There are deeply buried secrets in my family that linger in the shadows, creeping into my thoughts during sleepless nights. Emotionally, I’ve built walls around myself for as long as I can remember. People often say, “You either know me really well or not at all.” I don’t have typical acquaintances, which likely stems from a lifetime of trust issues and feelings of abandonment. The reason for this? My mother is a master manipulator of emotions, a true narcissist.
For years, I believed I must have been an exceptionally difficult child. Wasn’t it just part of growing up to be in constant trouble? In retrospect, it’s clear that this was not normal. However, it has taken me a lifetime of self-doubt and questioning to arrive at this understanding. Whenever my mother felt upset, the blame shifted to us, her children. She claimed she couldn’t pursue higher education because of us. She often stated that I was born only for my sister’s benefit, and that I had ruined that by being unkind. Her migraines? Our fault. Her financial struggles? Also our fault. You get the idea.
Even when my sister faced consequences, somehow it circled back to me. My mother was jealous of my relationship with my stepdad, often making snide remarks about our frequent texts and shared love for sports. Whenever I defended him, she would mockingly say, “Oh, of course, ‘Little Tommy’ can do no wrong in your eyes!”
Love in my household was conditional. Affection was often exchanged for apologies. My mother would never apologize, but if she felt she had truly crossed a line, you might hear an “I love you.” Outwardly, she appears to be a successful businesswoman and devoted wife—driving fancy cars, owning multiple properties, and frequenting country clubs. She presents herself as the epitome of a loving mother and grandmother, even fabricating stories to maintain that image. Some of these tales have been recited so often that I suspect she believes them herself.
Behind closed doors, however, life was quite different. We lived in a constant state of tension, unsure of what awaited us each time we returned home. The shouting was relentless. Even now, the sound of raised voices makes me feel physically ill.
As I grew older, I came to understand that my mother epitomized emotional unavailability. We quickly learned that seeking support, affection, or empathy from her was futile; her struggles always overshadowed ours—she had endured so much more, and we better just move on! If we cried, we were met with derision. I remember feeling pity for my sister, who was more emotionally expressive, as our mother preyed on her vulnerability.
In my youth, I never envisioned myself getting married or having children. My mother had instilled in me a fear that we would drive her to despair or that she would be taken away by “the men in little white suits.” She often forgot my birthday and claimed Mother’s Day was just a reminder for her to avoid us.
For as long as I can remember, my stepdad could do no right in her eyes. The idea of growing up to have a family felt utterly foreign. Then at 18, I discovered I was pregnant—an unexpected twist in my story. Overwhelmed and scared, I turned to my mother, but her reaction was predictable: “What have I done to deserve this?” She suggested I move away and have the baby in secret. Not once did she ask how I was feeling or how she could support me—it was all about her.
Despite everything, I decided to keep the baby. I can’t pinpoint how I reached that conclusion, but it felt right. My mother organized a baby shower—not for me, but for herself. It was at a country club, filled with extravagant meals and her friends. I expressed my need for practical baby supplies, but she ignored my pleas, opting instead for lavish gifts that I had no space for and no crib to place my baby in.
Becoming a single mother at 19, without a proper role model, was terrifying. I was aware I could provide the essentials—food, diapers, and clothes—but how does one offer love? How do you teach empathy when you’ve never received it? I was determined not to replicate the environment I had grown up in, where my child would fear opening the door due to my unpredictable reactions. I wanted my daughter to know she was unconditionally loved.
I worked tirelessly to become a gentler person for her sake, refusing to repeat the cycle of my own upbringing. I’ve continued to evolve, marrying and having another child. If I make this sound easy, I assure you it is not. I’m still a work in progress, constantly battling my mother’s lingering voice in my head.
As I confront the shadows of my past, I realize the weight I carry resembles an onion—heavy with layers of painful memories and emotional scars. Each layer I peel back brings me closer to letting go. These burdens do not define me. My family now fills me with inspiration and joy, and I am determined to break the cycle for my children and myself.
Interestingly, much of my ability to confront these issues emerged when my stepdad began to mirror my mother’s behaviors, driven by the necessity of cohabiting with her. I’ve always felt the urge to protect those I care about, having often been the scapegoat in my family. When he was barred from seeing my children, I knew enough was enough. I would not allow my kids to be subjected to the same treatment I endured.
Though my siblings and father may not yet confront their emotional baggage, I am actively working to release mine with each issue I address. It’s liberating yet daunting. I’ve always valued quality over quantity in relationships, allowing friends to fill roles that should ideally belong to family.
While I can’t change my mother or my family’s inability to support my children, I’ve created a life filled with love. My happiness and self-worth no longer fluctuate based on external factors. I am who I am—not perfect, but continually growing and evolving from my past.
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In summary, navigating life with a narcissistic mother comes with its unique challenges, but it’s possible to break free from the cycle and create a loving environment for the next generation.
Keyphrase: Growing Up with a Narcissistic Mother
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