SELF IMPROVEMENT
Don’t Tell Them I Told You
Forcing my boundaries with a narcissist
It was all about safety
“You don’t tell me anything,” the mother would complain. Without fail, every time we spoke, this was her shaming blame tool. She didn’t understand that I never felt safe sharing parts of me or my experience with her. So much so that by the time I was an adult, I was so completely wrapped in pretense. I’m not sure what she expected me to tell her, because I barely existed.
I knew everything about everyone; the family, the neighbors, my father’s work colleagues. I knew things I shouldn’t have before I was old enough to have the emotional intelligence to understand them. And it seemed that everyone, except me, was bad. They were all doing such terrible things, even my father and sister. Was I the only good one? It felt nice to be good. To be the one that my mother clearly ‘loved’ the most (yes, I know, so many levels).
I wasn’t much for structured learning, but when those annual math and science competitions came around each year (an Australia thing), I was inevitably top of the school (primary and high school). I didn’t mean to be. My grades suggested I shouldn’t have been. It really pissed off some of the committed kids (you know, the ones that end up fighting it out for Dux of the school like it’s bound to solidify their future). I was more interested in writing horror fiction. The point is, I wasn’t a stupid kid.
So, how many times do you think I needed to hear, “Don’t tell them I told you?” to work it out for myself? Before I was a teenager, I was smart enough to intuitively understand that I wasn’t all that special. I understood that the way someone speaks about others is the way they speak about you when you’re not in the room. I don’t remember when I realized that, but I know I sealed my lips for good reason. I look back now with new knowledge of self that was not safe to have then, and I can see why I (the real me, the one that was hidden but was never gone) had to keep me safe. Smart me.
It was all about boundaries
The mother is a covert narcissist. I’ve only recently learned this term, covert narcissist, and it explains so much. It’s left me feeling relieved and with my mental health slightly more intact — but more on that in another article. Suffice to say that a covert narcissist plays the victim, manipulating everyone around them into willingly protecting and nurturing them. No wonder I had no idea about boundaries. It didn’t serve her for me to have boundaries.
Long before I had heard the term covert narcissist, I knew that I had an issue with boundaries. I’d traveled the path of self-development for many years including hundreds of hours with life coaches and as a life coach. It started with something as simple as not apologizing for just about everything. I swear, every second thing I said included the word, ‘sorry’. It took effort, but I broke that habit and I rarely say it anymore without intent. Then I moved onto the next level — saying, ‘no’. It was quite a journey.
When I realized I didn’t know how to set and hold boundaries, I instantly wanted to break that cycle. I didn’t want to be ‘that person’. I began setting small boundaries. The problem was, I didn’t know how boundaries worked so I very gently and suggestively ‘asked’ for what I wanted as if I was a burden for even thinking I deserve to have boundaries. Back then, I wasn’t ready to bluntly state what I needed for myself — I was still more concerned with how the other person would feel about it.
Up until that point, I’d trained people to treat me a certain way. That way was: Tell me what you need and I’ll do it. Never mind what else I have on. Never mind paying me for my time. Never mind sleep. No, absolutely, I will do exactly what you need and want because I DON’T MATTER.
I avoid confrontation, I hated it — I’ve learned to roll over, right? For the first time ever, I pushed back. But setting boundaries in a space where I’d surrounded myself with people that would never respect them resulted in many confrontations. I’d never learned to emotionally manage confrontation and I did not make it out unscathed. It astounded me how the ‘other person’ could speak to me the next day like nothing had happened while I was still shaking with doubt, fear, and anger. But for the first time in my life, I didn’t negotiate. I didn’t back down. But there was still the matter of the mother.
It was all about the mother
I look back now and realize though I struggled to ask for, let alone demand, want I needed for my own happiness and mental health, the mother very easily said no, I won’t do that. See, I thought the problem was she hadn’t learned boundaries either and so I was taught the same. But she had boundaries; it just wasn’t to her benefit to allow me to have any.
I started small. Very small. Suggestions. Requests. Nothing worked. Even when I thought we took a step forward with her giving just a little, it was quickly snapped away. I was visiting for a few weeks over Christmas several years back. I work from home and I gave her my hours and break times. I asked that she treat it like I was at a job not in the house and to not knock on the bedroom door during my work hours. She agreed. Within an hour, she knocked on the door. I reminder her of the agreement and her response was to say she didn’t want to just walk in — how the hell did we get to that being an option? She made it sound as if I was being unreasonable. Was I?
I negotiated on every boundary I tried to set. It wasn’t about my comfort, wants, or needs, it was about desperately searching for that tiny morsel of respect I was seeking. I would give and give, and there was no give in return. Before I knew it, there was nothing left of the boundary I tried to create in the first place. And so, I pulled away more.
It took four years of this wishy-washy methodology of desperately trying to establish boundaries. I was drained. I’d tried everything from subtly to saying, ‘This is what I need and why.’ Often there was a glimmer of hope; an agreement or at least an offer to try but it never lastest past the conversation. More often than not, any hope was dashed before the conversation was even over and so, our conversations became nothing more than her speaking and me verbalizing the occasional sound that said I was indicated on the line while I zoned out and waited to get back to my life.
Then, I reached my breaking point. Everything other than the relationship with my mother was going better than it ever had. I was reconnecting with myself and loving life but every time the phone rang, I cringed. Every time I saw a message, I felt nauseous. It was the only thing left.
So, I put my big person pants on and stated what I needed. I didn’t ask. I was calm. I was direct. And I infused it with all the love I could muster. I set my boundary. I told her what I was willing to do, and what I was not willing to do.
She said no.
I said goodbye.
With that refusal, I knew my boundaries would never be respected. So, I made the hardest boundary of all and I removed myself from the connection. I know I’m the ‘bad guy’ in this because that is what a covert narcissist wants everyone to believe. The last time I spoke to one of my other relatives (before I walked away), she said to me, “Oh, you’re in the bad books.” I had no idea why. It didn’t matter. It definitely doesn't matter now. I’ll always be in the mother’s bad books. It doesn’t mean it has to be my story.