As a kid, I obsessively watched Mommy Dearest because it would bring me so much comfort and solace knowing I wasn’t alone, especially since I didn’t have anyone to lean on for support. This isn’t something I can write about in just one post. There are too many words that there aren’t enough words. The slew of emotions, the pain, and the suffering that come from having a narcissistic mother are not something I would wish upon anyone. Ever.
I also didn’t have a strong father figure because my biological father was a physically abusive alcoholic. I was four the last time I saw him. He got arrested because my mother called the cops on him for being drunk.
RELATED: PART OF MY STORY: CHILDHOOD ABUSE TO SUBSTANCE ABUSE
Afterwards, my mother used to tell me he left because he didn’t love me and she should have had an abortion. I remember going into my room each time, closing my eyes and saying to myself, “I’m not going to believe it.” I would repeat it over and over as if it were a mantra.
Maybe I didn’t say it enough because I eventually believed that I would have been better off dead. At least I wouldn’t feel anything anymore. I never even told my family about my suicide attempt because I couldn’t begin to fathom the amount of shame they would have inflicted upon me.
My step father came into my life shortly after my biological father was arrested, but he worshiped the ground my mother walked on so would often turn a blind eye to her abuse or participated in it.
A 21 day DIY sobriety program to awaken your inner guru so you can transform pain into power and purpose.
The smear campaigns began when I was young with my mother making up stories to family and family friends. No one ever bothered asking my side, they just believed every word she said. I would constantly get lectures from people who didn’t witness what went on behind closed doors about what a bad kid I was. It eventually led to gang stalking.
It was so isolating. I remember wishing to be invisible. And because I didn’t know how to make it happen, I did the next best thing- I gave in to her abuse, losing a piece of myself each time. Until there was nothing left to lose, that self-abandonment became the only thing that made sense.
The more people believed her, the more it empowered her. The more I tried standing up for myself, the worse the scapegoating, deflection, and projection got. Oftentimes, it was just easier for the sake of inner peace to relent and not talk back. It’s exhausting to always have to defend your character and integrity, only for all your words to be taken completely out of context or thrown right back in your face.
RELATED: WHAT GOT ME THROUGH THE DARKEST DAYS
I didn’t love her out of respect but out of fear and I think she preferred it that way. It was like fearing her gave her the power and control she desired. The only thing that mattered to her was people viewing her as a perfect lady.
I wasn’t even allowed to become my own person. I was expected to live in the shadows of my mother, as an extension of her. And if she chose to give me breadcrumbs, I had to be grateful. Otherwise, I was entitled. If she chose to engage in smear campaigns, I had to apologize for being the person she portrayed me to be. And if I refused, it got worse.
Throughout the years, I tried talking to people about it, only to get dismissed. I used to care so much what other people thought about me that it no longer mattered that they didn’t believe me about the abuse, only what they thought about me. As long as they could like the version of me that was compliant and submissive, I was perfectly happy being what they needed me to be.
RELATED: A MINI GUIDE TO UNDERSTANDING YOUR EMOTIONS
I listened to everyone but myself. When people insisted they knew my mother better than I knew her, I believed them. When I was told, “But that’s your mother,” I became more self-sacrificing. If I was told that I was overreacting, I blamed myself for her actions.
That’s one thing I’ve never understood- when someone is complaining about everyone in their lives, what makes people think it’ll never be them? Or how people would happily disrespect someone on behalf of someone else.
One of the hardest things to reconcile with was that my twin sister and stepfather automatically vilified me even when they witnessed what happened. I was also expected to raise my twin sister. Yes, twin. If I complained, I would get told that because I’m older, I had to set an example and be there for my sister, no matter what. I’m 20 minutes older.
I didn’t get a chance to be a kid. I don’t know what Christmas traditions are like because I never had them growing up. That’s why I’m so obsessed with Hallmark Christmas movies- they bring me to a parallel universe where that could have been my childhood.
There were so many tears shed for the little girl that was broken until there was nothing left to break and so much suffering for the woman who was defiled and dehumanized until I was stripped of all of my dignity.
A 21 day DIY sobriety program to awaken your inner guru so you can transform pain into power and purpose.
When you’re taught to feel low about yourself, you think it’s arrogant to have self-worth. You’ve been led to think expectations are entitlement. You’re made to feel selfish for having boundaries. You even feel wrong for wanting to be understood, so you settle for being who you are needed to be.
Breadcrumbing is your gold standard. And you’re perfectly happy for the little you receive because in your mind, they cared enough to give you scraps. Which creates more trauma.
You don’t live your own story. You live the version that others want you to see about yourself- worthless, powerless, useless, an absolute waste of life.
RELATED: HOW SUBLIMINALS CAN HELP TO CHANGE YOUR MINDSET
I didn’t like who I became. But I also had no idea who I was. It’s been a really slow process- peeling away layers of debris and trauma, unraveling everything I thought I was to become the woman I’ve always aspired to be.
Till this day my heart breaks a little when I hear stories about mothers and daughters being best friends. Or sisters who are a ride and die. It’s a mixture of jealousy and curiosity.
I think a part of me will always wonder what if things were different? Would I be a different woman? What about all the steps and detours I took to get here- how would that have looked?
Truth be told, I don’t want a different story. Because I have rewritten it so many times and died a thousand deaths to become this version of me. I owe it to my past self to be grateful to have made it on the other side and to be proud of how much I overcame.
I’ll see you soon…in the meantime, love yourself so much that even a Hallmark Christmas movie would be jealous.
