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.
I didn’t get to work yesterday. I went to the hospital instead. At the insistence of my fiance, I called in sick and we headed out. This was after three days of hearts pounding, palm-sweating, barely able to focus anxiety. We pulled off the road for gas and breakfast only to have the car completely break down. We weren’t going any further that way. Our replacement car is over a week late, the current broken down junker has been a death trap for a while now. Needless to say, this turn of events did little to improve my stress level. I did my breathing exercises and fought a losing battle to stay calm. We called a cab, we got to the hospital. Very friendly people. Smiling nurses, nodding sympathetically to my plight. Always the same questions “Any idea as to what set you off? Do you have any triggers? Are you at risk of self harm?” and “Who’s this with you? Do you want him to stay?”
No, no, and hell no. My Fiance, yes.
The thing is, nothing has gone wrong. Work is awesome. My recent trip with my mother was fantastic. I met my fiance’s mother, a narcissistic woman I’d been dreading encountering. It was a pleasant visit, far better than expected. There’s just the background negativity that isn’t going anywhere, that for some reason, some unknown reason, was louder and more demanding than it has been since I was in the midst of abuse. Stuff like that I’m not good enough, my life is going to fall apart, it’s my fault my step father got away with so much, that he has uncontested custody of my little sisters. Sisters I miss so badly, and want to have as bridesmaids at my wedding. Sisters I may never see again. Just the same old shitty baggage, that isn’t going anywhere. I wish I knew how to just let go. The doctor gave me some pills. They put me to sleep, and for a while the background stuff is gone. It’s not perfect, but it helps me focus on the pretty A+ foreground I’m making myself. For now it’ll do.
Until I can let go of the shitty past and current yet distant circumstances beyond my control, it’ll have to do.
From my first memory, I have felt like I have been made of some sort of flypaper for trauma.
I am basically housebound and have a major fear of meeting, connecting, and attaching with other people in any way other than online. People hurt.
According to the last pro I saw, I have C-PTSD with conversion disorder. My trauma timeline (a literal timeline of traumatic incidents, memories, etc that we built in therapy) began at age 2. I have a history of long-term, consistent psychological/emotional abuses from multiple family members, gaslighting, covert pseudo-incestual victimization, and a mixed bag of years of homelessness/poverty as well as clusters of single-event traumas (natural disaster, single-incident sexual assaults from an early age on, spousal/partner abuse, bullying in school, hell – you name it). The longest consistent abusive relationship I had lasted from birth until I was 31.
I also spent long periods of my youth in and out of hospitals with various physical illnesses. (I don’t think that’s a coincidence, either.) Doctors and hospitals are some of my biggest triggers.
I have lots of triggers.
I began converting when I was 22, only I didn’t know that’s what it was at the time. Since then, I’ve had some symptoms come and go and others that have never left, like constant neuralgia. I was told it was like my body went all “TILT” and some of my systems got fried. I spent some time wheelchair-bound, unable to walk.
So besides the severe PTSD symptoms, I also have neuralgia, myasthenia gravis, and tremors.
My biggest triggers, besides the medical world at-large, are pretty basic and direct. Others are really complex:
any governmental/bureaucratic institution (like court, the Medicaid office, the police, the DMV),
phone calls or visitors when not scheduled ahead of time
sudden, loud noises
being touched without my permission
alpha-type individuals with large, forceful personalities
being late in any way
having to “explain myself” without reason
being judged
severe storms that could produce tornadoes
certain smells, words and phrases
anything unexpected
That last one is almost the hardest one of all to deal with. Sometimes I feel almost a kind of autism or something. Like my today has to be just like my yesterday – or at least as planned, and if not – if something throws a monkey wrench into my plan for today, I totally lose my shit. It can be something as simple as a bill that was higher than it should be or oversleeping. Not that sleep is something I get a lot of, but sometimes the insomnia flips itself inside out and all I do is sleep. Though at least with insomnia, I don’t oversleep, so I prefer it.
I heard this line once, from a favorite show of mine, “People with this thing (PTSD), they don’t believe in a just Universe.” Man, ain’t that the truth.
As I’m sure it is with everyone, my story is unique. There isn’t a single situation I have ever experienced that isn’t somehow affected by this damn illness. I don’t know how to let any of it go, either.
I also do not know how to relax. Other than right after orgasm. Which on the one hand, makes orgasm extra nice (when I can get one – yes, of course I have trouble there, too) but on the other hand, as soon as my body goes back to normal, I’m back to tension and worry. My muscles hurt all the time because I’m constantly tensed up.
I get bothered by things that have anything to do with control. Control being mine, that is. Of course, I can’t handle when I have no control, either.
I am on disability, and housebound as I said before, so I spend a lot of time with distraction. I have a couple of hobbies that bring me as much peace as possible, but sometimes even they don’t help.
I have bad days and better days. Once in a while, I have a good day. I never just kick back and enjoy a good day, though, ’cause I seem to be suspicious of it. It’s like I’m thinking, “What is going to come along and ruin this?” …because something usually does. It’s that no-relaxing thing.
It’s like if you’re on letter M, and letters A through L have been horrible? You can’t exactly just get cozy on M… and even thinking about what fun letter T would be would be all kinds of dangerous.
I guess that about covers it. Separating out the ingredients of the soup of this illness is really tough sometimes.
I don’t know if in future I’ll post specific events or not. Thanks for letting me put this all down like this, though.
While I am terrified of people, I am usually pretty lonely.
It’s like so much of it all has some vicious cycle to it, doesn’t it?
I’d always believed that my mother loved me and all her interference in my life was to make me better, stronger. Blindly, I trusted that she meant for me to be happy. But I also knew that … something was wrong. I never could do right by her and I just knew that something was wrong with me. She was inside my head, under my skin, causing me to drown. I lost my strength and discovered that I feared her.
These revelations took over a year – it was a whole process for me.
My life had fallen apart and I went to a specialized therapy clinic for help. There, I learned I was codependent. My therapist actually told me “you have a bad mother, you need to protect yourself from her.”
I was shocked.
I talked to my mother as I came out of the clinic and decided to break contact with her. Afterward, I felt so guilty and sunk into a very deep depression. I think I put all my energy into avoiding contact with her. I was stuck in bed, only leaving to go to therapy.
I couldn’t understand my mother’s attitude toward me. How could she be so crazy insensitive to what I was going through? I was obsessed with the question “why?” After seven months of therapy, I discovered that it was helpless to believe there was a way to save our relationship. I remember my therapist saying “no, I don’t think so. Any relationship with her, you’ll only get hurt.”
I cried so much. It was such a big loss. I finally understood how much she’d taken from me. How she enslaved me, took away everything I got, people that I loved. My mother had bullied me all of my life. The pain was indescribable; I was destroyed. Crying every day, having nightmares all night.
None of this made sense. I felt that she’d only rest once I’d killed myself. How could she be so awful to me? I did everything for her; gave her more than I had to give. Was it really just jealousy? Why? Why had she been so cruel to me? My therapist explained that she’s a narcissistic mother; she has narcissistic personality disorder. I was her extension. It was quite confusing so I turned to the internet for answers. I didn’t know what having a narcissistic mother meant.
There I found it. I understood the way I’d felt my whole life. I understood her attitude toward me.
I learned the tactics of psychological manipulation: invalidation, gaslighting, parentification, triangulation, narcissistic rage. Convincing me to do the opposite of what my gut said. Denying my needs.
I was deadly shocked for I don’t know, months? I haven’t really recovered. My symptoms increased, I developed panic disorder, my self-esteem melted, felt so insecure talking to people or making changes in my life.
For five months, I stopped dealing with it – it was just too much. I’m still unable to deal with anything or anyone. I feel lost, I’m afraid that I’m too damaged to be able to be happy. I’m paralyzed. I have no idea who I am.
I’m 40 and I lost my childhood, my innocence, my adult life. I am sick, depressed, lonely, and terrified.
I discovered The Band Back Together Project, for which I am very grateful. Thanks to reading your stories, I now know that I did the right thing in stopping contact to my mother. That was really killing me.
I can understand all the pain I’m feeling. How badly I’m grieving this loss. To top it off, I discovered that my father also has narcissistic personality disorder.
I’ve been badly abused all of my life. No wonder I’m unable to do what I want and need, how absolutely everybody in my life has abused me, why I can’t stand up for myself.
Knowing that I am not alone and understanding my symptoms gives me hope. I understand that I need treatment and support. I’ll return to therapy which I hope can help me to learn to feel angry, to defend myself, to stop feeling guilty all the time. To allow me to have things, a family, someone that treats me well. I hope I’ll never have abusers in my life again.
I wish I could see what life is like. Until now, I’ve never had a life of my own to lead; I was just a stupid toy, trying to please everyone for love and attention. I want to learn to respect myself and set clear emotional boundaries with other people.
The hardest part is to see how damaged I am. That’s really scary.
Thank you, Band Back Together for giving me the opportunity to speak out. I don’t need to be ashamed; I was abused, I am a victim. Thank you for showing me that.
Can you, The Band, share your stories about being an adult child of narcissistic parents?
I really want to believe this emotional trauma will end and I will, at long last, be free.
Months – if not years – of untreated depression, followed by years of depression treated with therapy. Then an all-too-brief period of remission before a slip back into depression that happened both slowly and all at once, so I didn’t even realize it at first.
It was different this time. I looked okay on the outside to all but those closest to me. I wasn’t having a breakdown every day or pulling the car over on the drive to my friends’ house to cry or to throw up. I was going to work.
But this time, I was tired of trying.
I put all that effort into getting better through sheer will, and it didn’t stick. I was frustrated. And though I absolutely didn’t want to kill myself, I needed everything to stop. I needed to be done.
I didn’t let on how relieved I was when my therapist suggested we re-visit the idea of medication.
It took a few weeks, of course. The transition wasn’t that bad. An acute breakdown caused by stress at work, which was unpleasant but okay because I’d dealt with that intense depression attack before. Then a slide back into the all-pervading guilt. But then one day I woke up feeling happy.
A fluke, I thought.
Then it happened again.
And again.
I’m on day four now, and I feel like I can function. I don’t feel stressed, I don’t feel guilty about absolutely everything.
Some things didn’t change. My coworker still drives me insane. My friends can be boring. My dog needs too much attention. But these things don’t drive me to the brink of giving up. They feel like standard downs of life, to balance out the standard ups I’ve been re-experiencing.
The ups.
I love the ups.
I almost feel like I don’t deserve this, but I know that undeserving feeling will go away as the medication continues to work. It feels strange to be able to sit here on a long weekend, doing nothing, enjoying the cloudy, wet weather. It feels strange to enjoy doing nothing, for that matter. It feels almost too good for me to see a cute guy at church and decide to go talk to him. Do normal people enjoy life this much? I’d forgotten.
