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This has actually hit me like a ton of bricks, and I thought I had it sorted.

My mum is a Narcissist of the proper, fully paid up, type.

I knew it – I had heard it said and had agreed and listened but, it never, ever really sunk in. I don’t think I would allow it to. She also has a whole host of other mental health issues but, none of that really had the impact that the Narcissistic Personality Disorder did; not on me anyway…and we are talking major, major Psychotic breaks.

They were easier than when she was ‘well’.

I looked it up last night in bed and came across this site and read about having a Narcissist for a Mum and I was like…Oh – My – God (with the proper shocked face and everything). I knew I had been feeling ‘out of sorts’ for days now. I knew that my unavoidable interactions with her lately were taking me back and putting me in touch with a time from long ago. I knew I felt more off kilter than I do generally – and that’s saying something as I don’t think I’ve ever been ‘on’ kilter.

I knew I felt weepy and angry in turns, and hurt and wanting to run away. I feel repulsed by her – in every sense of the word and that was unusual because – normally I would feel…numb. My grown adult stance was – numb. Don’t react, don’t show weakness, NEVER share (I learnt very quickly that ‘Anything I said could, and would, be used against me in a court of mum).

So – to be weepy and grumpy and just…unusual feeling, wasn’t my norm. So I came here and…BANG.

The article, the Narcissistic Parent one – felt like a smack in the mouth. It felt like reading a scarily accurate slice of my life. Like someone had just divided me up like a birthday cake – took one slice and read it back to me. Everything was there. Everything.

Why did I not accept it before..? Because, I could see it and hear it and even nod in wise agreement but, nothing was shifting or moving or sinking in. My Therapist had all but told me! I had all but told others, I just can’t explain it…

…only – I can. I didn’t believe it and I deleted it from my knowledge base or ‘truths’ about myself because, deep down, I still believe her.

It’s still all my fault. I am still ugly and unlovable and blameworthy. There is still something wrong with me which made her not love me. It’s still all me; my fault. She hates me and then ‘they’ hated me. My sibling and her. I am hated and the reason is – just me, being me. Born bad, I am still bad – defective. I can cause stuff without even being near or ever involved. I believe this. I truly do.

I – still – do. THAT’S why I had nodded my head and made all the right noises and hadn’t believed a word anybody had ever said or anything, to date, I had read.

But, there was me in Black and White. The Scapegoat.

How I wished I was the Golden One. I used to dress up in their clothes, in private when they weren’t around, so I could pretend to be them. I used to study them to try and be more like them – and less like me.

They had lovely clothes, colourful and swishy. Beautiful things that were bright and warm and smelled nice and looked nice. I had…track suits; androgynous and bland. Not a boy – not a girl – not anything you could describe. Nothing to give identity or personality.

I got caught once – red handed and guilty. Golden One cornered me against my bedroom door and punched me, full on, in the face and I screamed. This alerted mum, who rushed up the stairs and without even stopping for a breath or asking what had happened, she rushed on to me and punched me too – full on – in the face.

I think I was about 10 years old then.

I also remember a time when I was cowering in the corner of my bed while they both scratched and hit and clawed at me. I don’t know how old I was then – or even what I had done. I just remember being in the corner with no way out and being hit.

Golden One had an awesome bedroom that was age and sex appropriate, it was full and warm and lovely. Mine was sparse and bloody cold and – empty.

My love was ‘him’. And that made me bad too because ‘he’ was bad. And he was.

But, whilst I’m writing this I’m buzzing about and carrying on with life and a thought occurred..

To me – ‘he’ was safe.

A violent, alcoholic bully was SAFE – for me.

This used to confirm to me (ok, still does), how ‘bad’ I was. And it definitely confirmed to them how bad I was. He was ‘BAD’ (and he was – no dispute there) but…

…he liked me. He thought I was funny and strong and intelligent. He felt sorry for me and I knew that because I overheard a conversation once…hanging over the banister…

‘…why do you do it?’

‘Because no one else does…’

That was me. The question was ‘Why do you favour her?’ He tried to champion me and – he failed – because he was a bullying alcoholic, a violent person, horrible, despicable – and then he died.