We’re great deluders, aren’t we. We delude ourselves about people. We research and research and try to understand through our reading that what we are experience is normal, that we are OK, that there is some psychology behind horrible behaviour, that maybe we should forgive, but I can’t.
When I re-enter the world after being abused by my mother, and realise that I have myself back, I start thinking that maybe she is not as bad as I make out.
Big mistake. My mistake. It’s easy to forget the childhood neglect, the lashings of rage, the abandonment, the slicing down of my growing body and persona at that crucial point in my life, the spite and meanness when I had my first child, the sarcastic comments about my weight and my face and my personality, the flirtation with my husband – totally, utterly inappropriate, the bitchiness about me to other people, the endless draining demand for attention, the phone calls to the NHS, the ambulance calls, the faking of illnesses, to the point where we all had to drop everything and take her to the hospital.
My dear father was the enabler, my older sister the narcissist in waiting, my brother the turncoat, the enabler-turn-narcissist-turn-enabler.
I still find myself drifting into a ‘normal world’ type of thinking, thinking about her as if she’s a normal person, when she is not.
My mother lies and lies and lies. She lives in this false world of herself. You cannot trust her with one single snippet of information. You never know what sort of mood she is going to be in, and forget it if you ever need help in any shape or form, you will never get it. I have never got it. I have only ever got told I am useless because I didn’t marry a rich man, I am useless because I am over-sensitive (her words). In all other respects I don’t exist. I am vapor, someone who is there to talk her out of suicide and depression by telling her how much she has to live for.
My mother has never worked for money. She was supported financially by my father her whole life. He died of hard work. So I blame her for his death.
My father left her comfortably off, yet she has never bought me a present, never bought my kids a present. Years ago, we tried to go out with her for occasional coffee or tea-room trips, and she never once reached into her wallet to pay. I had to pay for everything, every single time.
My sister is the same. I remember once when I travelled from the other side of the world to see her, and she would not offer us anything to eat or drink, until I asked for something and out came a tired white bread sandwich, something I never eat.
I have organise exhibitions of my mother’s pottery so she can sell her work, and many times she has decided she can’t be bothered with the exhibition because she has something else to do that day. All my hard work organising things for her wasted.
I bought her tickets once to see a concert in a cathedral, and she didn’t turn up. I phoned her from the cathedral and she told me she didn’t want to come and that I should go. Money I had paid down the drain.
There are a thousand more examples, but the truth be told, I have had enough. Had enough of you mother. You are a horrible human being. I cannot believe that I am a product of you, can’t believe that your narcissism even exists, because to acknowledge that hurts too much. I still feel I am to blame for your narcissism even though I know logically you are not my fault.
There is something inside me which says, how can a mother bear children and hate them so much? How is that even possible, when I love my children and would do anything for them, literally anything. I begrudge them nothing. I only want them to lead the type of life they want and to fulfil their every desire. I want them to be free to be themselves and for them to feel loved by me and their father, truly loved.
How is narcissism even possible? How can people be so hateful?
One last thing for now. When my mother talks to me I tell my husband, after the event, that she talks to her cleaner better than she talks to me. Not that cleaners should be talked to in a bad way at all, but I guess what I am trying to say is that I feel like a lowly, low-paid member of staff on her royal estate rather than her daughter.
I wish I could divorce her, change my name, find a way to extricate myself from any relationship with her. I need peace.