Damage and Recovery

I know now why I'm having so much trouble writing of late. Previously, I'd ascribed my angst to my divorce and the ensuing yearlong trauma that process produced. Now I'm not so sure that's the case.

One of the gifts I got for my recent birthday was the book Will I Ever Be Good Enough? Healing the Daughters of Narcisisstic Mothers, by Karyl McBride. As part of the recovery process, the author recommends journaling to purge oneself of the anger, betrayal, and sense of loss that comes from being raised by a narcissistic parent. I started my journal yesterday, and made a horrifying discovery.

In addition to repeatedly calling me a difficult child, criticizing my hairstyle at every opportunity (she likes my hair very short, which makes my face look even rounder and fatter), denigrating my taste in clothes and jewelry, and giving away my cherished possessions, I realized while journaling that my mother has never supported my writing aspirations.

After I sold my first book, a feat of which I was enormously proud, my mother said something along these lines: "That's nice, but I always thought you had something literary in you."

In other words, since my book wasn't literary fiction, what I'd accomplished wasn't nearly good enough. To this day, I'm not even sure she's read anything I've written.

Wow. (cue gazillion-watt lightbulb overhead)

For years, I've swum upstream first against my mother's narcissism and my father's catering to her, then against the narcissism of my ex-husband. I've been drowning in it - messages that I don't matter, that I'm not good enough and never will be. No wonder my Inner Critic is so hateful; she's been parroting back messages learned at the hands of these bastards.

Well, I've had it. This is where I stand up and say, "No more!" I'm a worthy person, a good writer, and I cannot, will not allow anyone to tell me I'm not. I realize this will not happen overnight; it will take a while for me to deprogram myself from years of narcissistic abuse. But I am determined, and I will prevail.

"Don't Go Away Mad...."

Smiling and laughing, my narcissistic mother uttered those words to me and DH as the two of us decamped (prematurely and in haste) from my parents' home last September, after having had our fill of insults and humiliation.

She stopped smiling when I finished that infamous phrase for her: "Just go away - right, Mom?"

Now, of course, she and my father are trying to act like that debacle never happened, down to sending me gifts for appropriate occasions. But the thing is, now the gifts are mere tokens, articles that manage to convey their disapproval, yet show the world they're making an effort. The token gesture this Christmas was a one-pound tin of stale, chocolate covered nuts, addressed just to me.

Can you feel the love?

I received another such item last night, in a telltale Amazon box. (My birthday is approaching, you see.) With the care of a bomb squad agent, I gingerly opened the gift receipt before even looking at the wrapped item within: it was a cookie cookbook, with the gift message "Now you can continue to be a hit where you work!" Gee, thanks. As if my two promotions last year hinged exclusively on my culinary skills. The title might as well have been Baking for Bootlicks. Nice.

I would have been happier had they sent nothing at all, but appearances are everything to my parents. And of course, if I don't send a proper thank you, they'll whinge to everyone and sundry about what an ungrateful child I am. I'm sure they've already sung that song, but what's one more refrain?

Aarrrggghhh! I'm furious and despondent by turns. The rational part of me knows they'll never change, never admit wrongdoing. The irrational part of me, the part that still holds a shred of hope, is dying a slow death.

But I will not bow down to tyrants, bullies, and narcissists - been there, done that, and my self-esteem is still paying the price. I'm returning this "gift" to get something I really want, and moving forward with my life.

Apologies

After much angst and mental hand-wringing, I finally got in touch with my father last week. According to him, neither he nor my mother had the faintest clue as to why DH and I left their home in high dudgeon during our "vacation." Truth be told, with his poor hearing (he wears hearing aids in both ears), I don't think my dad heard much of what went on. When I explained it to him, he was devastated.

Then he asked what he and my mother could do to make things right, and I told him: a complete and unconditional apology from my mother for insulting me, and for insulting my husband.

Now, for an apology to mean anything, it must meet the following criteria:

definition of apology / definition of apologize
by J. E. Brown

To make an apology: In interpersonal manners, an acceptance of responsibility for a wrong, plus a pledge to change one's ways. The wrong may be either intentional or accidental; an apology is fitting in either case. The apology is usually made to the person or persons wronged, but may also be made to any third party to whom the wrongful act was evidence of untrustworthiness. The purpose of an apology is to put the listener at ease regarding the trustworthiness of the apologizing party.

An apology is not complete if it does not reflect all four of these:
• regret,
• understanding of the problem,
• acceptance of responsibility, and
• willingness to do better.

These are the necessary ingredients of a strong and reliable behavioral curb, a self-imposed restriction which the offender agrees to live by. It's your best guarantee and assurance that the behavior will not happen again (in fact, that's the whole purpose of an apology). If you don't hear all of the above elements in the apology, ask for them. If the offender resists, be skeptical.

Fast forward to yesterday. My father calls me. My mother gets on the phone, and says, "I'm sorry for anything I've done to cause you pain." Then, in a very snarky tone, says, "Well, I'll get off the phone now. I'm sure you'll be more comfortable that way."

*sigh*

What she said had none of the above qualities, making it a non-apology. To tell you the truth, I expected nothing less from her.

In other words, nothing has changed. My father is still desperately trying to get me to play happy families and sweep what happened under the rug, while my mother is still too busy being right to care that she's alienated her child.

Whatever. I'm glad Dad and I are still able to talk. Salvaging a relationship with him is the best I had hoped for. My mother, however, is a lost cause. There will be no more weekly phone calls, no more visits. And standing up to a narcissist (my mother) means that I will be vilified by her to the rest of the family, her friends, and everyone else they know so she can pay the poor, long-suffering victim and get everyone's sympathy.

I'm feeling strangely detached about the whole mess. I suppose that's a good thing?

Wicked Child

My mother has always been fond of telling all and sundry that when I turned thirteen, I became someone she didn't know. During this past trip, she went one step further and pontificated to my husband that "boys are easier to raise than girls." In front of me, yet.

Nice.

First of all, it's called puberty. Everyone goes through it, and everyone becomes a hormonally-challenged snot. And everyone (usually) comes through to the other side intact. It's something you sign up for when you become a parent. Deal with it.

And secondly, even with the raging hormones, I didn't drink, didn't do drugs, and didn't run around. I got straight A's, was a member of the National Honor Society, was a National Merit scholar, and eventually graduated with honors from a small, prestigious college. I spent years trying to please my parents and be a model daughter.

Yet all she could say was that I was "difficult."

Well, ya know what? Doormats exist only to be stepped on, and I'm tired of it. In the past few years I've learned to recognize abuse for what it is, and stand up for myself. Clearly that rocks my parents' well-ordered world; it shocks and enrages them that I will not roll over and accept the role of meek, submissive (i.e., doormat) daughter any more.

If that makes me a wicked child, so be it. After forty-some-odd years I've finally decided that I like myself for who I am, and that there's more to life than pleasing people for whom my best will never be good enough. And my parents have shown that they cannot - and will not - be pleased. Instead of acknowledging that they may have hurt someone else's feelings and apologizing (like rational adults), they expect me to come groveling back and apologize *to them* for standing up for myself and my husband.

Well, I'm done. And I'm done feeling sorry for myself. I have a husband, friends, and co-workers who love and respect me for who I am. If my own family cannot do the same, it's their loss - not mine.

It Arrived.

The package from Ground Zero, that is.

I opened up the box and there, buried by a sea of frilly robin's egg blue packing peanuts, was my makeup kit. No note, no nothing - just the kit.

I'm not sure whether to be happy or desolate. I mean, after everything that happened they're not going to say ONE WORD to me? I know better than to expect an apology from narcissists, but apparently they're happy to maintain radio silence. After all, clearly I am the one in the wrong. (sarcasm)

That hurts me almost as much as their insults to me and my husband.

I don't know these people. They're like strangers.

It feels like I have no parents now.

I want to cry all over again.

Work Therapy

Remember how I was complaining last month about how tough my job was, and how frustrated I was getting?

Now, over a week after the great parental debacle, I find myself thanking my lucky stars that I have such interesting and worthwhile employment; not only am I becoming more comfortable in this new project to which I've been assigned, but it's also keeping my mind very much occupied and away from things I'd rather not think about - like the giant pink narcissistic elephant in the room.

I have yet to receive my makeup case; it'll probably get here in the next few days. I anticipate that it will arrive with a note about how disappointed my mother is, how hurt, yadda yadda yadda. Or maybe I'll get lucky and it will come unaccompanied.

Guess I'll have to wait and see.

The Response from Ground Zero

After everything that happened last week, I finally received a communication from my parents - a two-line missive from my father stating that my mother had found my makeup kit (that I'd accidentally left behind), and that they'd be mailing it out tomorrow.

That's it.

OMG. I've known warmer icebergs.

Repercussions

Can't sleep.

Food tastes like sawdust.

I keep going over events from my childhood/young adulthood, seeing them with fresh eyes, and the horror begins anew.

I hate this.

Revelations

After the whole vacation fiasco, I've been doing a great deal of thinking. Thinking, reminiscing, and analyzing.

In short, I was drawing parallels between my mother's behavior and that of my ex-husband. And I came to an earth-shattering conclusion: my mother is a narcissist.

Granted, I'm neither a psychiatrist nor a licensed therapist, but it explains so much, both about her behavior and my own responses.

Unfortunately, along with this enlightenment comes pain, grief, and a gut-wrenching sense of betrayal.

Check out this link to a very telling list of characteristics of narcissistic mothers. My mother meets 20 of the 24 characteristics on this list.

I am still reeling from this revelation, shaken to the very core of my being. It's like a veil has been lifted, and everything I thought I knew is an illusion.

There is no going back from this point. Now, there is only recovery.

My Terrible, Awful, No Good, Very Bad Vacation

My last vacation = one week of my life I'll never get back. In fact, it was one of the worst weeks of my life. In addition to being jet-lagged and travel-weary, I feel like complete and total crap.

What happened, you ask?

Well, without going into details, suffice to say that my mother, who has always been very religious, has become an intolerant, judgmental zealot. Add alcohol into the mix, and she's completely off her rocker. I had an inkling she was unhappy about something from the moment we arrived, but things didn't come to a head until our fourth night in my parents' house.

Having nitpicked at him for days - including telling him, on the very anniversary of his mother's death, that he should be glad his mother died the way she did (suddenly, painfully, of pancreatic cancer) - my mother's seemingly irrational hatred of my husband boiled over. Off came the kid gloves. That night she baited, harassed, and outright insulted my husband, who left the table rather than lose his temper with her. Then she argued with me when I had the temerity to stand up for him and call her on her outrageous behavior. Despite my best efforts, I found there was no reasoning with her.

Even though she drove us from the dinner table, she still wouldn't let things go. And when we decided we'd taken enough abuse (around 8:30 that night), she chortled, jeered, and all but danced with malicious delight as we packed our bags and left. And my father, who I have always considered to be a logical, thoughtful, rational individual, stood by her side and said not one word to stop her.

We spent the last two days and nights of our vacation in hotels, trying to salvage what was left of our week - while I tried to make some sort of sense of what just happened.

I am flabbergasted. Gobsmacked. And, it goes without saying, completely devastated. That person who hurled insults and cackled at our anger and discomfort is not my mother. It seems that when she turned 80 this past February, some switch was thrown in her head, turning her into one of the ugliest, hateful, most passive-aggressive women I've ever had the misfortune to know. Dementia? Mild cognitive impairment? Possibly. I may never know the real reason. All I do know is the person who needled and jeered at us is a stranger. An irrational, abusive, fanatical stranger.

My mother has always said that when I turned 13, I became someone she didn't know. Now I suppose it's my turn. She wouldn't even entertain the possibility that she had crossed a line. Wrapped in an impenetrable cloak of self-righteousness, even when we were leaving in the dark of night, she staunchly maintained the tenet that She Is Right. Always.

I hope she enjoys being right. Because without a genuine and sincere apology - and a demonstrated change in behavior - it's cost her a daughter.

46 Chromosomes + 7 Alleles in Common = 1 Pain in the Ass

Woke up this morning with a "something's gonna hit the fan" feeling, and I think I know what it is.

Background: my oldest brother and I don't get along. I think he's a self-absorbed, entitled, bona fide narcissist. We haven't spoken since our last unpleasant encounter about four years ago, when my then-fiance and I were visiting my parents, and he and his wife showed up and proceeded to monopolize their attention and make everything All About Them. And no, I wasn't imagining things - my then-fiance (now husband) was just as gobsmacked as I was.

Then, a couple of weeks ago, out of the blue, my brother called me, then proceeded to natter on about his favorite topic - himself - like nothing was wrong. To make a long story short, I told him I wasn't interested in having a relationship with him, and he was shocked - shocked! - by my reaction. I told him why, and he couldn't for the life of him remember the visit that way. He then proceeded to give me a bunch of non-apologies: "I'm sorry if I did anything to offend you," and the classic "I'm sorry you feel that way." In a wounded tone, he then said that when I was ready, I could contact him.

I refrained from telling him not to hold his breath.

Anyway, this week my brother and his wife are visiting my parents, and I just know he's going to tattle about me to them - he's done it before. Now, mind you, the man's 59 years old. But he's also endowed with a serious case of sibling rivalry, and won't hesitate to play the victim in front of an audience.

*sigh*

Thus the feeling of impending doom. I just know I'm going to hear about this from my parents this weekend, and I'm preparing myself to handle it. And no, I'm not going to tell them that just because my brother and I have seven alleles in common doesn't mean I have to like him...even though it's true. I'm going to be gentle and tell my mother that I know what she wants, but I can't give it to her right now.

Maybe, if I'm really lucky, my sixth sense is wrong about this, and the topic will never come up.

If I'm lucky.