 On our fourth wedding anniversary, I remember back to the blissful day we said “I Do”…and how familial narcissism permeated our wedding and marriage from the very start.
Pre-Wedding Meddling Sure, I understand that all parents care deeply about their child’s choice of spouse. That’s part of normalcy. But meddling…that’s another story. It’s not okay for a father to angrily call at 7:30 p.m., demanding his almost 32-year-old daughter leave her first date with her future husband and “go home.” That’s not caring. It’s jealous and creepy. It’s fine for a mother to pose questions for consideration about her daughter’s future spouse, but the answers are none of her business. That’s nosey. It’s not okay for a father to try to brainwash his daughter by confidently stating, “You’re just infatuated with him.” And it’s not okay for a mother to tell her daughter what she can and cannot tell her husband. We’re supposed to be One. Leave and cleave, baby. That means no frickin’ secrets! WOW! Narcissistic Control at the Wedding Our wedding was scheduled for 9 a.m. The guests showed up at 8 a.m., looking very disapproving that the bride was not yet ready. She was eating a bagel. Around 8:30 a.m., my soon-to-be father-in-law had enough with this waiting around. “Well, let’s get this over with,” he said. So romantic. (Yes, Sheldon. That is sarcasm.) So we were married half an hour early, so he could rush back to his recliner and baseball. WOW! To read all about the narcy-cray-cray that permeated every facet of our wedding, please click here!
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 Who owns you? Yeah, you heard me right. Owns you. If you’re in a relationship with a narcissistic, they do. Lock, stock and barrel. Owned.
I know. I was there. Just Waltz Right In That’s what narcissists do, you know. They waltz right in to every facet of our being. And I mean every. The word “boundaries” is anathema to them. Say “boundary” to a narc and they snarl like Smeagol in Lord of the Rings, “We hates ’em, Precious! Smeagol hates nasty boundaries!” Oh, they hates ’em alright. I’ll never forget the time I asked for some privacy during those few moments each day when I was shivering out of my bathrobe and into my lingerie. Yeah, that lasted for about two days. Then it was back to “same ol’, same ol’.” She just had to empty my bedroom wastebasket every day at that exact time. There was no other time in twenty-four hours when it could possibly be done. Uh-huh. Or there was the time I got kinda’ tired of being interrogated with, “Whatcha’ eating?” every single frickin’ night. Wow! Judging by the hell I caught attempting to set that boundary (“Why!?! What are you trying to hide?), you’d have thought I was trying to sneak lobster and King Crab past ’em. And that boundary I tried to set to stop that gross earlobe nibbling because damn it! I was in my twenties…yeah, that one kept getting violated too. Click here to read the full article on PsychCentral!  He (or she) is the neighbor you secretly call
“The A**hole.” He’s always shoveling your snow or mowing your grass because you simply don’t do it right! He’s your friendly Neighborhood Narcissist or “NN” as I like to call him (or her). Join me over at PsychCentral in a chuckle at his expense.  Reading old emails exchanged with my captors makes me sick. Nauseated. Loquacious lovey-dovey’s and toe-curling coo’s drip from our email conversations. The contrast between our communication back then is in stark contrast to the barbs and silences now. It’s contradictory. Crazy-making. Stockholm Syndrome overwhelmed me again last night, wracking my frame with guttural sobs. As tears poured down my cheeks, a voice I barely recognized as my own cried, “What did I do that was so bad? What happened to all the love? Why did they do all this shit to me? Did they ever love me at all? Did I ever truly love them? Did they ever have empathy for me?” Click here to find out! Lenora Thompson writes a great blog...she's been there, seen that, and lived to tell the tales. - Facebook friend  Then there was the day Grandma faked a heart attack and the time she sent the Sheriff to do a “welfare check” on me. Classic! Quintessential narcissistic tactics. Shoulda’ seem ’em coming. But I didn’t.
These two tales stand out in my memory among many tales of narcissistic nincompoopery. For years, I thought they were must Grandma being weird. But in my online research about narcissism, I ran across tales of other narcissists pulling the same shit. If they can’t get their way, they’ll suddenly develop chest and arm pain. If they’re wrong, they get shortness of breath. If they’re not the center of attention, they’ll pull ye olde heart attack stunt and start popping nitro. Anything to steal the limelight, especially at other people’s weddings, parties, etc. And police welfare checks? It turns out that’s a quintessential narcissist tactic too. Click here to read all about the shit my grandmother's pulled in Part 3 of the "Granny Trilogy"! http://blogs.psychcentral.com/narcissism/2016/02/narcissistic-granny-faking-a-heart-attack-manipulating-police-pt-3-of-3/  Helicopter parents seem to have a microscope turned on their child. Wait! Take a second look. That isn't a microscope they're holding. Well, I'll be danged! It's a mirror. They think they're seeing their child, when actually, they're seeing themselves!
My parents were both helicopter parents, and I think I know why. You see, my father is a narcissist. That means he has no self-esteem. He compensates by confusing me with himself. He buoys his non-existent self-esteem by attaining higher and higher levels of excellence as a parent. My successes are his successes. Logically, it follows that my failures are his failures. With zero self-esteem to fall back on, he couldn't tolerate the pain and shame of any failure on my part. Hence the helicoptering. To protect himself more than me. And it nearly ruined my life. Click here for the "reverse engineering" of helicoptering parent to see how it ruins children's lives! http://www.psy-ed.com/wpblog/helicopter-parent/  Beware the religious narcissist.
They speak with the omniscient voice of God. Wield the sword of His judgment. Brandish the rod of His power. They wear the mantle of His righteousness. They goin’ straight to Heaven, baby. And you, you back-slidden heathen? Well, you ain’t! Exploitation of Holy Scripture is at its finest when you give a narcissist a Bible. In fact, all cult leaders have narcissistic tendencies. You can take it to the bank! My narcissists “got religion” in 1980. Or so they claimed. Uh huh, whatever. Read all about it here! http://blogs.psychcentral.com/narcissism/2016/01/religious-narcissist-cult/  Cringe-worthy. Kinda weird. Definitely uncomfortable. But also, flattering. My emotions ran this gamut every Tuesday and Sunday evening, the times Dad demanded I schedule to be spent, alone, with him. Playing music together. Gossiping about his wife/my mother to me. Pawing, I mean, patting me.
On the one hand, I felt flattered (and guilty!) that he seemed to like me better than my mother, his wife of thirty years. We bonded over the pain and frustration her paranoia, her menopausal idiosyncrasies and her über-control caused us. On the other hand, I never felt comfortable around the man. His rages terrified me. His depressions worried me. His teasing wounded me. His hands hurt me. And the way his eyes constantly followed me freaked me out. He never seemed comfortable in his own skin. Never had any friends. Nor many hobbies. But he was my dad. And we were supposed to be “close,” right? Read all about the rottenness called Covert Incest by clicking here! http://blogs.psychcentral.com/narcissism/2016/01/narcissism-covert-incest/ To hear a discussion of the article on the Stop Child Abuse Now radio show, click here!  Please Note: This situation ended with my "escape" in 2011. I appreciate all of your concerns and kind notes, but I'm out! I'm free! I'm happy and married. Please see About for more details about my NEW life. Thanks!
Welcome to a day in my world. It's 2008. I'm twenty-eight years old and a respected, successful IT Business Analyst. Nevertheless, I still live with my parents...and it's eating me alive. I want so much to have my own home. A beautiful haven where I can be warm, take hot showers every day, go to bed whenever I want, cook delicious meals and enjoy my life. Best of all, with a home of my own I'd finally feel completely grown up. But we've talked about it and it's absolutely forbidden. “We haven't worked so hard on you just to throw you to the wolves,” they say. I know they think I'll turn into a whore without them, and can't make wise decisions on my own. And it's destroying my self-esteem. Of course, none of my relatives nor co-workers know I'm forbidden to move out. They just think I'm weird.  Image courtesy of David Castillo Dominici at FreeDigitalPhotos.net Find the weakest, sweetest woman alive. This is imperative or nothing wonderful can come of the system for breaking your woman's psyche I'm about to relate.
Let's get down to brass tacks, shall we? The ideal woman comes from an abusive home. If you're lucky, one or both of her parents will hale from the narcissist camp. She'll come to your arms broken in, broken down...just plain broken. The perfect foil to your dramas. A playground for your brainwashing and mind control. A child woman who was never allowed to fully mature, thanks to her narcissistic mama. A cat-on-a-hot-tin-roof ripe and ready for Stockholm Syndrome. And best of all, she'll never, and I mean never stand up to you. Now that's a woman you can fall in love with! |