Narcissists are on my mind, on my mind. There is a global awakening to Narcissism happing in the universe. There is a global karmic wave coming around, to reset the world. Narcs beware your time is up.
The only way to get rid of a Narcissist – is to go no contact. When a Narcissistic Cult is trying to snuff out your entire family, that is hard to do. A reaction to their posturing is insulting and you are cast crazy. Everyone is crazy, they are on a high pillar, their nose breathes rarified air.
I think my whole family has CPTSD from Narcissistic Abuse. It has been going on for 40 years. They keeping us off balance and poison our minds via triangulation from constant telephone calls. #narcnomore #narcathon #narcfreedom #narc2019.
There is a family in Santa Cruz that parades around as do-gooders that are really a Narcissist Cult. They are boring. I don’t want to make the Narc the star on this blog. That would be supply. They must have supply. Feed off your demise.
They appear as soul vampires with a ray gun to zap you. The names on this blog have been changed to protect me. The Narc & his troll regime won’t know we are discussing them, unless a flying monkey sings or I run into the covert narc’s wife(my former aunt Elvira) at the corner store. The Narcissist in your world will gain on you right into your grave.
This Narc I’m dealing with is into bowties, booze, boats and bidets. Bob Limpkins, yawn, married my aunt Elvira, yes love, and supply. The Narc put us through gates of hell past 9. I’m only alive to type this rant because the angels picked me up and a powerful force pulled back the curtain on the covert narc.
The Narc cult is killing us, one by one, hovering up every stitch of our souls, they cutting up our bodies before the grave to take a skeleton bone. Grind us into dust and snort us off your bowtie, creepy uncle Bob. We have been photographed, put on file, eaten up by Narcs.
Narcissists block, triangulate, study you, target you, and of course gaslight. You start doubting yourself, feel like you are walking on a slant. They destroy with a steady stream of bad news from their narc ray gun or take potshots hiding from behind somebody’s skirt or a whole community.
In the 1990s I used to call what the Narcissist was doing to us “pressure systems”. He is an engineer, works with phone companies. That was as far along I was in knowing anything about Narcissism at that age.
Bob Limpkins father was a inventor. He made a great success and sold the company to a high tech firm, then used the cash to become larger than life. He achieved immortality with is his name in big, bold letters on building at the university. His mother too. That wretched stench of a prune faced tight-fisted Narc demon from the sewer. We looks to be the leader of the Narc Cult.
A self-appointed cruel royal family. The first time I was introduced to them was on their tennis court at their home in the Valley. Elvira, walked me up to the door. Told me “They’re rich.” Then the housekeeper answer the door and we were taken back to the tennis court. I don’t remember meeting any people just little yellow balls rolling around and a machine that shot them out.
One afternoon, on my lunch break in New York, I called the Narc’s mother, and asked her politely was she was doing with our land? This was 2007, they had been trying to run us off our land since the 1982. I told her I wanted to put a synagogue up at the ranch. She coldly said, “She wasn’t interested” and hung up.
The Narcissist mother, supported and lead her sons to use Narcissism as their life religion. That vile hag is lucky I was 3000 miles away in New York. Freezing at my 2nd job downtown for some pest and this Narcissistic Cult is trying to run us off a ranch we have lived and worked on for 100 years.
I fantasize about kicking in her condo door, wrapping a rope around her neck, drag her through the valley, then drop kick her dead ass off the roof of Limpkins Stadium.
My father and my grandfather were always working up at the ranch. They had muddy boots on 7 days a week, drilling wells. Tall, red drill rigs in the yard and me with my friend sliding down the sand piles. My brother Max and I sat in the old abandoned mustang and play the radio, pretend we were driving when they worked. When I was alone, I sat in my Grandfathers chair, reading magazines and sending away for buffalo head nickels from ads in the back. We made fires in the morning after it rained, the pasture smelled like cows, dandelions and salty ocean air on Back Ranch Road. Crocodile Rock was on the radio in the morning and hot chocolate in ceramic mugs. School friends were fun, we ate hot lunches and we wore bell bottom corduroy pants.
Every March, The Wizard of Oz was on television. When I was out on my own living in New York City, I clicked my heels many times, never made it home. Stayed right there, freezing in the winter, stuck in the Bronx. The Emerald City is a fantasy and the Narcissist is the antagonist in your story. The flying monkeys scared me the most. Shoot them down one at a time or stay out of there flying range.
Life was good before the Narcissist came into our world. We lived in a house on Oxford Way near Mitchell’s Cove, with peach trees in the back and close enough to the ocean to hear the sea lions. On weekends we drove up to the ranch to see Grandpa Tony. The family business was run off the ranch. My father, Johnny, was raised and worked up at the ranch. My Grandfather Tony lived there, before him, his father Francisco. Many Italian immigrant families had ranches on the North Coast of Santa Cruz. The Ohlone Indians were there before us. It was our sacred safe place in the world.
The pasture had red cows, a pond, oak trees, green rolling hills, covered by orange California poppies in the spring. Salamanders and a chorus of frogs inhabit the pond. We float surf boards out into the middle, drift on our bellies. Big-eyed tadpole, black muck on the bottom of the pond. It’s a spiritual place. A mystery hides underneath that pond.
With all that bliss around us, one day in the late 1970s, a Narcissist named Bob Limpkins appeared. He was dating my aunt Elvira. Bob was a nice guy. He kept one hand in his pocket, chit-chat, never sat with us to eat. Just circled around studying us with his glass of Chardonnay. He was perfect, a normal person. Nothing is out of place, not a speck of dust on his blue Mercedes.
Elvira and I were close, she was my father’s sister. I watched her put on makeup and get dressed up for dates with Bob. On holidays, when she was single, Elvi came with me, my brother, father & mother, in the good old days. Every birthday she was there in a groovy paisley, purple dress to our parties. Now she had a 38 pistol under her four poster bed, and a white boyfriend that drove a Porsche and raced yachts.
The princess had found her prince. Elvira wanted to marry Bob Limpkins, of the San Jose State Limpkins. Self proclaimed, philanthropists that put their name on buildings and in the newspaper. On my aunt’s wish, I intervened and brokered the deal. I told the Bob, “She will marry the man who gives her a music box.” He bought a lovely wooden music box for her. The day of the wedding we couldn’t go because we were all sick. A foreshadowing of what is to become.
They went to the U.K on their honeymoon. It was the time of Prince Charles marriage to Princess Diana, they were the Prince Charles & Diana of Santa Cruz (in their minds). Evli told me when they came home from England, that “there is a place for the royals and a place for the peasants.” She didn’t look happy about that information.
Splinters of Narcissism red flags, came right out the gate when they returned from their honeymoon. Limpkins had put Elvira’s family down, calling us “blue collar” because we worked with our hands, drilling water and oil wells. He is white collar and a covert narc. I had no idea what a sociopath was, or a passive aggressive, now there is a vampire among us. The knowledge of covert narcissism and gaslighting would not me revealed to me until 30 years later. The Narc had a huge head start and many years in training. His whole family are Narcs.
Eliv gave me a gold and diamond promise ring when I graduated from 8th grade. Years later I would pawn in on 42nd Street and 9th Ave. when I was hungry. At the time of the royal wedding, everything was rosy, we got married, here is a bottle of wine. A perfect image.
A Broken Heart is a Broken Heart…
After years of brooding over working and being under the gun with my Grandfather, Johnny and Tony had an argument and Johnny struck Tony. He felt awful, called 911 and left the ranch. When I came home, there were cops outside. Johnny went down town to the police station, my grandfather didn’t file any charges. I called immediately my grandfather said he was “ok, but be careful, your father is violent.” I put the phone down. Then months of quiet was in the house. My parents had divorced a year earlier and taken my brother Max up north to live with my mother and her new husband. After that tornado ripped through the house, Bob the covert narcissist targets us.
Out the blue, a phone call came in one night. It was Elvira telling us my grandfather had crossed out Johnny’s name in his will. Her husband, Bob Limpkins, the covert narcissist, asked Elvira to betray her brother and get Tony to disinherit him. Bob parroted from behind Elvira on the phone and said it was “for clarity”. It confused me, because I had just spoken to my grandfather, we were ok. Now suddenly, Elvira and Bob have stepped in to take advantage of a bad situation. This threw us off balance emotionally, financially and put us in survival mode after a life of abundance, safety and stability.
Elvira was a teenager when I was born. I had never heard aunt Elvira cry, until creepy uncle Bob appeared, intimidating in the background like a oingo boingo kook. In person he is a wimp. sits behind his stuffy office walls, calls out commands for his wife to inforce and causes chaos. When you are at work trying to pay the bills, or asleep on the weekend, the covert narcissistic is in action via triangulation. Turning Elvira against her family, breaking her spirit, giving her diamond ring love bombs in between. I knew something was wrong, I just didn’t know there was a playbook and a word for it.