Unmasking My Narcissistic Mother
The unique cocktail of my fucked-up childhood is a delicate blend of several ingredients. There is the four-generational inherited family trauma, the fact that I am a bastard, the trauma of the day when my sister died because of me, my grandmother’s visceral hatred towards me, my father’s (which one, right?) indifference.
But the secret kick to it — which makes it a signature cocktail — is my mother’s narcissistic abuse.
As the links above indicate perfectly, the first few components have already found their way from my soul to coherent memoir pieces. Although those were painful to write, they still made their way out effortlessly. This piece is a tough one. It is nasty. I sat on it for weeks before I could even type the first few words.
This story is big, mind-bogglingly complex and multi-layered, as any tale about narcissistic abuse, and it has been a great struggle trying to find the right angle to cut into it.
Mother did an excellent job, as the cognitive dissonance she has instilled in me still works. Six years after I cut all ties with her to finally rid myself of her poison, I sit here and ask myself, “Did this really happen to me? To us?” Thank God I have Sophie, my sister, to anchor me in reality; two…
