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Unsupervisedthoughts.blog

[chrisvanorman-blog]

Caution, Contents Unstable

I used to joke that I must have a sign on my back that says, “Kick me, I’m already down — and apparently I like it.” But after checking my baggage at the door in January, I’m rewriting that imaginary label. Now it reads: “Caution: contents unstable.” “May spontaneously combust.” Because honestly? My internal wiring is so tangled and mis‑wired I short‑circuit constantly. I can go from a…

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When Everything I Was Disappeared

You don’t know what it’s like to lose everything — I mean absolutely everything — until you actually do. It’s gut‑wrenching. A mixture of rage and despair, both fighting to be your wingman. I’m not talking about a few belongings. I mean all of it: my belongings, my money, my safety, my home, my identity, my credit, and even my son. Sure, things can be replaced, but not the treasures — the things…

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My Drug of Choice

OMG how do I stop? The desire is urgent, the need obsessive. I don’t even know how to slow down — or if I should. I don’t know how to slow down — or if I should. Writing soothes me. It calms the racing, the buzzing, the constant static in my head. It’s the one place where I’m safe, honest, and unpretentious. I can be myself without judgment or disapproval. I write. I pour every screwed‑up, nasty…

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Adulthood: The Cult I Couldn’t Wait to Join

The entire time as I grew up I couldn’t wait to be old enough.  Old enough to stay out late, old enough to eat what I wanted, when I wanted to.  Old enough to be finally considered an adult.  Being adult seemed so cool.  I could be in charge, I could make my own rules and live without constantly getting yelled at because I did something wrong. I somehow found a way to get through high school and…

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The Cost of Pretty

Growing up under the influence of a narcissist, I learned perfectionism long before I learned safety. It crept into everything I touched. Everything had to be perfect—correct, exact, pretty. I didn’t realize how deeply that need had rooted itself until one day, while journaling, I noticed my handwriting was messy. I hated it. Every misspelled word sent me spiraling. I didn’t care how long it…

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She Wanted My Life, Not My Friendship

When we first met, it was besties at first sight. We meshed instantly. She — a badass bitch from the wrong side of the tracks, infant daughter in tow. Me — generous, kind, with a soft spot for anyone who’d lived a hard life. I felt her pain, her constant fight just to survive. I’ve always had a weakness for the underdog, and she was their poster child. What I didn’t admit to myself was that I…

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The Night Karma and Jinx Summoned the Fire Department

I love my apartment. I truly do. After everything I’d been through, I thought my bad luck was finally behind me. Karma and Jinx were my roommates, my only friends, and frankly, the only ones I trusted. I’d decorated on a budget, but it looked good—really good. My bargain hunting on Marketplace had paid off far better than expected. The locks worked, the place felt safe, and for once, life was…

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Smell Tests and Trash Bags: A Mother–Daughter Standoff

My daughter was amazing. Drop‑dead gorgeous from birth. She was brilliant too — her brain easily matched her brother Ben’s. Their conversations were exhausting; sometimes I’d have to remember a word they used and look it up later because I wasn’t entirely sure what it meant. I kept a very clean house. Rowan still couldn’t walk, so he scooted everywhere on his butt. Like a little broom, he’d…

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Loyal to the Wrong Damn Team

As my writing has progressed, so has my awareness. Awareness of just how messed up my life has actually been. Trained by a narcissist from birth, it became a way of life. To me, the abuse was normal — almost comfortable. No big deal. I honestly didn’t know any better. What a depressing realization. Looking back over what I can only call a true train wreck, I’ve realized I repeated the cycle. Not…

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The Behaviors That Once Protected Me

I used to joke that I had a sign on my back inviting narcissists to find me. Over time, I’ve realized that what I was really noticing were patterns shaped by past abuse. I learned certain ways of behaving—minimizing myself, over‑accommodating, assuming responsibility—that once helped me get through unsafe situations. Those behaviors aren’t invitations, but they can be read by narcissistic people…

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Two Weeks to Admit What I’d Been Denying for Years

Once I left Wade’s house, I had nowhere to go. I found a motel that was semi‑affordable and booked a two‑week stay, hoping that would be enough time to figure out what came next. It was a small room tucked in the back of the building — perfect for hiding. I drove a car you could spot from space, so being out of sight mattered. The room had a microwave and a tiny fridge. Enough for Rowan and me…

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Learning to Want Something Different

In the years between my divorce and now, I moved through a series of semi‑serious relationships. At the time, none of them felt dangerous. They felt familiar. Each man entered my life with ease—confident, attentive, quietly charming in a way that didn’t set off alarms. They listened. They showed up. They were gentle with my kids and talked about building something real. After years of chaos,…

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Motel Hell

The Pineapple Inn. The skeeziest, most bottom‑of‑the‑barrel motel I had ever seen. A staff member at Rowan’s respite home told me about it — which should’ve been my first red flag. When someone who works in crisis care says, “This is the cheapest place around,” what they really mean is, “Good luck, Godspeed, and don’t touch anything without gloves.” But it was close to Rowan, and it was all I…

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What Awareness Really Looks Like

“I am not ok, I’m barely getting by. I’m losing track of days and losing sleep at night, so if I say I’m fine, just know I’ve learned to hide it well.” — Jelly Roll That song suits me. After years of abuse, therapy, and major mistakes, I know exactly who I am. I’m a mess, a dumpster fire, a train wreck waiting to happen. But at least I’m aware of where the damage comes from, and I’m determined…

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Trauma Said ‘Delete,’ and My Brain Said ‘Okay

Who knew there was an actual term for losing your memory during trauma? Apparently it’s called Dissociative Amnesia. How official. How clinical. How completely useless. I don’t care what it’s called — I just know it’s a giant pain in the ass. Huge portions of my memory? Gone. Vanished. Deleted like I accidentally hit “select all” and “backspace” on my own life. No matter how hard I try, I can’t…

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Fueled by Spite and Stubbornness

I was at the end of my rope. Life felt hopeless—dark, heavy, and not worth the effort. I had no energy, no desire to move forward, and absolutely no patience left for the mess Alex had thrown me into. Broke and homeless was never on my bucket list, yet there I was, furious and exhausted, trying to figure out how to get back at the person who’d detonated my life. One day, after complaining to my…

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The Hardest Thing I’ve Ever Let Go Of

I’ve been told to “put him in a facility” since the beginning. My mother said it right after his diagnosis, like she was suggesting I return a sweater that didn’t fit. How does a person just hand over their child? You don’t throw someone away because they’re harder to care for. At least, I couldn’t. Rowan came into the world fast—cord around his neck, quick fix, beautiful baby boy placed in my…