When Hell Freezes Over, And The Devil Gives Out Free Sleigh Rides: Apologies From Our Narcissistic Parents

Unprovoked apologetic remorse from a narcissistic parent.  Sounds like a fantasy, right? Like zero calorie cupcakes and blind dates that look like Ryan Gosling. They are figments of our imaginations, but certainly not steeped in anything resembling reality.

I think we all have a better shot at receiving one of
these than an apology from our narcissistic parents.

Or at least that's what I thought, until two weeks ago.

I've been No/Low Contact with my narcissistic mother for the better part of 15 years. And only low contact due to the existence of my minor, teenage, sister, who still resides with the She-Devil. Sadly, a few years ago, her father passed away very young and very unexpectedly.  We only have one other living adult family member to speak of who has struggled with an addiction to crack-cocaine for most of the last 20 years. Which means, if you do the math, I become my younger sister's legal guardian in the event of my NM's early demise.

In fact, the last contact we'd had regarded this very issue, about 6 months ago. My aunt had called me to complain about my mom's craziness, and my mother and I had had falling out number 28,974 a few months prior.  So I was a little more of a listening ear that week than I might have been closer to the drama. My aunt, as usual, rattled off several batshit things my mother had said of late, and one word in particular caught my attention: "Guardianship."

"Wait, what was that about the guardianship?" I asked.
"Oh I don't know, something about changing it to some friend of hers she's only known a few months.  The woman is crazy." My aunt replied.

I was speechless.  As I said, things have been rocky between me and my mom for the entirety of my sister's young life.  Before, actually. But never had she given any indication of playing games with such serious legal issues. Sure she's disinherited me, told me I'm not her daughter, removed me from her life insurance, blahblahblah...but all of it with the understanding that if/when shit hit the fan, I'd step in to give my sister the support she would need if she found herself parent-less under the age of 18.  I broke no contact, called my mom, and she didn't answer.  So I left her a message: "[Aunt] told me you're changing [Sister's] guardianship.  I know we don't get along, but this feels spiteful and way, way over the line.  Please call me back so we can talk about this."

And I never heard back.

Two weeks ago, as I was going about my normal Wednesday routine, my sister called me out of nowhere. I knew immediately before I had even connected the call, something was wrong.  She's a teen in the millennial age.  Her calling, and not texting, on a Wednesday morning, means one of two things: the zombie apocalypse is underway, and/or something happened to my mom.  Sure enough, my mom was in the hospital.  In ICU, on a ventilator.

Holy. Shit.

I hung up with my sister, and crisis mode kicked in.  I pushed aside any emotions I'd had relating to my mother and her condition, and forced all thoughts to be about getting to my sister as quickly as possible.  As fate would have it, my employer couldn't let me drop everything on that day.  I am one of two people in my work area, and the two of us split up a large work load.  When one of us has a day off, the other covers.  That week, my coworker had had eye surgery and wasn't cleared to drive until that Thursday morning. I was stuck.  My choices were either to give up my job (believe me I considered it) or to finish out the day and drive red-eye to my sister's state the second my work was done.  And so I kept up with numerous phone calls, texts and emails with my sister, the neighbor she was staying with, and the ICU nurse's station while I painstakingly tried to get my work done ASAP.  I reasoned that it wouldn't be smart to give up my employment should I need to care for my sister financially.

Never have I felt so torn in two pieces in my life.

By the time I arrived, preparing for the worst, my mother's condition had improved and she was able to breathe without the help of machines. By that evening, they were discharging her. On my arrival, my mother jumped out of bed, ripping her IV out of her arm, and ran to me, embracing me in one of the (I think) 3 hugs I've had from her in my life? "My baby, my baby!" she said.  And I wondered if that IV had had some kind of Narcissistic Parenting cure-all potion in it.  Suddenly, I was stuck in a whole new way.  I had arranged to be off work indefinitely.  "How long can you stay?" She asked, reminding me of a child, hope and love gleaming in her eyes. "Uh, through the weekend I guess." I stammered, and then came hug #4.  "I love you." She said.  And I was grateful to be in a hospital, because I was pretty sure that state of shock I was in would require the use of a defibrillator. "I...love you too, mom." I said, and she smiled.

CLEAR!

When they released her and we got back to their house, she waited for my sister to go to bed and then said she wanted to have "real talk" with me.  I braced myself for what this has always meant in the past...a diatribe of her long list of grievances against me, my father, my aunt, Lady Gaga, Elton John, and the entire Mormon Tabernacle Choir.  I have long been trained to respond to these talks with a polite "Yes ma'am, I'm sorry, woe is you, you're pretty, I'm ugly, you're smart, I'm stupid.... etc etc" lest I want to start World War Seventeen.

"I want to say something I've never said to you." She began.
"Yes Ma'am..." I said, reading from the well rehearsed mental script in my head.
"No, stop it." She said.  "You don't owe me any respect."
I couldn't help it.  My eyes bugged out.
"I owe you a thousand apologies." She said.
My eyes felt like they would fall out of my head.
"I never should have hit you. I was a bad mom to you. I treated you differently than your sister because I resented you for favoring your father.  That's a shitty thing for a mom to do and I'm ashamed of myself."

"Ok...." I said, regaining composure and looking for the catch.
"I have always loved you.  But I don't know how to show it.  I felt rejected by you, and so I rejected you to protect myself.  And when I did show it, I only seemed to know how to do it with money.  But then I would hold it over your head like you owed me and that wasn't fair."
"No, it wasn't." I said, with a cringe and waiting for the emotional bitchslap I knew would come.
"No. it wasn't."
Holy shit.  Did she just validate me? And immediately I thought of tearing down this blog.  I am a fraud.  My mother's not a narcissist.  I don't have a toxic parent.  Who am I to try to help others when these situations no longer apply to me?

And then began the diatribe against my dad.  Back into submission mode I went.

"Yes ma'am." I said.  Rolling my eyes internally at my silly self.
"What just happened?" She asked.  I stared at her.
"Nothing. I'm just listening." I said.
"I fucked it up already, didn't I?" She said. I was astounded at her perception.  Again, I am a fraud.
"I've said this to you before, but you don't ever seem to get it." I said, playing with fire. "But my dad is very important to me. I am half him.  So when you put him down, you're putting half of me down."
"You're right. I'm sorry. I won't do that anymore." She said.  I actually felt my heart stop.  I wished we were back in the hospital under doctor supervision.
"I really want us to be closer.  I hate that we only come together in times of crisis.  I hate that I don't know what's going on with your life.  I hate that I've pushed you away and I am going to do everything in my power to repair things and earn your trust."
It was then that I remembered the guardianship, and asked her about it.
"Oh boy, this is your druggie Aunt causing drama.  I spoke with a lawyer a few months ago who said I should have a backup guardian in case something happened to you as well.  I mentioned it to her on the phone and she must have run her mouth to you trying to cause problems."  She then got up, fished around in her office, and produced a legal document.  "Here," she said, "see for yourself."

Her Last Will & Testament still named me as my sister's legal guardian. And hand written in the spaces below legalese was a note to make another person guardian in the case of my death. She only needed to get it redone by a lawyer and notarized.  I sighed in heavy relief.  She wasn't playing with legal fire out of spite, she was making smart parenting decisions for my sister's future.

When I left town 3 days, and more of these types of talks, later, I was skipping. It felt like a 30 year weight had been lifted from my shoulders.  I felt something I couldn't even describe because I'd forgotten what it felt like.  Hope.  Maybe, just maybe, I could have a real mom.  As I drove home for 5 hours I didn't even turn on the radio.  I thought about what kind of flowers I would send her this year for mother's day.  I thought about how much fun it would be to take a family vacation with her and my sister for the first time. I imagined being able to talk to her and have her actually listen when I was facing turmoil in my life and to have a maternal figure who would talk me through it and assure me that everything would be alright in the end.  I let myself have those dreams of a mom for the first time in probably half a decade.

Is this a dream?

On my arrival home, I opened my email to find 13 messages from my mom. All reiterating and reassuring everything she'd said while I was with her. I felt like I was walking on clouds.

The next day, I received 4 more emails.  12 block length text messages, and 4 phone calls.

On Tuesday, 8 emails, 23 texts, 3 phone calls.

Wednesday: 7 emails, 18 texts, 2 calls.

Thursday: 20 texts, 4 emails, 6 calls.

And I noticed something.  By Tuesday the emails began talking about my dad again.  The texts were running my aunt into the ground.  One text on Wednesday talked of a temporary financial bind she's in and 30 minutes later, another text asking if she could please but me a pair of $200 sunglasses to make up for not acknowledging any of my birthdays in the last 15 years. And mixed into every email starting on Wednesday, was her own "fears and apprehensions" about our relationship.  She wanted to know if I thought she was a good mom who tried her best.  She wanted me to acknowledge how great of a mom she is to my sister.  She repeatedly asked if I was faking my desire to have a better relationship with her only because I really just wanted more access to my sister, despite my telling her no about that several times.

On Friday, she emailed me at 2 am while I was sleeping.  At 6 am, she texted me 3 times in a row asking if I was mad at her because I hadn't replied. I texted back that I was sleeping, had a very busy work day ahead and that I would read and respond over the weekend. She texted again, saying she hoped I wouldn't be mad. I said I wasn't and was going back to sleep.  Still the texts came.  So I got up, made coffee and sat down to read her email.

It was as if none of the previous week had happened.  It was roughly 5000 words.  2000 putting down my dad and asking for reassurance that he was a terrible husband to her and for me to never talk about him to her because it hurt her.  (For the record, I have no idea how good or bad of a husband my father was since they split when I was in 1st grade.  But I do know that what led him to file for divorce was her multiple extramarital affairs, one with his best friend. And I know this first hand, as I remember being about 6 years old in this man's apartment watching his fish tank in his living room while he and my mother had loud sex in the back room, and her telling me afterwards not to say anything to my dad. But I digress)  The rest was a diatribe I'm all too familiar with.  How the reason I didn't get the relationship with her that my sister has (the GC) was due to my own fault.  I was a bad teenager who was out of control.  She did the best she could.  Sure she'd made mistakes, but anyone would in her shoes dealing with a troublemaker like me.

I sighed, audibly, and took a minute before responding. I found myself grateful for therapy.  Grateful for this blog, facebook groups and research materials I've read over the last year or so.  And instead of beating myself up for getting sucked in again as I might have without the assistance of these support systems, instead, I forgave myself.  I smiled.  Knowing with FULL confidence that our trouble isn't me.  That I tried.  That I had faith and hope and love in my heart, albeit small, rational, apprehension.  That I was willing to forgive and even forget if the behavior truly changed.  And then I smiled because I realized I didn't need her approval.  I didn't need her love anymore.  Sure it would be great to have a mom I could send flowers to and talk about my life with, but I was whole without it. And I didn't need to play this game with her.  I didn't need to correct the false things she said, or submit to her bullshit on the glimmer of hope for another apologetic talk down the road. Because the truth is the things she had said to me that weekend, the validation, the promises of a better future, all of it, were things I had needed a long time ago from her.  But in their absence, I eventually created peace for myself somewhere along the way. Through therapy, I had put it to rest. I already knew I wasn't unlovable.  My self-esteem didn't hinge on her approval.  I didn't need her to apologize for or acknowledge any of the things she'd done because *I* knew they happened.  *I* knew they were wrong.  And *I* knew they weren't my fault.

I am daughter, hear me roar.

I replied, knowing full well it would result in falling out number 28,975, and completely at peace with that. I told her I felt she was ignoring me again, because of how many times I had had to repeat myself.  I told her I thought her behavior was manic, the constant communication wasn't normal and spoke to a deeper problem.  I told her it sucked that she went back on everything she'd promised about not trash-talking my father, and that she seemed to be doing the same old thing of seeking mothering from me rather than being my mom. I told her I wasn't angry, and that I would still be there in any time of crisis for her and especially my sister.  And then instead of blocking her, as I might have in the past to protect myself from abuse, I gave her an opportunity to correct it.  I didn't want to have any regrets. The reply I got was almost immediate.

In it, she explained that she was in fact removing me from my sister's guardianship because she feels I am an ungrateful loser who has psych problems and needs to be on meds. That my aunt was right but she didn't have the guts to tell me that to my face because she didn't want to hurt me.  (lol) And, well, so much of the same diatribes from the past that it's unnecessary and repetitive to illustrate. Later that night, I opened a picture text from her which was the will she had shown me, ripped into pieces. I just shook my head, blocked her, and laughed out loud.

Little does she realize, these behaviors won't put me in my place as I'm sure she believes.  They won't make me submit and cower and give in to her way or the highway.  Instead, I now see them for what they are: desperate acts from a sick person.  It's not my fault.  I didn't deserve it, and I am still, regardless of what she thinks says and feels, a valid person worthy of love.

Now excuse me while I write a thank you note to my therapist... ;)

An open letter to those "Blessed with great parents"...

Dear Person with an Average to Happy Childhood,

First off, congratulations! You, through the blessing of one or more good parents, are likely fairly well-adjusted.  Chances are, you have a decent sense of self, and know that you've got a comfy spot to park your tush around the family table every holiday season. When you look back on your life as a child, you think of it fondly.  And you rest your head at night knowing that your loving caretaker(s) did the best they could.

Statistically, you are in the grateful majority.  According to the U.S. Department of Health & Human Services: Children's Bureau, only 1% of U.S. children are found to be the victims of child abuse by social services each year. Granted, these numbers only represent cases which are both reported, and substantiated, but in any case, the ratio of abused children to well-treated children is a huge one, leaning far over to your side of the Happy-Childhood spectrum.

So I can see, with great folks like yours and the statistics, why you might not be able to fathom the thought of a person deliberately avoiding their parents as adults. I mean with what you experienced first hand and the numbers on your side, maybe you think people like me who have decided to be estranged from their parent as adults are ungrateful, whiny and read way too many self-indulgent pop psych books. Surely, I need to get over myself, eat a big fat slice of humble pie, and call my mother already.  After all, she's the only one I've got.

Let's rewind a little bit here.  I'm making assumptions that you have no trouble with your parents at all, aren't I? And how fair is that? I don't even know you. Maybe you are able to recognize mistakes they made, but unlike me, you've practiced forgiveness and unconditional love. You know that your parents aren't perfect, and see their flaws.  Maybe they even whipped you, and you, being a reasonable person, know that this wasn't abuse, but healthy discipline. And you don't let it stop you from browsing the Mother's Day section of a Hallmark store, unable to decide which card your mom will love the most. Because in the end, you know that your parent saw your flaws and loved you anyway. They bathed you, diapered you, fed you and kept a roof over your head.  What more could you have asked for? The least you can do as an adult is give them the respect and love they not only deserve, but earned. And I would suppose you believe I should do the same.

Now what if I told you that your unconditional love is a lot more conditional than you might realize?

Hear me out, please. What if, that roof that stayed over your head as a child, also held a lot of secrets? Secrets like physical punishment that went beyond discipline and into the realms of abuse.  Or secrets like sexual abuse.  Or others like constant yelling, cutting remarks and put-downs toward you, a child.  What if you lived your early years in fear? I can assure you, the color of your decision on which card to buy at Hallmark won't be "Which one will make mom the happiest and show her how much I love her?" it will instead be "Which card can I buy that won't make me die a little on the inside with it's frilly lies that don't really apply?"

The reality is, I don't know you.  And you don't know me. But the difference between the two of us is that I don't expect you to adhere to my values, and I don't judge you for your decisions without all the important information. I don't invalidate your choices and experiences because they aren't mirroring my own. You, and larger society, however, do frequently judge, invalidate and offend me.

You don't know that the reason I keep my mother blocked from emailing me is because if I don't, I can expect a roughly 50 line email outlining what a loser she believes I am, about every 2-3 months. You don't know that the reason I don't bother to call my mom on Mother's Day is partly because she's forgotten my last 14 birthdays. And you don't know how painful the phrase "Love your mother, she is the only one you have" is.  As if I needed reminding that I grabbed the proverbial short straw when Destiny was assigning parents. Any kind of mother is not better than no mother at all.  Not in my case anyway. Having a relationship with my mother at this age means me accepting silently her verbal and emotional abuse.  It means my total submission to her controlling and erratic behavior. It means me giving up my own voice, my own life, my own dreams, and living life in service of her. And perhaps that wouldn't be so bad if this was something she's only grown to become as we both got older.  But the truth is, my mom was never a source of comfort and love for me.  In fact, I spent most of my time under her roof and beyond wondering what was wrong with me that my own mother would treat me so badly. And it took me 31 years and a lot of expensive therapy to realize that it wasn't.

When I was 10 years old, I was an A student.  I was on the elementary school cheer squad. I had a lot of friends.  The time I spent away from home was happy, and aside from maybe talking in class a little too much, I was rarely reprimanded for my behavior by other authority figures.  When I would ride my bike home from school, I remember taking my time, trying to drag out my freedom as long as possible.  Because I knew what was waiting for me: a parent whose mood would go from one extreme to another and I never knew if it was a good or bad day until after it was already too late. There were times when I was slapped in the face while the front door still swung open because I'd forgotten to take out the trash in the morning before I'd left for school.  My mom bought groceries, yes, but never cooked me a meal once I was tall enough to see over the stove. The soundtrack of my childhood was, in part, punctuated by sexual noise coming from the wall her bedroom shared with mine, with many numbers of men.

During my teen years, my mom drilled it into my head that I needed to make something of myself and go to college.  When it came time for SAT prep and touring campuses however, I was on my own.  My mom had other priorities. During my senior and junior years of high school, I wasn't even sure if I'd have a place to sleep every night.  By now she didn't slap me around anymore, because I'd outgrown her, instead she'd let me know I was in trouble by changing the locks so I couldn't come inside.  And I know a little something about those statistics I mentioned above....how few instances of neglect and abuse are reported and how even when they are, it doesn't always stop.  Throughout my childhood there were 4 CPS reports (that I know of) filed by my out-of-state father, teachers, friend's parents and neighbors.  Once, when I was 17, I called the cops myself after she'd changed the locks on me for the umpteenth time.  This officer saw my mom give him the bird through our front door window with his own eyes, and hours later at the police station after my mother came in there crying and claiming I had run away and she was oh-so-worried about me? He lectured me on respecting my mom.  His words still circled in my head when I felt the sting of her back-handing me for snitching her out, once we were in the car and away from his view. You have no idea how inaccurate those statistics truly are.

When I finally did graduate college after having left home, I asked her to come to celebrate with me.  She told me she couldn't travel out of state at the time because she had a life threatening colon condition and needed surgery the same week.  When I walked the stage, her condition was in the forefront of my mind and I worried very much about her health and knew in my heart she'd have been there if she could.  Two months later, I found out from a friend of hers that her health was fine.  The surgery she'd had was lap-band, and she wouldn't reschedule it because it was 6 months to the day from when she wanted to be bikini ready for a vacation she'd planned in Mexico. #Priorities

My humble request is simply this: Stop guilting me about my estrangement from her. Take a step back from your living Norman Rockwell and understand that others of us grew up Pollock-style, full of instability and chaos.  And applying your values to my life is not only insensitive, but incredibly harmful in that it plays into the abuse I received.

Us abuse survivors? We're pretty good at beating up on ourselves.  Thanks to our upbringings, we learned it was one of life's greatest past times to run through our minds a constant stream of negativity and self-bashing. As adults, we are guilt tripped by every corner of society.  Religion tells us to Honor Thy Mother and Father, mass media reminds us of holidays meant for revering parents, and a trip down any Facebook newsfeed will contain any number of references to a "Mother's Love" that might as well be written in a font called SHAME. I'm not asking you to stop loving your own parents. (In fact, are they looking to adopt a 32 year old? I'm housebroken!) I'm asking you to stop telling me to love mine.

But maybe you think I'm coming from a place of anger, resentment and vindictiveness. Maybe you think that one day, when she dies perhaps, that I will regret my decision to keep my distance.  And maybe you're right.  It's hard to say for sure.  But I know I won't regret learning to untangle the negative thoughts she cemented in my psyche.  And I know from many experiences of giving it another shot with her time and time again, that I'm always left broken and beaten in the end. It has always been more painful for me to have a relationship with her than it is to not have one.

I'd like to make something crystal clear: I want a mom. More than I could ever express through words. I am so unbelievably jealous of people who have good relationships with their moms. Watching television shows and movies which highlight good parenting hurt like you wouldn't believe.  It is a shot right in the feels and a constant reminder of how I never had, nor will ever have, that from my own mom. And that's the kind of feeling that's been known to make it tough to want to get up out of bed in the morning. But no matter how long I spend away from her, the yearning for a loving, unconditional, maternal figure never. ever. goes away. I have found wonderful substitutes throughout the years but there is always something left to be desired.  Society tells us a mother loves her own children like no one else, so no matter who I find that maternal depth with, they will never be the person who brought me into the world.  The one who was supposed to love me.

Here's the thing though: I can't do a damn thing about that.  I can't make my mother love me.  I can't make her proud of me.  I can't make her approve of me, I can't make her feel regret, remorse, anything.  I. just. can't.

So please, next time you find yourself in a conversation where as the subject of parents are brought up, the other person shifts their weight uncomfortably and mumbles "we're estranged" don't give them "the look."  The look you get when you imagine your own amazing parent and how disgusting you feel even considering being estranged from them.  Instead, practice compassion and hug them.  Make a mental note to remember to hug your own parent/s the next time you see them.

Remember when you post that meme around Mother's Day on Facebook that for some of your friends, however few, it feels like a bullet to see that in their newsfeed.  And whatever you do, please, for the love of all that is holy, do not attempt to help reconcile us.  Chances are, we've tried more than a dozen different techniques of forgiveness by the time we finally chose to go no contact with them. Chances are, we spent years blaming ourselves.  And while our first mental reaction might very well be "shut up, you don't know what you're talking about" within minutes, hours or days, that little conversation will bring up years of doubt, regret and shame.  And it will likely take us days or weeks of living in that "Maybe they've changed, maybe I've changed, maybe this time it could be better." mindset.  And whether we reach out or not, we're forced to suffer the grief of losing a parent we never had, all over again.  I know you've never had to go through that, but please, put on your empathy hat when relating to those of us who have.  It's all I ask.

Sincerely,

-An Adult Child Abuse Survivor

Narcissistic Objectification and Dehumanization

Look to your immediate right and find a small object.  Perhaps it's a pencil, your phone, a bottle of water or a remote control.  In my case, it's a can of Cherry Coke. Now pick up that object and consider its feelings. What are its hopes and dreams? How could you best support its time on earth in a positive and constructive way? Ask yourself if you've ever abused it.  If so, apologize to it sincerely and make up for your past transgressions toward it. Empathize with it.

By now you should be feeling a little ridiculous and wondering why you've allowed some blogger to turn your normally rational self into a crazy person who has heartfelt conversations with inanimate objects.  And rightfully so, after all, objects don't have feelings, or hopes or dreams. They don't require companionship and support from their owners to become well-adjusted.  If you angrily toss a pen on the table during a frustrating call with your bank, it doesn't leave an emotional scar and require treatment to alleviate its PTSD.

And just as I view my Cherry Coke can as something to feed my sweet tooth and later to be discarded or recycled per my wishes at the time of my choosing; it is exactly how narcissists view the people around them.

We are things, used to serve their purposes. Whatever feelings or needs we may have are either completely unimportant, or are up to the discretion of the narcissists in our lives to decide if serving our needs will also benefit them.  If not, we are ignored, abused or discarded. Just as non-narcissistic people view the objects in their lives.

Now, some of us are better than others at taking care of the things we've accumulated in our lifetimes. And we own objects of different values. For example, while this open can of Cherry Coke next to me isn't likely to remain in my possession beyond recycle pick-up day, I have a music box that was given to me by my late grandmother as a child which I have carefully dusted once a week for nearly 3 decades in every home I have ever lived in. It's the thing I would grab if my house caught on fire and I would be devastated if anything ever happened to it. But it's still an "it."  No, I may not have ever abused it, and have kept from neglecting it, but surely not for its own needs.  Rather, my own desire to see it remain as pretty as it was when I was a child (and to keep a dust-free home) is why I tend to it so diligently.  I do not clean it so that it may flourish emotionally and I don't keep it on a safe shelf so it won't "die."  I keep it in a safe place so *I* will not suffer its loss.  Again, my own needs preempt the needs of the object. And I feel zero empathy for it.

Similarly, narcissists will place different values on the people in their lives that they have objectified.

Some will be kept in safer places so they are not damaged by every day activity (such as outright meanness, abuse and cruelty) because their untarnished presence helps the narcissist to feel as if they can care for something. Like an old High School Letterman jacket that's kept safe but only ever seen when the owner is feeling nostalgic.  Examples would be those who are kept under the narcissists benign yet somewhat relaxed control, and enable the narcissist passively.  These are the people objects which the narcissist shelves, only to be brought out at a time of need but are otherwise ignored.

Others will be kept in plain view for the rest of the world to see and will be touted by the narcissist as their most prized possession, and are also not likely to suffer direct abuse at their hands and even treated with an aura of protection by the narcissist. Think of this as a priceless antique vase kept on an entry way table for guests to comment on immediately after entering a home, or more generally as status symbols. As people, these are the "trophies."  Sometimes they are Golden Children, celebrity friends, highly successful relatives, over-achieving children and attractive, fit spouses. While they might not suffer cruelties, they are still however seen as objects.  They are still, in the narcissists eyes, *things* which give the narcissist a sense of importance and value. They are not humans with needs and feelings, they are show pieces meant to be seen by the rest of the world as proof of the narcissist's significance. And should the vase get a chip in it or the trophy person lose value, they will be quickly discarded and/or replaced without empathy.

Some objects will be kept hidden away out of disgust, and saved only out of obligation.  Such as the hideous set of bookends you received from Aunt Ethel as a wedding gift which remains stashed in your closet until and unless she visits. These, as people, are the scapegoats.  The narcissist finds them offensive, ugly and a threat to their otherwise perfectly crafted lifestyle. They are frequently targets of verbal and emotional abuse.  Sometimes, physical.  And the narcissist is entirely justified in their stance, since after all, it is the object's fault for being so awful.

And lastly, there are the tools. These are objects high in the narcissist's favor because they directly serve the narcissist's immediate needs.  As people, they are the aggressive enablers, or the more commonly termed "Flying Monkeys."  They are the hammer that smashes the damaged trophy vase, or the ridiculing box marked "UGLY" which holds the scapegoated bookends. It's the credit card the purchases the replacement trophy object, and the moth-balls that keep the Letterman jacket from being destroyed by pests. They are all objects which the narcissist uses directly or indirectly to serve their greater purposes, and the tools willingly oblige for their own senses of designed purpose in hopes of one day becoming one of the narcissist's most prized possessions.

Every human being in the narcissist's life, is no more than inanimate object in their eyes. Just as you, a person, hold yourself in higher esteem and importance than that small object you talked to, the narcissist holds themself above all other humans the same way. Each of us have our place and our purpose in the narcissist's carefully designed life. Our needs are not considered unless they also serve the narcissist's greater needs. We are undeserving of apologies, love, respect and support. We are not personified enough in their minds to carry emotional scars at the hands of their abuse.

THIS, friends, is what the DSM-IV is referring to when it says that one of the markers of NPD is a lack of empathy.  It's extremely hard for those of us who do feel empathy to fathom what that might be like. But through understanding that a narcissist sees the people in their lives as dehumanized objects, we can begin to grasp their actions and/or apathy toward us.

We stop asking ourselves questions like: "Why didn't my mom ever apologize to me?" "Why did my brother do that to me and not even seem to feel guilty?" "Why did my father push me into that career, never asking what I wanted?" "Why did my husband forget my last three birthdays?" etc. and most importantly, we stop asking those questions of the narcissist's themselves, hoping for answers we need to hear, love we need to be shown and respect we desperately need to be given.  Because we finally comprehend that these deep desires in us are impossible for the narcissist to grant.

By compartmentalizing the Narcissist into this new view, we can break the cycle of dysfunction. We are freed to grieve the loss of knowing they will never see us as we actually are: worthy of love, respect and support. We are able to separate our opinions of ourselves from the opinions of us our narcs hold. We are able to see that we didn't deserve the abuses we endured, we weren't unlovable and we weren't as devalued as they's made us feel.  And we are able to distance ourselves from their disordered personalities, knowing we are not like them and can stop comparing how we behave as a bar for how they should behave. It allows us the liberation of understanding that the way they see us, and the world around them, is WRONG, disturbed and something to avoid.

But What If I'm the Abusive One?

Language adapted from Lundy Bancroft's blog from abusive "partners" to "parents."

Spending time with an abusive parent can become a twisted world where bad is good, down is up, and wrong is right. Many people over the years have said to me, “My parent tells me that I’m the one abusing them. They have said it so many times that I start to wonder if they're right. How do I know if it’s them or me?"

We can look at some ways to answer that question, but first I would like you to read a few concepts, taking a deep breath after each one so that you can absorb it.

One: You are not responsible for their behavior. You do not make them do things. Their actions are their own choice.

Breathe.

Two: You deserve to be treated well even when you make mistakes, and even if you make them a lot.

Breathe.

Three: Setting firm, clear limits for how your parent is allowed to treat you is not the same thing as controlling them, and should not be called control.

Breathe.

Four: Choosing to not always put your parent’s needs ahead of your own does not constitute hurting them, wronging them, or being selfish. You have the right to give substantial priority to your own needs and desires.

Breathe.

Five: If you scream and yell once in a while that does not mean that you are crazy or abusive (though they may say so). It depends on whether you are yelling degrading things, whether your parent is intimidated by you, whether you are yelling to control them (versus yelling to resist their control), and many other factors.

Breathe.

These five concepts cover most of the situations where angry and controlling parents try to turn the tables on their children. If you work on digesting each point, they will have a much harder time convincing you that you are really the one with the problem.

But I haven’t really answered your question yet. You may still wonder, “But what if they really aren't the destructive one, and I am? How would I know?” Here’s how:

* They're kind to you most of the time, and treat you reasonably decently even when they're mad or upset with you.

* They take responsibility for their own actions, not frequently blaming them on you or on stress or other excuses. And they don't get scary.

* They have asked you repeatedly, and in a decent and thoughtful way (not in a stream of put-downs) to change specific behaviors of yours, and you seem to keep returning to doing those things they have asked you not to do.

* They have shown willingness to work on things you want them to work on, and have taken real steps regarding those issues (not just making promises).

If all of the above points are true then, okay, maybe you need to look at your treatment of them. But otherwise – and I’m willing to bet your situation falls into the “otherwise” category – your parent is doing what so many abusive parents do, which is turning things into their opposites in order to have even more weapons to hammer you with.

Lundy Bancroft, adapted by C.G. all rights to the original author.  

Lundy Bancroft is the author of Why Does He Do That?: Inside the Minds of Angry and Controlling Men. I personally feel this work is the abuse Bible and although it may seem to only apply to it's intended audience (women experiencing abuse in romantic relationships), the themes of entitlement, manipulation and abuse are universal to all abuse survivors. I recently reached out to him asking if he ever thought about writing a book for adult child abuse survivors, and his response is as follows:

"I feel like I don't know enough about abusive parents (except for men who abuse women and also abuse the kids) to write a book about it. I have thought sometimes about writing a book about children's rights which I feel more qualified to write (since I am a former child but not a child abuse survivor). Maybe that would be a way to get at a lot of the same issues, but from a slightly different angle."

Regardless, with small mental adaptations for the words "Partner" for "Parent" in his existing work, you may find great clarity and understanding by reading his books. I highly recommend them.