Both of my parents are narcissistic. I was their golden child, which was terrible for me. My whole life, I suffered with guilt because I love my sisters and could see how my parents were neglecting them. I punished myself for having more than they did. I gave all of my money away to my mother and sisters. My life was crap. I worked like an animal my whole life, and have absolutely nothing to show for it, no money, no family, no life, nothing.
Since my breakdown, I realized that my sisters had something very important that I don’t have: they can deal with our mother. They don’t fear her. They just lived their lives with a normal sense of what was right or wrong. Since I found The Band and others sites, I can see why. I recognize that I have suffered the most damage of all of us. While my sisters live their lives, I am in a kind of limbo. They have their children and their experiences while I just struggle for acceptance and survival. I could never relax and have peace. I feel like I have gone nowhere, like my life was a black box. I was not there.
With a crazy, engulfing, malignant mother I could not breathe. I could not rest. Nothing was ever enough, she always needed more. She was never satisfied unless my life was miserable from all of her complaints, from drawing all my energy, making me feel bad about everything, and destroying my self esteem. She poisoned me with her “misery.” My mother had tried to give me her roll taking care of my sisters. I was just a child! All the manipulation and loss of myself eventually made me sick.
It hurt me a lot that she could never ask me how I was doing. One day, I confronted her. I told her she was never there for us, and she gave us no more love and care than if we had been houseplants. She wouldn’t look me in the eye when she answered. Her excuse was that she was always working. While yes, she did work a lot, she was also out having fun, partying like hell! She had plenty of friends, was engaged in politics, and was out all the time, but she wants me to believe her life was a mess because of us. Motherhood was a burden for her.
For the first time in my life, I had the courage to confront her with questions. I didn’t ask her everything I wanted because I was still afraid of her, but that was still a big step. She changed the subject right away, telling me she needed money. I could not believe it! That’s the way it always is with her, she wants my money. Seeing how I have no money, I’m useless.
For four days, I was so upset I couldn’t sleep. It felt like she had grabbed my insides and ripped them out. It took me several days to recover, and I was sure I never be able to face her again. I am ashamed of how weak I am in front of her.
My baby sister supports me and understands me. She really loves me. My other sister became aggressive and horrible, just like our mother. And like our mother, she tries to make my life hell. We have one hell of a dysfunctional family.
Thanks to The Band, I now know why my life is the way it is. Now, that I know what it means to be a golden child, I can finally permit myself to look after me instead of everyone else. I can see now how much care I need, how lonely I’ve been. And best of all, I know now that I deserve it!
I have spent a lot of time in therapy working on the issues surrounding the sexual abuse I was subjected to by my father. What he did is pretty clear cut. It was wrong. It was horrible. No one could (or should) ever think of saying what he did wasn’t wrong.
A bigger, more insidious issue, however, is my mother. She looks like a good person. It is hard to point directly at her actions and say there is anything fishy going on, but if you look at the totality of the picture, she is almost as bad as my father.
Two weeks ago, my mother was in a pretty serious car accident. She was conscious after the accident, but we were hearing diagnoses of “broken spine.” To me, that means paralysis. In that moment, I truly wished that my mother would die. That seems harsh, but there was no way in hell I could take care of her and I did not wish that on my sister.
Broken spine translated to two cracked vertebrae. She would not be paralyzed, but would require a back brace for 8-12 weeks, which she could not put on by herself because she also broke her arm and a couple fingers. My sister lives closer, and is her medical power of attorney, so she agreed to bring Mom into her home and care for her.
There is no way I could have done that. None. It was hard enough for me to feed my mother jello in the hospital. She was totally defenseless. And while she is not a violent person, it was hard for me to see her like that, knowing how she can be.
I found out that I’m her financial power of attorney, and the next day, I went to work getting the information we would need and notifying all the necessary people. One of the first calls I made was to her car insurance agent, also a close friend from what mom told me. I called and told the woman my name and my mother’s name and what had happened. The woman got really quiet, then said, “Do you have a sister?” I said yes, I had a sister, and told the woman her name. The woman said she had HIPPA guidelines to follow, but then said my mother had never talked of another daughter. She had told the woman of my sister, but never mentioned me.
I was shocked, to say the least. I spent quite a bit of time feeling terrible over that. After talking to a friend of mine who knows my mother, he reminded me that she, just like my father, groomed people. It was not for the same purpose, but it was grooming, nonetheless.
I am not wealthy or tremendously successful in the typical way that society values, and my sister is no slouch either, but for my mother to talk about me, she has to tell people what I do. “My daughter writes about the sexual abuse she endured from her father, that I knew about.”
She says she did not know, and she is sorry. I told her, she did know. And when I told her, she admitted she thought something had been going on. He was prosecuted, not so much for what he did to me, but he went to prison. This was not a case in which I never said anything. I told lots of people, my mother was just the first in line.
She was too scared, too in love, too worried about what others would think, too whatever to do anything.
So, now, after 30 years since the start of my abuse and telling, she says she is sorry and she did the best she could. In the present, though, she isn’t sorry enough to tell people she has two daughters.
You’re right mom. You are sorry. Not for your actions, but you are just generally a sorry person.
I am 16 year old girl. I have always wondered if my mom was emotionally abusive. So I need help. Please read my story and tell me whether she really is.
I was at the top of my class until my eighth grade year. As soon as I entered ninth grade, my grades started reducing. I was not failing, but I turned into an average student. I really studied hard to achieve good grades, but my mother never recognized my efforts. She cursed me several times. She said I should have been born with my both of my parents dead.
Whenever I wake up late in the morning, she starts abusing me for not getting up early and studying. She says would not care if I ran away. She often says that if I do not like her, I should just kill her. She says I will never be successful in life and God will punish me for the things I have done to her. She cries in front of me and says that she wishes she was dead. She says I am selfish, and mean, and I like to waste my parents’ money.
I don’t understand why she behaves like this. Once I asked her if I could go to a movie with my friends. She asked if I had lost all my senses, and said that someone will kidnap me if I go. I only ever meet with my friends at school, because she says I have been spoiled.
I guess I have been dealing with this since I was 2 or 3 years old. I have a memory of saying “No one loves me, not my father or mother” when I was that young. When I was 3, she had locked me on the balcony, and I don’t know why. She used to drag me out of the house as a punishment for not doing my homework. She ran after me with poison when I was in the eighth grade. She doesn’t trust me at all. I have a habit of studying until late at night. The next morning, she will always accuse me of surfing the internet instead of studying. She doesn’t respect my privacy she always tries to read my personal messages.
Staying with this woman under the same roof makes me mad. I get no comfort or support from her. When I confront her, she says I am no longer a kid, and she doesn’t need to motivate me or support my goals.
Eating gives me comfort, so I have turned to food. Now I am obese. I suffer from anxiety and fear. I have agoraphobia and am scared to move out of my home. I feel guilty for many things which are not my responsibility. I think I have been totally damaged inside. I have an inferiority complex.
Even though most of the time she is angry, sometimes she makes me feel like she cares about me. Sometimes she talks to me politely.
So what do you all think? Is my mother emotionally abusive? Please help. I am confused and need the emotional support from all of you.
I’m stuck in a long distance abusive relationship with a man who will most likely kill himself if I leave. I’m all alone on the world’s scariest amusement park, sure there are some highs to it. But with every high comes a stomach turning, I-wanna-throw-up fall, sometimes several in a row before another small high. The gates are locked and the key has been thrown away, I’m all alone. There is no way out unless I want to live with the fact that he killed himself because of me. There is no way I can do that, I try so hard to help everyone who wants to or has attempted to kill themselves.
So I’m alone in a sometimes wonderful hell hole. Then again, even in hell, people need a little bit of water to live and will miss it that much more when they get thirsty again. Not to brag at all, but there are multiple men I can call, text, email, or go visit and tell them that I want to date them. They would treat me well, let me explain when I seem in the wrong. It would be so nice and perfect. But no, I day dream about it while we talk then get snapped back into reality by his harsh words. I want out, I want fucking out of this nightmarish hell. There is no way though, because he will kill himself if I leave.
I am not because I do not want to reward you for the way you’ve treated me and my family. Sweeping all of the hurtful words, derisive glares, and contemptible stories told to extended family members under the rug and pretending that everything’s coming up Cunningham is unhealthy. I need to start teaching you how to treat me.
I wish that these feelings, and your actions, were limited to the last ten months, the time frame when the true dysfunction of our relationship came to light, but they’re not. In truth, while you’ve never raised a hand to me (or my sister), your abuse has been going on as long as I can remember. (Don’t you sometimes wish emotional abuse showed scars? It would be so much easier if you could point to a jagged white gash on your arm and say “this was from the time he called me ‘fat.’ I was ten.” If you can’t see it, it doesn’t exist.)
You wanted boys. It is so clear that you are disappointed that Mom gave you daughters. It was clear in the way you dismissed me, tried to create a “tomboy” out of my sister, and then, when that didn’t work out, lavished attention on our male cousins and your first grandson. It is still clear in the way that you almost completely ignore your beautiful granddaughters, and when you’re not ignoring them, you treat them as inferior, people you must put up with in order to see your grandson.
Of course growing up with you wasn’t all bad. You made us beautiful things, bed frames with bookshelves (because my sister and I have always been big readers), a closet-sized toy chest, and a stand-alone playhouse in the centre of the yard (which lasted one summer before the spiders took it for their own and we refused to enter it again). You took us out for sundaes at least once a month, on Fridays after school (of course you did neglect the opportunity to get to know your children by picking up a newspaper as soon as we darkened the doors, but we were always excited to get that ice cream). You made sure that we got out camping several times every summer, and packed canoe trips and hiking adventures by the dozen into our family vacations.
You just never seemed to buy in to your relationships with us. Maybe with my sister, with whom you seemed to have tried to forge a connection through organized sports and hockey fandom, but never with me. We don’t have any common interests, isn’t that the excuse you used? I always had my nose in a book, played music with a community band and was more of a dreamer than I was practical. Thing is, I also really enjoyed hiking, got into inline skating (you played hockey and really enjoyed to skate), loved to go for long walks and even took up an interest in war history movies (when I watched The Bridge on the River Kwai, I watched it for you. I did thoroughly enjoy it, but I was twelve(ish), it wasn’t in my wheelhouse to source late ‘50s Alec Guinness flicks in the ‘90s).
Later on, I followed your urging and applied for a job (I should never have applied for) in your company of employment. I hated that position with every breath I took (and I didn’t last long in it), but I relished having that little bit of something in common with you. I was over-the-moon when I had the chance to “talk shop” with you, but you were dismissive of and disinterested in that, too.
I tried, Dad. I tried really hard. The counselor I saw at the end of last year suggested that I have been seeking your approval for my whole life. That wasn’t something I had considered, but when he said it, a cartoon light bulb lit up over my head. He was right on the money.
I have been trying to make you see me for all of my almost thirty-two years of life.
I can’t do it anymore. You have said some heinous things to and about me, especially in the last year. You have ignored me, looked through me and glared hatefully at me. I understand that I have made decisions that you don’t agree with. I understand that I have done things that you don’t like. I even understand that some of these things may have hurt you, but this isn’t the way to deal with that. I am better than that. I am more than that. I am worth more than that.
I would love to have a relationship with you. I said to my husband just this morning that I wish that tomorrow was going to be a day of celebrating him, and his very first Father’s Day (he is an amazing father. So supportive, encouraging, devoted, and completely wrapped around our son’s tiny fingers), as well as a day of celebrating you. I wish I had a relationship with you to celebrate, but there aren’t enough macaroni necklaces in all of the land to sway your affection toward me even an inch, are there?
I hope that changes some day, Dad. I hope I can hug you, tell you I love you, and trust you again.
All the shattered hearts and broken promises that I thought I was angry about all seem so irrelevant now. I know that separating is probably the best thing for both of us, but it’s killing me. I no longer care about whether I pass or fail in school. I no longer care about graphic design. None of that matters without him.
How could I have been so blind? So stupid? I got so lost in the things that he had done to me that I forgot about the girl he brought to life. I may not be able to prevent the pain he causes me now and again, but I am in control of MY actions, and my actions have been deplorable.
This isn’t me. I don’t retaliate. I forgive, and I move on. When did I lose sight of that girl? His mistakes should have never been repeated no matter how much I wanted him to understand. He’s a man. He will never understand the emotions of a woman. I sure don’t understand the emotions of a man.
It’s probably too late for us. I simply hope someone else can learn from our mistakes. Forgiveness is a wonderful thing, and by forgiving your spouse you can make a stand. You can say that you will not allow the darkness to destroy what you both have built, even if you have to build the walls on your own.
The happiness in our eyes has been gone for quite a while. Once they told the world a story of a love that few would ever experience. Somewhere along the way, we forgot how lucky we were to have found each other. I wish I had been better at showing him how truly grateful I was to have him here. And while many might say that I should use these lessons for the next guy, I know, without a single doubt, that there will be no other for me. The attention that I was seeking from others never managed to replace what I was desperately in need of from him. And because of my foolishness, there will always be a break in his heart that won’t heal, and that I am responsible for. No matter how many times I assure him that I never followed through, he will always believe I did. Maybe that’s even worse. He will spend the rest of his life hoping that my words are true but never truly believing.
Dear God, what have I done? I ruined the only thing that was truly pure and beautiful in my life out of pure spite. My life has never had any light in it until he came along. The day I met him, everything sprang to life. The grass was greener; the sky was bluer. Exactly when did I lose sight of that? Was it the first time he slapped me? Was it the day he broke my tailbone? I seem to recall a spark up until the moment that I felt that a single promise from him had become necessary – that no matter how our fights ended, if something ever happened to me that he would not panic and kill our children as well. Anything that was left after that died the moment I pleaded for my own life.
I know this relationship isn’t healthy. I’m fully capable of taking a step back and screaming to the girl before me, “For God’s sake, run!” But I stand by a decision I made one night in our Blessing home: if I intended to love him, then I was going to love him to the end, whether it be tragic or happily ever after. It looks like tragedy is the theme of this play, but at least the heroes in question have lost only their souls and not their lives.
Both of my parents are narcissistic. I was their golden child, which was terrible for me. My whole life, I suffered with guilt because I love my sisters and could see how my parents were neglecting them. I punished myself for having more than they did. I gave all of my money away to my mother and sisters. My life was crap. I worked like an animal my whole life, and have absolutely nothing to show for it, no money, no family, no life, nothing.
