I am on a path in life that is completely different from what I imagined growing up. It’s a path I’m not sure I chose consciously. This is the way that exhausts me.
I grew up with a narcissistic mother, and I was the scapegoat.
No matter how I tried, I could never win my mother’s love. Love was tainted with conditions, taken away at any time, and that was often.
Instead of giving up, I did my best — I needed to get the best grades, be on my best behavior, and have the cleanest room.
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But it never worked. In my mother’s eyes, I was too fat. She regularly reminded me that my thighs were huge and made sure they were always covered.
Now, when I look at the few remaining photos from my childhood, I don’t see her. I don’t see what she saw. I see an ordinary child, with long blonde hair and blue eyes, trying hard to smile for the camera.
In my mother’s eyes, I wasn’t as smart as my brother. I got everything while he got a C, and yet, I believed it.
I spent my free time immersed in books. They were a welcome escape from reality. I read about little girls who had a wonderful relationship with their mothers, all the way into adulthood. I wondered what was wrong with me.
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When your mother doesn’t love you, doesn’t even love you, there must be something wrong with you, right?
I was a kid in school who would defend bullies and form groups for weaker kids to get a place that fit in. I couldn’t get through a problem without needing her help.
But I couldn’t reach my mother.
She always looked at me coldly, preparing me for the role of the perfect housewife, a role I could not achieve no matter how hard I tried. There was always a speck of dust, a missing spot, a forgotten dish. She’ll make sure of it.
I’ve lived most of my life trying to fit into her mold. However, everything she did angered her.
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I am now 37 years old, and I am also a wife and mother. I decided four years ago to completely stop contacting her.
I saw this dangerous behavior projected onto my oldest child very early on.
I tried to talk to my mother about her apparent favoritism and her different attitude towards each child, but nothing happened.
It wasn’t until she told me plainly that she didn’t “like” my eldest daughter, that it shocked me: She wasn’t going to change, but I had to.
I had to change to protect my children. So I cut off all communications.
It was dramatic, the culmination of an explosive chapter of my life that shaped much of who I am now. Or was. or me. I’m not even sure at this point.
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She never reached out to reconcile. There is no interest in her only grandchildren.
Everyone who asked me how my mother was was shocked to discover that we no longer spoke.
“But this is your mother!” It was the screams. “How can you keep her grandchildren away from her!” and “This is so evil!”
The guilt I felt after this very difficult decision prompted me to talk to a psychiatrist. Was I wrong?
Taking this step and sharing my burdens with a psychologist was the best thing I have ever done. She was able to make a lot of the puzzle pieces fit.
Suddenly, I could see that it wasn’t me. I didn’t deserve my mother’s love. I wasn’t a bad kid. Terrible teenager. Stupid adult.
I was made a scapegoat for a narcissistic mother.
Foreign terms opened up my whole dark world to me and melted away a lot of pain and doubt in myself. The more I researched, the more I began to understand.
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