DEEP COVER: A Memoir of Hiding While Dying to Be Seen

By Nadia Dean

It is one thing to recognize that you have been betrayed by your father, your brother, your husband, your culture, and your country. It takes a deeper level of insight to see that you have also betrayed yourself."This is more than just another survivor story. It is the pilgrimage of a woman who dared to go deeper, to penetrate beneath the surfac

• Language: English
• Publisher: Author Academy Elite
• Release date: Jun 16, 2022
• ISBN: 9780983113379

Nadia Dean

Nadia Dean is the author of A Demand of Blood: The Cherokee War of 1776, and the writer/producer/director of the award-winning docudrama Cameron. She is currently at work on two books and a teleplay about North Carolina's nineteenth-century wild frontier. Nadia and her husband, an Eastern Band Cherokee, make their home in the Smoky Mountains.

Book preview

Nadia is one of the most fully alive people I know. This book is not the end of her story. It is the prelude to a fuller unfolding of grace, beauty, and power. May her story show others that there is a way to move beyond the shadow of a narcissist and reclaim your own light and inner power. She shows by example that every person has the potential to live with joy, freedom, and authenticity.

~Candy Paull, author, The Heart of Abundance

"Deep Cover follows the life of a courageous woman on her journey to heal from trauma. Nadia’s experiences of shame, fear, and self-destruction, and her determination to transform her life, will inspire women to believe they have the power to triumph over the traumas of their past."

~Patricia Grant-Edgemon, LCSW, CSAC,

Eastern Band of Cherokee Indians

Nadia Dean’s memoir is a must-read for women with a deep desire for self-knowledge and the determination to overcome what life has dealt them. Her story is one of bravery, courage and curiosity. I loved it!

~Sheila Kay Adams, author, My Old True Love

Nadia’s unprecedented courage and resilience will inspire many to overcome heartbreak and tragedy.

~Nadja El Fertasi, co-author, 20 Beautiful Women, v 6,

The Journey of Belonging

Deep Cover

A Memoir of Hiding

While Dying to Be Seen

Nadia Dean

Copyright © 2019 Nadia Dean

All rights reserved.

Printed in the United States of America

Published by Author Academy Elite

P.O. Box 43, Powell, OH 43035

AuthorAcademyElite.com

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-64085-584-7

Hardcover ISBN-13: 978-1-64085-585-4

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019932646

Although the author and publisher have made every effort to ensure that the information in this book was correct at press time, the author and publisher do not assume and hereby disclaim any liability to any party for any loss, damage, or disruption caused by errors or omissions, whether such errors or omissions result from negligence, accident, or any other cause.

All Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright ©1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com The NIV and New International Version are trademarks registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by Biblica, Inc.™

Cover photo of the author before her diagnosis of bipolar disorder.

Table of Contents

Acknowledgments

Author’s note

Preface

Prologue

Chapter 1 Wakeup Call

Chapter 2 Please, Just Let Me Die

Chapter 3 The Torment of Sudden Death

Chapter 4 The Shift

Chapter 5 The Man Behind the Mask

Chapter 6 The Hope of New Love

Chapter 7 Baptism by Fire

Chapter 8 Welcome to the Family of God

Chapter 9 Please, Don’t Repeat My Past

Chapter 10 Fiancé Visa

Chapter 11 The Arrival

Chapter 12 A Thief in Our Midst

Chapter 13 It’s All About the Music

Chapter 14 The Pain Has a Name

Chapter 15 Denial Ain’t a River in Egypt

Chapter 16 This Is Not The Life I Ordered

Chapter 17 September 11, 2001

Chapter 18 I’m Sorry, But It’s Gone

Chapter 19 The Jig Is Up

Chapter 20 Lies My Government Told Me

Chapter 21 You Need Somebody Tough

Chapter 22 For A While, I Was His Flying Monkey

Chapter 23 Confidential Informant

Chapter 24 The Fallout

Chapter 25 Digging Myself Out of This, Whole

Chapter 26 My Writer’s Journey

Chapter 27 Finding Healing on the Mountain

Chapter 28 Suicide No Longer an Option

Chapter 29 Am I the Only One He Swindled?

Chapter 30 Loss and Redemption

Chapter 31 God, Please Make Him Go Away and Leave Me Alone

Chapter 32 A Narcissist’s Daughter

Acknowledgments

Thanks to all the brave women, who, in telling their stories, gave me the boldness to tell mine. I am grateful for my mother and father who created a world for me in which I could become a writer. They taught me to probe a world we think we know—that inner world in all of us. My great love and faithful husband, Hugh, I thank you for being my strong arm of encouragement. I’m also grateful for Drs. John Gunderson and Jerold Kreisman whose pioneering work with borderline personality disorder aided my understanding of the impact of childhood traumas that led to my diagnosis.

Meaningful people came into my life and were part of my healing journey—including those who encouraged me to write my story. Thank you, Dr. Keith Caruso, for a proper diagnosis. Having a name for it, changed everything. Thank you, Charles Miller, for introducing me to the Cherokee War of 1776 and asking me to write a book that profoundly changed my life. Thanks to my mentor and friend, Richard N. Côté, who (in 2007) set me on the path to writing this memoir. Thank you to my old friend, Bruce Lane, whose God-inspired words confirmed my path in this work. Thank you, Pam Nevins White, for being my friend through dark days. Thank you, my dear friend, Candy, for sharing your beautiful light with me while I was in the crucible. Thanks to my friend, Rain, for all those long, meaningful talks. Thank you, my sister-friend, Denise Baddour, for encouraging me along the way. Thanks to my spiritual fathers whose prayers and counsel aided in my healing journey. Thank you, Chris Weatherhead, Clarence Felder, and David Reed for special friendships and valuable feedback to the early manuscript. To Rachelle Gardner, thank you for excellent editorial advice and encouragement. Thanks, Bonnie Campbell, for your loving friendship and oh-so-helpful advice. Thanks, Michael Easler, for declaring that I had guts as tough as goats to have survived it all. Thank you to my wonderful editors, John, Rebecca, Sonnet, and Teri, who aided in crafting this memoir. Most of all, I thank my Creator who gives me the fortitude to survive and thrive.

A healed person is automatically a healer. And his or her strength is the greater for having been through dark times and having brought a conscious solution as a gift to the world.

—Robert A. Johnson,

The Fisher King and the Handless Maiden

Therefore, I will not keep silent; I will speak out in the anguish of my spirit; I will complain in the bitterness of my soul.

—Job 7:11

May my hand not tremble now that I start to relive the past and revive the feelings of uneasiness that oppressed my heart as we entered the battlements.

—William of Baskerville, The Name of the Rose

As a historian, I have learned that, in fact, not everyone who reaches back into history can survive it. And it is not only reaching back that endangers us; sometimes history itself reaches inexorably forward for us with its shadowy claws.

—Elizabeth Kostova, The Historian

Dedicated to my brother

and to all those who bear the weight

of a wounded soul.

Author’s note

This is a nonfiction work, even though most of the names have been changed in order to protect the people involved in my story. My conversations with individuals were reconstructed from memory to the best of my ability. In my thirty-five-year span of counseling with psychiatrists, psychologists, therapists, and clergy, the traumatic childhood and adult life events that I told and retold became cemented in my memory.

In each bit of my story, I endeavored to be honest with myself and with you, the reader. I skimmed the surface of the abuse, writing only about what I thought the reader could bear. I feel no malice toward anyone in this memoir, including anybody who might think they have been negatively depicted. I have become thankful for each person who was a part of my journey, no matter what role they played, because those experiences helped shape who I am today.

Living undiagnosed and untreated for borderline personality disorder (BPD) or complex post-traumatic stress disorder (CPTSD), as I did for many years, is dangerous. Doing so, influenced my interpersonal decisions with devastating consequences. My intent for publishing this book includes a desire to sound an alarm about the prevalence of BPD and CPTSD. I also want others to know that narcissism and psychopathy are on the rise, along with the many dangers men with these disorders pose to women everywhere.

My hope is that this book illuminates for many the realization that they struggle not alone, and that they no longer have to live under the shame of childhood trauma. If wounded souls see themselves in the pages of my story, hopefully, they’ll be encouraged and inspired to believe that a healing of their mind awaits them.

Preface

What you will find in people suffering with Complex PTSD is that they cannot tell you the story of their lives. They can give you pieces, but they’ve never made a narrative out of their lives because, in their mind, they kept leaving what was happening.

—Therapist and author Diane Langberg,

speaking about dissociation

This book chronicles my episodic journey as an Arab-American with a Lebanese Muslim father and an American Christian mother. Growing up, I developed borderline personality disorder (BPD)—a mental health disorder more prevalent than schizophrenia and bipolar disorder combined. Through years of writing, self-examination, and a willingness to tell my story, I came to see how my borderline personality had formed with accompanying diagnoses of bipolar disorder and complex PTSD. These emotional impairments, generated by long-term trauma, spawned devastating consequences in my interpersonal life.

Borderlines—the majority of which are women—often live in the excruciatingly painful world of unresolved childhood trauma, such as abandonment or abuse. They experience intense, fluctuating moods and have difficulty maintaining intimate relationships. At times impulsive or desperately emotional, they expend great energy rescuing others, while undervaluing themselves. The borderline’s self-destructive thoughts and behaviors ultimately produce feelings of shame and self-hatred. In time, the borderline’s emotional vulnerabilities attract predatory partners, such as narcissists and psychopaths who re-victimize them. This is precisely what happened to me, repeatedly.

This is a story of resilience cultivated by surviving the damaging effects of long-term narcissistic abuse. It is likewise an account of the unintended consequences of living in denial of mental illness; both mine and theirs. In the unraveling of my past, I came to see that having close family members with personality disorders contributed to my diagnosis of BPD, which manifests in self-defeating behaviors. Although close friends often told me I was one of the strongest women they knew, I remained a captive of deep, inner pain concealed behind a mask of sanity.

When I was eight, my older brother and only sibling began terrorizing me. Years of his emotional and physical violence conditioned me to attract a string of violent men who, just like him, had antisocial personality disorder. The man I’d marry had an appearance, birthdate, and personality that were hauntingly similar to that of my mentally ill brother.

The mental health community continues to advance its understanding of how BPD develops by way of traumatic family histories, precipitating brain characteristics, and turbulent environmental, cultural, and social factors. The traumatic events in my story evolved into a sort of roadmap illustrating how BPD can develop. Writing about the trauma taught me much about myself—and about the mental health disorders that are proliferating through our culture at an alarming rate.

The Adverse Childhood Experiences Study, or ACEs, is a remarkable predictor of the mental health impacts of childhood traumas. The ACEs test scale ranges from 0–10, and my score of 8 indicates that I had a 5,000 % greater likelihood than the general public to attempt suicide, a leading hallmark of borderline personality disorder.

In writing this memoir, I came to see my life differently from the life I’d thought I’d lived. I’d seen myself one way, but objectivity provided another, more definitive view. Victim had become my identity, when in reality I’d been groomed as a co-conspirator.

Through writing my story, a healing power emerged that transformed my life. Memories, diaries, and letters, including stories my parents told me, informed my writing. In the process, I realized the stories we remember best are those that hold meaning for us—even the most painful ones.

For years, I was a magnet for malignant narcissists—men whose personalities displayed a toxic mix of superficial charm, aggression, and a lack of empathy. Malignant narcissists thrive on lies, chaos, and violence, and undermine and dehumanize the people around them.

My marriage to a malignant narcissist with criminal tendencies—my ultimate act of self-destruction as a borderline—would become the staging ground for my emotional and spiritual healing. After all, in the midst of my pain, frustration, and loss, I asked myself: How did I get here?

Backtracking through the mire of emotional memory, I discovered astonishing answers to that life-changing question. I came to see that I’d lived under deep cover, obscuring my true self by masking my woundedness, until came the healing of my soul. Thankfully, my adventure of remembering led to powerful experiences of emotional healing and gave me wisdom to silence those internal, disparaging voices that haunt so many of us.

Prologue

What we can’t talk about we can never put to rest.

A loving presence engulfed me as I stood with my head bowed, waiting for the Episcopal priest to work his way through the prayer line to get to me. In that moment, I felt desperate for a sign that my Creator saw my pain. I needed, somehow, to be released from the humiliation I’d carried for as long as I never wanted to remember. Finally, the priest stood in front of me, resting his hand ever so gently on my head.

You no longer have to live under the shame, he declared.

His compassion triggered torrents of tears. The moment he touched me, not so much with his loving hand but with his empathy, it unveiled that which I’d hidden, crammed down so hard-packed that even if I’d wanted to talk about it I had no one to tell and no emotional capacity or vocabulary to do it. And yet, there it was, so evident to his sensitive spirit and fatherly heart that when he called it out, the only thing I could do was weep. I cried with an intensity that revealed how much I needed to release the self-hatred, anxiety, and fear that had formed my post-abuse self. Until then, I’d lived the moments of my life one to another, with the dogged awareness of my pervasive self-hatred rooted in shame. In the aftermath of my inability to have prevented what had been done to me, threats became promises. As a young girl, my tender sensibilities were diminished by the familiarity of those who did what I could never divulge.

Growing up, I’d learned to hide my emotional wounds, not unlike what I’d done when I was four after being sick with chickenpox. The dress I’d worn while ill vanished. My mother searched but couldn’t find the blue dress with soft pom-poms and puffy sleeves she’d made for me. Apparently, after I got well, I associated the dress so strongly with being sick that I stuffed it out of sight. My mother found it years later wadded up and crammed behind my dresser. As long as I don’t have to look at it, I won’t have to remember. I’d go on to spend a lifetime hiding reminders of trauma to mask the memory of pain.

The priest’s stunning declaration that I be set free from life in the shadow of this never-talked-about shame peeled back layers of infected emotions to expose a wound so deep that only a person yielded to the divine could have revealed it. Now that it had a name, a dynamic was set in motion that unfurled waves of memory. The nights following the priest’s liberating words, troubling childhood memories came flooding back. Wanting the horrifying awakening to stop, I cried and screamed intensely, I’m not going to look at that now!

Who was I talking to? My psyche? My God?

The memory of events too painful to acknowledge felt terrifying, but I knew that I could no longer relegate those disturbing episodes to a dark chamber of lost memory. As long as I hid the shame, pretending it wasn’t there, I hated a part of myself. Acknowledging to myself the violation to my soul allowed me to begin walking a path to freedom from the morass of shame that had ravaged my life.

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Wakeup Call

"Loneliness can be conquered only by those who can bear