Some may tell me to call you ‘mom’, but in my eyes you’ll never earn that title. A mother is supposed to love and nurture, but in my experience you’ve never expressed either of those things in my direction.
It’s currently 6am, and I’ve already massively lost my shit at you. Yesterday it was barely past 8am. Day before that I first saw you at around 3:30pm, and it took you all of 60 seconds for you to start. I see we’re running on an earlier schedule today.
I fell into the position of being your full-time carer over a year ago, when dad became too ill to put up with your shit any more. When he became too ill to hold a conversation was the only time you stopped mentally abusing him and, in turn, the only reason he stopped mentally abusing me. He was a good man and you verbally beat it out of him until he became someone who hated you, himself and, in turn, me. I became the emotional punching bag for the both of you, while my sister got the mask; the smiles, the manners and the affection.
I don’t know exactly what I did as a child to deserve regular beatings while my sister got none. I have no memory of what I could’ve done that was so bad at the age of six that you routinely made fake phone calls to ‘the children’s home’ and threatened to have me sent away. I am still confused as to why you would shrug it off when I told you my sister had hit me, but if I hit back I got in trouble for being violent.
The only time I ever heard you say ‘I love you’ was sarcastically, when you wanted me to do something for you. ‘But you love your mom, right?’ That emotional manipulation is the only experience I ever had of your weird kind of “love”. Except that isn’t love. You wouldn’t know love if it jumped up and slapped you in the face. Sadly, because of that, neither would I.
I still remember the day I’d had minor foot surgery as a teenager. I was shuffling to the pharmacy with you, funny looking shower cap socks on my bandaged feet to keep them clean. You stood on my foot. Being a teenager, I grumbled about how it hurt and oh my god, moooom. I was only thirteen, I was neck-deep in puberty and severe bullying at school. I was miserable and hadn’t yet learned to understand the underlying hatred I had for you. Your half-baked apology wasn’t immediately accepted so you said ‘well fine, I hope it hurt, I’m glad’.
I still can’t believe that for most of my life, Narcissist, I didn’t realise that none of this was normal, nor was your behaviour my fault.
You may never read this, Narcissist. Hell, if you did I wouldn’t be surprised if absolutely none of it rang a bell. Your truth, your reality, is completely fluid. You’re like a magician; you can bend events of the past and facts to your will. I remember when dad went through his narc-phases (usually after you had worn him down, as was your typical cyclic behaviour) he would take it out on me so badly. I took up too much space in the fridge (despite only being allowed one shelf). I wasn’t allowed to keep any belongings outside of my bedroom (but my bedroom was untidy, how useless I was). I remember the day he took down one of only two photos of me among the dozen pictures of my golden child sister and her kids, to put up another photo of the kids. When I raised it, he said it was ‘an accident’.
Your own behaviour coming out of his mouth. What did you do to him, Narc?
Those moments? You remember, Narc? You used to say things like ‘I’ve never said a bad word about you,’ and ‘I’ve done nothing but praise you, your whole life and stand up for you’. Why did I not realise until later that this was your fluid history, your fluid truth. I mean, I knew it was a lie. The fat jokes, the beatings, the insults about my looks, my clothes, my hobbies and my friends, telling me to go live on the street, calling me a freeloader the day I lost my job in 2013… did they not happen? Was I imagining it all? No. Definitely not. Or was I?
That is your skill, Narc. If you could get paid for it, you’d be a billionaire by now. You’re a master of puppets. Even Columbo couldn’t fathom what sack of cats you fell out of.
I close this letter, dear Narc, to say that I know your game and I’m removing my piece from the board. I’m refusing to play any more. It’s physically, emotionally and mentally killing me. The four days of relief I recently had when you went into hospital made me realise that I am losing my self. Just like dad did. He became a horrible, bitter shell of what was once a calm, good humoured man.
I’m cutting off your supply, Narc. You’ll get no more from me, you emotional vampire.
Not your daughter