My Narcissistic Mother
Words by Anonymous
I never want to write about my mother. I never want to waste time thinking about her, waste pages writing about her in my journal, or waste energy worrying about whether she’ll judge my next decision in a positive or negative light.
For far too long, my mother has commanded too much of my attention.
My mother has a narcissistic personality. If it doesn’t feed her ego, it doesn’t matter to her. That means when you talk to her, she never asks how you are. It means it’s easier for her to play with your kids than to have an adult conversation with you—her psyche has never developed past the id stage. If you confront her, she will run and hide until you say you’re sorry. If you won’t let her go, she’ll lash out and use her words to hurt you. During a fight with me once, she threatened to kill herself when I told her I needed time apart. Of course, I immediately backtracked—what daughter would want to be blamed for her mother’s suicide? Even if not publicly, the internal shame I’d feel would be forever. My mother, queen of the guilt trip, had won again.
STANDING UP
The first time I tried to confront my mother about her behavior I called her a bitch. I was sixteen and we were arguing. I can’t tell you what we were arguing about, but I do remember I had just learned the impact this word could have, the hurt it could cause, and I wanted to hurt my mom, badly. “You’re such a bitch!” I screamed, my face inches from hers. She reared back and slapped me across my cheek, not the first time she’d hit me, but the first time on my face, the first time it would leave a noticeable mark.
The next time I had the courage to stand up to her I was in college and we were arguing about my major. I wanted to be a journalist; my mother wanted me to be a doctor. But I’d taken some pre-med classes and knew that life wasn’t for me. My mother attacked me, verbally this time. When I came home, she would read the diary entries I carefully penned late at night, so no one would see. That day she said, “Maybe if you didn’t spend so much time giving your boyfriend blowjobs you wouldn’t be ruining your life.” It was college, sex was new. I was still young, innocent. Her words stung. And I graduated with two degrees, one in chemistry and one in English. Neither of which I use in my current career.
She spent so much time telling me who to be, what to be, and how to be it that I lost myself. I couldn’t make a choice until I heard her opinion, whether it swayed me toward a career path or against it. For much of my early twenties, I bounced from job to job, wondering what I was supposed to do when I grew up. I did know I wanted to have a family, and that I would be a better mother than she ever was. I would love my children unconditionally, for starters. The rest would come.
I was reviewing old journal entries recently, and I saw that for the past five years, all I had been doing was complaining about my mother. How sad she made me. How much I hated her. Even, on my worst days, how I wished she was dead, just so I wouldn’t have to deal with her drama anymore. Every entry, year to year, was invariably the same. I hated her. I wanted her out of my life. But I couldn’t control what she was doing to me any more than I could control the anxiety I felt every time the caller ID flashed her name on my phone.
Slowly, it dawned on me: this problem of my mother is not going away. A close friend explained once that dealing with my mother is my “life’s work.” As hard as it was to hear at the time, and as hard as it still is to think about, it’s true.
So now, I am working on healthy boundaries. My mother and I have a cordial relationship, one I like to refer to as the Polite Stranger. I treat her like I would any stranger: I’m polite, but I don’t reveal too much of myself. I don’t share about my relationships or my worries, the way I imagine many daughters do with their mothers. Instead, I steer the conversation toward her. I allow her to talk about herself, I listen to her lies and exaggerations, and I comment when necessary. I don’t give her too much of myself, and I don’t imagine she’s giving too much of herself to me. I have let go of the fantasy that our relationship will ever become one of true friendship. It hurts, but mostly, it’s okay. I know that I’m the one who longs for a more loving, compassionate mother, and it’s not my fault I didn’t get one. I am working on grieving the mother I wish I had, giving myself grace to be the person I am, and loving myself no matter what.
This is my life’s work. And one day, I will overcome it.
** Editor’s Note: This essay first appeared in Issue 15 of Holl & Lane Magazine. **
