Category Archives: tributes

The Ninth Stage.

An essay by Ruth Ann Scanzillo.

NarcissismChart

 

© 9 Stages of Grieving the Narcissist, from Dr. Ramani, Licensed Clinical Psychologist 7/2/2020.

She shifted in her seat, squinting a bit as if to bring the second generation photo of a photo into focus. This nine point list was a treasure; she had to put it someplace where it could not be lost to the ether.

That Master Class with Dr. Ramani on Narcissism in Romantic Relationships was a gift. Where else could she have obtained a point by point reminder to assist in identifying the rush of emotion [ euphoric recall ] that was impossible on the late afternoon of a hot summer day alone? How else could she be gently comforted by the suggestion that meaning could be found in suffering  [ point nine ] , when suffering was a nagging Catch-22 otherwise? (Never let him see you suffer; it just adds to his Narcissistic Supply – and, emboldens the new conquest likely small and stupid enough not to fit into your pajamas.)

She’d sat out on the stoop again, earlier, in spite of what she now knew to be UVA rays, forking down her spinach sweet potato salad, wondering how many times he’d be missing her desserts and dinner companionship, all the groceries she’d stocked for their shelter in place. [ Anger and rumination, point two.]

There’d be no bartering for the return of goods and services, this time. The reach in freezer he’d crowed about providing, the only object too heavy for her to set out for convenience retrieval was replacement for the one he’d refused to bring up from the cellar and just clean. Laziness was never justification for grandiose gift giving, not on her turf, after all the throw rugs and sheet sets she’d brought him following total kitchen clean up. [ Point three – or, four? ]

Gaslighting [ five ] no longer overwhelmed her. That was its own relief. Persistent denial was its own evidence, no matter how irrelevant; he’d run out of tactics that weren’t predictable.

But, the late afternoon sun was a tough competitor. Right up there with the first moments upon awakening, feet twitching, the struggle to name the upcoming day’s purpose. Five days of reading out there on the stoop had rendered her Vitamin D within acceptable limits, finally and, with it [ point six ] a lift to only residual Depression.

The future wasn’t revealing any of its secrets, this evening. Fear [ point seven ] would remain in her back pocket, burning a hole where she’d otherwise have kept peace and contentment; but, she resolved, he was never to know. No more Narcissistic Supply, last chance to gloat from his position kneeling behind the latest willing agreeable.  Important to carry no regret when walking away.

Point eight was the hardest to accept. [ Acceptance ]. The narcissist was never to change. Too many AA meetings, its companion Al Anon, over one lifetime; too many recovery success stories on audio, playing in the car en route to northern destinations, entirely too much goddamned hope. No return to the inns or the B&Bs, no forever claim on Room 1, Rogue’s Harbor. Worse – no replacing the time spent there with productive, self affirming activities. Hope may have made no one ashamed. Perfect love still waited to cast out fear. The Narcissist, defying no odds, was destined to live forever.

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*With profound gratitude to Dr. Ramani, licensed clinical psychologist, and her 9 Stages of Grieving the Narcissist©.

© 7/7/2020   Ruth Ann Scanzillo. All rights those of Dr. Ramani, and this author, whose name appears above this line. No copying, in whole or part, including translating or transcribing, permitted without written permission of  the authors. Thank you for respecting original material.

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Telling The Truth In The Dark.

PART 1:

 

 

PART 2:

 

 

PART 3:

 

 

EPILOGUE:

 

 

©5/19/2020 Ruth Ann Scanzillo/ YouTube.

For more meanderings through the truth, and even some good music, feel free to visit RuthAnnTalks at the Tube.  Thanks. ❤

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Paul Yoculan Younger, Epic Prince of Entertainment.

Pop was never my thing, back then.  But, I secretly wished it could be.

Raised on two part a capella worship music, performed by the untrained, first listening to my father croon into my ears while he fed me the bottle I always had an affinity for a grown man who could really sing.

Paul was definitely grown. His skin betrayed his age, but he still wore a shag to the shoulders as if it were the coolest, and a denim jacket same.  And I think, but I’m not sure, that the day I stepped into Larry’s basement for my keyboard “audition” he might have already been there.

The Classmates were a vocal quartet of high school friends circa 1957, which was the year I was born. Frank, Jim, Larry, and Ronnie, three out of four second generation Italian and one black American with voices to blend. But, Paul was their friend, and became a final set fixture at nearly all our gigs. The reason he was in that set was because we always closed with “Peppermint Twist”/”SHOUT” – and, these were his signatures. Paul had spent his heyday singing them with his band, The Epics, both in Vegas and at the “World Famous Peppermint Lounge” – in New York City. The Epics were the band The Beatles came to see and hear after they played New York. It’s true; look it up.

I’d always had a solo voice, of sorts, suited for weddings and funerals, a solid Debby Booner. But, when our tenor couldn’t quite carry the Frankie Valli leads, and Frank asked me if I could, these became my own semi-signature tunes from behind the keyboard for the second set. “Big Girls Don’t Cry”; “Sherry, Baby”; my choice, the Ronnie Spector “It’s My Party” and, nod to the Beatles, “Twist and Shout”.

To Paul, I was probably the furthest cry from a female singer. I didn’t dress the part and, worse, I didn’t carry it. Frank had saddled me in the shoes of the same name when I produced my own pair and, when he acquired royal blue bowling shirts with white cuffs and collar for the guys, I got one too – along with one each of the violet and pink ruffled tuxedo long sleeves to match with black pants.

Never sure if this were on consult or his own idea, but one day Paul had me come over to his house and meet him in his basement. He wanted to coach me into singing lead. Out front. Like a real girl singer.

His wife, sweet and accommodating, provided iced tea on a serving tray. I squirmed. This man sucked on a Throat Disc and wailed like his life depended on it; how could I possibly learn from him? Ah. The arrogance of youth.

I actually don’t remember all of what happened during that session. He told me stories of his days in the circuit, and we listened to some forty fives and he talked about style. I concluded that I was probably the only female singer he’d ever met who would not be groomed for the front. He must have been convinced; we never met again, over iced tea or anything else.

But, what we did do was play out. Paul got us the best work in the big bars. He’d always be our finisher, and he was so good at it – stirring the crowd into a frenzy, pushing his cords until I thought they would just splinter out every time, I was content to crank the keyboard bass until the woofers jumped from the floor and ride all the way to the end on that Roland Hammond B3 preset like a boss. I was so happy just to be part of his show.

Paul’s show kept on, too. Long after I left that band to accept my first public school teaching job, he’d still be found singing. Few of us musicians knew he also coached baseball, and well enough to do so for major high school programs in our region. But, he would not stop singing. That voice which, to my ear and experienced vocal nodes, was always on its last legs just never gave out.

I don’t know what happened, really. Something about a heart problem, requiring major surgery, and complications, and the ICU, and then death. How does that occur, in our time, anymore? Yeah. Paul was 82. But, from the first time and every time I’d seen him over the years he was always, already older than me, old – but young. Younger than all the rest. Paul Younger.

Rest in Peace, you old crooner. Or, keep on wailing. It’s your call, Paul. You were our prince of Pop.

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© 12/29/19    Ruth Ann Scanzillo. All rights those of the author, whose first hand story it is, and whose name appears above this line. Please respect this tribute, exactly as it is written. Thanks.