My Mother Never Loved Me — Part 3

Most people believe that mothers protect their children. Truth: if your mother is a narcissist, she probably will only protect herself

My story begins when I was born on my mother’s birthday. Most people might believe that is a celebration. For me, it was my gateway into birthday hell.

My mother liked to fool all of the people most of the time. Her strategy was successful most of the time. When she had company, she was as sweet as honey, and never a rude word would pass her lips.

When we were alone without witnesses, she yelled and barked orders. She cursed like a truck driver. She told me how worthless I was and how it was a mistake bringing me into the world.

My mother constantly reminded me how my biological father had been so bad. She also told me that I reminded her of him and that I was just like him. Most of the time it felt like my mother hated me as much as she hated my biological father.

My mother had a mental breakdown when I was around fourteen years old. I did not know the diagnosis of bipolar at that time but she did fit most of the criteria.

She stopped working and laid around the house. Mostly she watched her soaps on television in the living room while complaining about how I had not completed my chores quickly enough.

My mother was a narcissist but I did not know that meaning back then either.

My mother was the oldest in her family. She was the first child, the first grandchild. And so it went. Mostly it meant that everything would go her way.

Like her birthday. She was treated like a princess while she was growing up. A spoiled princess. She reveled in the spotlight for her first eighteen years. Then I was born.

My mother was appalled that she had to share her birthday with her daughter. And I was her first-born daughter. Imagine that. It was like God was punishing her. So she had to punish me. Over and over again.

My mother would never punish me in front of company. Everything had to appear as if all was okay. She would smile during every party but I had hell to pay when it was over.

My mother would start screaming about the clean-up as soon as company had left. She would yell about how I made a mess of everything. She would constantly remind me that I was not good enough.

Mostly it felt like I should never have been born.

My mother was so strict that I was not allowed to leave our yard without permission. I was not even allowed to sit on the sidewalk and talk with my neighbors. I could only sit on my porch and watch all of the others outside playing games, having fun.

I sat there wishing that I could play and have fun, too.

Once in a while, I was allowed to have friends come to visit but since my mother was so strict, no one wanted to visit our boring home.

She always reminded me not to trust anyone. She told me that no one was my friend. She ranted that I would never be good enough for anyone to love me.

I was too ugly for any man to look at me or want to love me. No one would want me. Except for family. All I had was family. Our family would forgive me for my sins. Our family would love me and put up with me.

My family was there for me as long as I obeyed the rules and kept all the family secrets.

My mother liked to remind me that she was all I had and she deserved to be treated like a queen. My mother believed that she should be held in high honor because that’s what children are supposed to do.

Children are supposed to be grateful that they have a mother. Parents only have children so that the children can grow up and take care of their parents. Another of my mother’s rants but that’s another story for a different day.

I was not always alone. I had my younger brother and younger sister. They were too young to play with but old enough to get upset when things went south at our home.

My brother was my mother’s favorite and my sister was my stepfather’s favorite since she was his biological child.

Holidays were somewhat better because my aunt and uncle lived up the street with my younger cousin. My cousin liked playing games together. She was fun to be around. There was yummy food while the adults had their alcohol and music. It was the best time of the year until my aunt and uncle went home.

Then my parents got drunker and the domestic violence began.

Those were the moments when I huddled with my brother and sister in their room. I tried to comfort them but the yelling from the arguments was too loud. The relentless sounds of the hitting were unbearable. Both of my siblings were shaking in my arms while I struggled to calm them.

There were numerous nights like that. Too many nights when I was afraid that if someone got hurt, we would all go to jail. Too many nights when I was afraid someone was going to die.

Children fear the worst when their world is filled with uncertainty.

There were not many happy holidays. There was not enough laughter in our family. There was not enough fun. It was never the best of times but we survived it. We were just kids who wanted to have fun.

There were a few moments during the year that felt happy.

For a few moments, before the arguments began, we could all pretend that life was good. We could pretend that our family was just like any other.

For a few moments, we believed that things would get better.

For a few moments, life was magical.

If you are interested in reading more, the first parts of my story can be found here: Part 1 and Part2.