I’ve Finally Found the Courage to Write. And I Have My Narcissistic Mother to Thank for It.
I have a narcissistic mother.
And my worst nightmare is becoming one.
I’m feeling a myriad of emotions as I write this.
Guilt because part and parcel with being a victim of emotional abuse is the ever-present notion that to express anything that your abuser would disagree with is inherently wrong.
Fear because, well, when it comes to narcissistic abuse, guilt and fear go hand and hand.
And, finally, there is a sense of betrayal.
Betrayal because, after thoroughly researching narcissistic abuse, especially the particular brand meted out by mothers, I have learned that no one is born narcissistic, including my own mother.
She arrived at this very sad state after being a victim herself at the hands of her own parents (more specifically, her father), which was not at all her fault. As a helpless child, she had zero control over the torment she experienced.
I wholeheartedly recognize this.
However, she is still culpable for what she in turn did to me.
Put another way: I have the utmost compassion for her regarding what she endured, but that in no way gives her a pass to act the way she has — and does — as an adult.
I’ve learned to look past her behavior.
But I will never condone it.
We arrive here on earth biologically wired to seek our mother’s love, attention, and acceptance. That’s hard to push back against — even if you have valid reasons to do so.
But the fact that I am now a mother myself to two young children — one son and one daughter — has been the biggest catalyst for me to ensure unhealthy generational patterns cease to continue.
I do not want the love my children possess for me now to one day be tainted with fear, obligation, or guilt…which is what I’ve felt toward my mother for a very long time.
I have experienced precious few instances of genuinely enjoyable, tension-free moments with her during my adult years.
My childhood, however, wasn’t all that bad.
I mean, no, it wasn’t perfect.
But when people picture what parental narcissistic abuse looks like — instances of yelling and screaming, the silent treatment, hitting, and full-on verbal epithets that would make a grown man cry come to mind, that was not my reality.
No, the abuse that my mother doled out when I was a little girl was far more insidious. It was almost as if — whether my mother was conscious of it or not — she was laying the groundwork, almost grooming me so that when I became an adult, I’d act in accordance with her desires and always agree with her.
In hindsight, she thought of me as an extension of herself.
I was the caretaker of her emotions.
I was the person she always came to when everything was falling apart.
Sometime during the spring of 2020 — during the first wave of the pandemic — I finally realized that my mother is narcissistic, or at the very least possesses several narcissistic traits.
On one hand, it felt shocking. Like a bucket of cold water to the face.
On the other, I was pacified because it seemed as if a light bulb had gone off.
So many of my questions were answered.
Now, let me be clear: I am not a therapist, trauma counselor, or medical professional, and it is true that my mother has not been clinically diagnosed as a narcissist — at least not that I know of.
Several months ago — during a point in her life that I would characterize as a new low, and I think she would likely agree — she did seek the help of a therapist, whom she started seeing once a week. For the most part, my mother kept her discussions with her therapist private, which I am grateful for.
But then, seven months after starting, my mom stopped going altogether.
Which brings me to an irony that must be pointed out: For narcissists who do enter therapy, it often doesn’t stick: They tend to bail because it gets too uncomfortable.
And the vast majority of narcissists never receive a diagnosis because to seek one would mean that they have to acknowledge that they indeed need help in the first place, which fundamentally contradicts the very nature of narcissism.
Because, as they see it, the problem — if one exists — is always out there somewhere, outside of them.
It’s you. Or it’s me.
The problem is never them.
Well, I have come to the realization that the only person capable of change in this scenario is me.
I have never been a fan of the aphorism What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, but in my case, it seems to have been proven correct.
The difference between reacting and responding.
The establishment of boundaries — and, in particular — using the word No as a complete sentence.
The importance of taking responsibility for my own actions — and being accountable for them, which means being answerable for my actions.
Apologizing when I’ve f*cked up.
Even when it pains me to do so.
I’m fairly certain that I wouldn’t have learned these imperative lessons — in the distinct way that I have — if I didn’t have the mother I have.
And don’t get me wrong, I have far from mastered these lessons. That much is true.
But I’m aware.
And that’s the first step in discontinuing unhealthy generational patterns.
And writing about it all.
That’s therapeutic, too.
© Copyright J.C. Anne Brown, 2022
