition began about five years ago.

When you’re arrested for attempted murder… Life takes on a whole new meaning.

When the whole community really doesn’t know when, why, how, who, or where, well then they fill in the blanks themselves. And the story takes on a life of its own that isn’t remotely possible to break apart, even with the truth.

So I stepped back and I accepted that people believe what they want to believe. It’s much easier to construct, believe, pass along information however erroneous and untruthful, it’s much easier for people to swallow than the ugly monster called the truth.

So,I will never again take another breath for another human being to decide whether I was worthy enough to breathe.

I lack a filter, because I expressed an authentic human response to news that my new normal life that I had finally just adjusted to, was now being thrown up in the air and juggled around and landing in places I never expected. My heart and my mind, my sense of security, my sense of familial relationships, all of it felt like it was just thrown out the window and anything short of immediate readjustment, reacclimation, acceptance and overwhelming joy was unwelcome. Well it didn’t happen that way and so once again I was different from everyone else. I was (perceived/or real) the cold, unsupportive, selfish disfunctional / toxic black sheep of the family.

Humans feel. Humans hurt. Humans make mistakes…often. I am one of the messy humans so quadruple all of that.

I can’t be neat and tidy and proper anymore. Nope. I cannot live in such a fashion to make me suitable to invite to tea parties or luncheons or to meet your new fiancé. I am inappropriate and coarse. My clothes are wrinkled and your feathers will likely be ruffled.
White Trash? No. Low Class? Not even close. It’s called, walking barefoot through the soft, green meadows and shards of broken glass that together create this experience called life.
True compassion, understanding, and humanity that can only come from experiencing it all.

One More Thing:
I say “Fuck” a lot more these days…and not in a whisper.


What Did I Do Wrong?

Just about everything…

A lot.

A whole lot.

I did so many things wrong.

Allow me if you will to step up to the plate and open my closet of skeletons. In fact I hope that as each one comes out it might do a two step stomp and be set free.

I ran. I was always running from pain, confusion emptiness or any emotion I basically didn’t have the skill set to navigate. And there were so damn many. So if it had a lot of calories, I’d eat the sadness away. If it could break through skin then I’d bleed the anger away. Or with lighters burn until large fluid filled blisters would form and I’d squeeze that bubbling rage until it left trails of moisture down my arm. If I could get a buzz, I’d drink the awkwardness away. If it had nicotine, I’d smoke the anxiety and guilt deep into my lungs with 20 cigarettes a day. If I could get high on meth, I’d be busybusybusybusy so the shame and humiliation simply couldn’t catch up to me. I was always afraid. Always alone. Always wanting out of this life.

I found comfort quite inadvertently at 12 years old with the sharpness of an old key repeatedly running back and forth on my arm. I still have that scar and for God knows why, in a sick way I’m actually proud of that one. But by my late 30’s my diversion technique (what I called it) had up and abandoned me. Good old self injury could no longer offer me solace from all of the gaslighting, family turmoil, or from an increasingly disorienting relationship with my mother.

The emptiness was insatiable for years. I could eat an obscene amount of food and not even have it digested before I’d begin again. I’d gain over 100 pounds and then lose 80, gain 60 pounds, lose 40, it was a never ending war I’d wage upon myself every minute of every day for over 20 years.

My daughters became my best friends and allies against such a wickedly sadistic world. We’d lie in bed and listen to Evanescence and Him (Music) and I’d cry and they’d try to console me. Then they’d be brought to tears and I’d try to console them. It was very unhealthy and damaging I’m sure. I have regret. I have too much regret for one lifetime alone, I assure you.

There were far too many times I chose to comfort myself with a bottle of booze than to look at the hard stuff. Like the agonizing fact that my mother was never capable of loving me. The numerous times she would find fault with me or hang her arms limp beside her as I hugged her, or the stare. That stare that I think only someone who’s experienced it can understand. It is still beyond my ability to describe. Or the fact that the majority of my family would rather find fault with me than to look inward. Or that my entire reality was a pathetic version of The Truman Show. The examples are infinite… I could write for the rest of my life, I’d never be able to list everything. But the truth is, regardless of everything, every-single-thing, I CHOSE to drink. I chose until eventually I had no choice.

In 2013 when HIS mask completely disintegrated, well that demanded an entirely new regimen of snorting burning white lines of hellfire which with incredible efficiency created a season of unimaginable suffering. Between the monster I married, my mother and the methamphetamine, I’d begun to serve three vile masters just to experience the always temporary illusion of well being. The consequences were brutal and merciless. All three masters were never satisfied so there was always a steep price to pay.

I should have gone to the safe house. I believe this one solitary decision would have changed the course of everything. I chose not to go because I was still addicted…to “Him.” I should have complied and cooperated with the people that actually did want to help me. Instead I would end up running back to those that didn’t.

I should have never taken the law into my own hands. I know that for certain. I believe God/Our Creator/The Universe in all its divine wisdom has a perfect plan of checks and balances and by my interference precious time and evidence was lost that could have ultimately changed the outcome.

In 2017 after close to three years of sobriety and abstinence from all drugs, I suffered a severe Bells Palsy attack which put me out of work for some time, and then a bizarre cold virus that was not from this planet chose to inhabit deep within my inner ear which then perforated my eardrum subsequently causing hearing loss and tinnitus.

The tinnitus and behavioral health care tango will be another blog entry altogether. That was an entirely new level of Batshit Crazy Psychiatry at it’s finest that you won’t want to miss.

So by the end of 2017 after losing my job, losing my semester of grants and a scholarship, and having residual facial disfiguration from the Bells Palsy, I made a phenomenally ignorant decision. I picked up the bottle once again because through my distorted alcoholic lenses life could seem pretty good when I was buzzed. But it wasn’t, not even remotely close. And I wasn’t even remotely buzzed, I was near death. This escape hatch brought me to the bottom. I couldn’t walk and was admitted into the ICU for 4 days. But even then, a few months would pass and this alcoholic’s twisted kaleidoscopic thinking would once again seek refuge in a vodka bottle. The relief I might have obtained was ever so fleeting and the damage ever so permanent.

I still will catch myself trying to convince, well…myself that it sure felt better than this. But that is not true today and it never will be. My active alcoholism and addiction proved to be one epic disaster after another.

And I hold myself fully responsible for those disasters.

So to describe what it’s now like to face it all head on with no evasive maneuvering options, it has been a roller coaster of extreme emotional pain that has found a way to manifest itself physically. I’ve found myself curled into a ball, crying as the pain was very real…I’d feel it physically, in my upper abdomen and complete chest cavity. Real physical pain being experienced by a heart that could not bear one more loss…yet was forced to.

Yet on the flip side, there are times I experience a euphoric high that has been obtained by (nope, not bi-polar they tried that one on-didn’t fit) full awareness and understanding that I wasn’t the crazy one, the weak one, the mentally unstable one. NO! I was the normal one having to deal with an extremely abnormal amount of bullshit to put it bluntly.

The unfortunate thing that I’ve finally discovered is that there’s no way around the pain. Believe me, I have tried. The only way to eradicate it is to boldly enter straight into it.

I believe that time has come. And I’m sorry to be the one to tell you but, “You’re all coming with me.”

There has always been an Ugly accomplice to my addictions and compulsive behaviors. And that is deception. There was always some level of deception that accompanied my obsessions, addictions, or compulsions. Some might have required a substantial level of camouflage so then my lies would have to rise to that level. And vice versa.

At no time do I wish to evade culpability from the deception yet I want to establish the critical difference between the narcissist’s deception and others.

I lied to protect the only mechanisms I had in place at the time to avoid intensely uncomfortable emotions.

Calling myself out for a minute- Isn’t that precisely why a narcissist lies? “to protect the only mechanisms they have in place at the time to avoid intensely uncomfortable emotions.” Like I said, hard questions are surfacing as I write.

I never lied to deliberately cause pain or to create hardship for another being. There was never, not for a second, within my lying any intention of malice, revenge or destruction. I believe those are in fact the basis of why a narcissist lies. The level of satisfaction experienced is in direct proportion to the level of trauma they can inflict with abuse.

I speak about my personally destructive pattern of lying in further detail in the Karma’s Balloon Payment blog.

I pray that these memoirs, which are solely my narratives, are not perceived as a means to shift blame, or run for cover. This is why I offer these sins, MY SINS to be seen in the light of the sincere honesty that I intend for these blogs to possess. I was never perfect or innocent or without blemish. Believe me, I’ve made some monumentally dumbass decisions. That being said, I also never deserved to be everyone’s scapegoat. The cruelest imaginable punishment for my sins was for me to be made to take ownership of everyone else’s as well as my own. For those who’ve heaped their wrongdoings upon me, I release them back to you as they were never mine to carry. Not then, not now and not ever.

I continue daily to accept and repair the damage I created during my active addiction. There have been and will continue to be consequences from my choices and behavior. There will also be incidents recalled in which soft lighting won’t be provided. For anyone. That’s not how this works anymore.

Once a liar… NOT always a liar. Sometimes a person actually does step up and do the right thing, even when it’s the hardest thing. Because sometimes the truth is all a person may have to hold onto. For without it, only a stark and lonely isolation exists.

And there, past the closets locked tight with denial, fear and ego….tucked deeply within oneself, that is where the skeletons of one’s secrets go to die.

Let them out.

Let them do a two step stomp and be set free.

“When you start thinking about what your life was like 10 years ago–and not in general terms, but in highly specific detail–it’s disturbing to realize how certain elements of your being are completely dead. They die long before you do. It’s astonishing to consider all the things from your past that used to happen all the time but (a) never happen anymore, and (b) never even cross your mind. It’s almost like those things didn’t happen. Or maybe it seems like they just happened to someone else. To someone you don’t really know. To someone you just hung out with for one night, and now you can’t even remember her name.”

Chuck Klosterman