Tag: narcissistic parenting

Monster Love

“Yes, but I had it way worse.”

Photo Courtesy of Pixabay.

The most debilitating part of therapy for parental, narcissistic abuse is learning your parent might not have loved you. Soul-crushing intel that will bring you to your knees. And before you launch into defense mode explaining away that assertion, let me point out that that’s exactly what a narcissist counts on.

As humans we can’t fathom a parent lacking the genetic predisposition toward loving their child. And if you had a visceral response to what my therapist suggested to me, then congratulations. You’re probably a decent human being. It’s been a few years since I went no-contact with TWIM, but to this day I look at my own children and can’t wrap my mind around doing or saying things to them that she did to me.

The truth is, we don’t realize how many excuses we’re making for a person who chose to love you only when it best suited them. We’re blind to a love that’s conditional only. And when those conditions aren’t met, we’re shamed and blamed and made to believe it’s our fault our abuser didn’t love us. Sprinkle in a large serving of cult bylaws and you have a recipe for total self-esteem obliteration.

Not good enough. Not good enough. Not good enough.

That’s why most survivors (and I use that term loosely, I’m not yet certain I survived it.) struggle with perfectionism, hypervigilance or people-pleasing. We’re constantly striving to be good enough. We’re constantly adapting to our environment to ruffle the fewest feathers and earn the most love.

Be good. Be good. Be good.

I don’t know if TWIM ever loved me. I think back to our time together as she struggled with my father, lived through divorce, loneliness, pain and eventually remarriage. I think back to when I was living on my own, scared, barely keeping my head above water. And all I remember is feeling like everything was my fault.

I could never trust her to choose me.

Her love was performative most of the time. She would only voluntarily hug me in front of company or declare her adoration for me when others could hear. She would tell friends how proud she was of me, but I never heard it direct. She rarely brought herself to say anything complimentary to me, and when she did I always got the sense that it was a real effort for her to do so. Authentic human connection was not in her skill set.

I tried to find that connection before we parted ways. I wrote her a letter detailing the good, the bad and the ugly of what I went through while on my own because I didn’t feel like I could go to her for help. I told her things I was so ashamed of, but I was desperate for empathy. I wanted to hear, “Oh my goodness! I had no idea you went through all of that. I’m so sorry you didn’t feel like you could come to me.” But her only response was, “Well, that was your choice.”

I continued trying to connect with her during another conversation. I wanted to show her I had compassion for her own childhood abuse. Like we were two souls cut from the same traumatic cloth. I tried to demonstrate understanding for some of her choices or even her behavior toward me. When I detailed all the nightmares that I remembered experiencing as a child, once again hoping for any shred of compassion or empathy, she paused and said in a low, angry growl:

“Yes, but I had it way worse.”

As though I had a lot of nerve comparing my life experience to hers. Like she was trauma-competing. I was so stunned by her response, it felt like I ran stomach-first into the corner of a kitchen counter. It took the literal wind right out of me.

How? How can you claim to love someone while pretending their pain doesn’t exist?

Hard to fathom.

Confessions of a Narcissist

“The reason I never gave you much affection when you were younger is because I was jealous of you.”
Photo by Anete Lusina, Pexels.com

The Woman I Called Mother (TWIM) was never a big drinker.

My Father had that department covered, not to mention her own parents – my Grandparents – were also raging alcoholics. So when she did drink, she became one of those cringe-y, middle-aged, drunk women who thinks she’s funny and radiant but completely clueless to the tone of the rest of the room.

Tone deaf, one might say.

Which is ironic considering she was a professional vocalist. And actress. And comedienne. And whatever else entailed her being in the spotlight, including a last-ditch attempt to claw her way to stardom with an “America’s Got Talent” audition. Frankly, she didn’t know how to read a room even without booze. As long as she was center stage, she didn’t need to know how she was making everyone else feel.

But I digress.

One way in which TWIM commanded that spotlight offstage was by publicly humiliating me. She loved to point out things about my appearance that I guess I was supposed to be embarrassed about. Like the night we spent Christmas dinner with her friends and she started talking about how ugly my Father’s feet were. She pointed toward me.

“She has them, too. Take off your socks and show them,” she says laughing hysterically.

And just to demonstrate how under TWIM’s spell I still was – even in my 20s -I did what she asked. Smiling behind my teeth, trying to be good-natured, I peeled off one sock .

“OH MY GOD YOU HAVE A HAMMER TOE??” she rocks back in her seat, cackling.

My favorite was the time we were visiting her friend’s home when I was 12. Her friend’s kids were all around my own age and the subject of nicknames came up.

Let’s just say I’ve always had a prominent posterior, which is great as an adult, but the elementary and middle school kids were relentless. I was teased mercilessly.

As soon as the subject of nicknames came up, I immediately shot my head toward my mother. Her eyes were lit up and her jaw was opened like a kid with a secret they can’t keep.

“Don’t.” I begged her.

“Vanessa has a nickname!” she offers, grinning from ear to ear.

“Mom. Please don’t,” I pleaded, holding back tears.

“Bubble Butt!” TWIM exclaimed, and the kids at the table roared with laughter.

Those laughs, each one felt like a steel-toed boot kick to the head. I felt my face hot with embarrassment, and I ran away to the next room where one of the kids followed behind me repeating the name in various accents. I could hear TWIM still laughing in the next room.

Mean Girl

Fast forward to a New York City trip with TWIM while I was in my 20s. She made her own jewelry and decided to try selling it to high-end boutiques. She also planned to visit her biological brother whom she discovered existed less than a decade before this. She invited me on the trip, and we were in a good place so I said Yes.

We shopped and had lunch while she networked. Shopping was one thing we could do that didn’t cause friction or make me feel like running away. Watching ghostly horror films was another. So it was actually panning out to be a lovely day. Right up until dinner with her brother.

TWIM was adopted. And at some point in my childhood I remember she went on pursuit of her biological family. She discovered an aunt who led her to her brother who was an awesome human. A talented writer with a gut-busting sense of humor. I was excited to spend time with him.

After entrees and over coffee, the wine that TWIM had at dinner was taking effect. And just as she began her usual habit of publicly humiliating me, my Uncle shut it down.

He fucking saw it. He saw how she never let me finish a sentence. He saw how she spoke for me when I was asked a question. He saw her diminishing me.

“Why don’t you let her talk?” he snapped.

There was only one other time in my life when someone noticed how TWIM tried to make me invisible. It was the first time in my entire life that someone stood up for me. And this so-called friend of TWIM’s said almost the same thing my Uncle did:

“Why do you keep shutting her down? Every time she opens her mouth, you slam it shut!”

When we got back to the hotel that night, I remember doing my nightly routine of push-ups and sit-ups. She didn’t like that very much.

“Do you need to do that right now?”

I didn’t fully understand it back then. But my feminine senses were tingling. Like in that way when you walk into a school cafeteria as a teen and notice the Mean Girls staring at you right away?

Like that.

I roll my eyes at her and climb into bed. We’re both laying there in separate beds with the television on. Keeping her head straight with her eyes on the television, TWIM says to me:

“You know, the reason I never gave you much affection when you were younger is because I was jealous of you.”