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.
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!
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.
To read all about the narcy-cray-cray that permeated every facet of our wedding, please click here!
There's a famous cliche: "If it looks like a duck, walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it is a frickin' duck." And if it looks like jealousy, walks like jealousy and talks like jealousy, it is frickin' jealousy.
Of course, I couldn't believe it myself! Who would? What normal parent would be insanely jealous of their own child?! I never expected it and I certainly didn't want it. But there it was: jealousy. As plain as the nose on my face.
It all started just after puberty. I was fourteen when Mom first accused me of trying to "be cute" (translation: seductive) for my own father.
Two years later, it was Dad who turned green around the gills.
Click here to read my newest Huffington Post article, Parents Who Are Jealous of Their Kids.
It was Mom who taught me the Granny Two-Step. She’d been polishing her dance steps since her birth. She had to…if she wanted to be loved and accepted by her mother.
Disclaimer: The Granny Two-Step is predicated on lying, clairvoyance, being intimidated, greed and “to thine own self being untrue.” Dance at your own risk!
Want to learn it!? Okay, okay! You twisted my arm! Maestro? Music, if you please!
Up on your toes now. Step forward gracefully, one step at a time, threading your way gingerly through conversation with Grandma. Your clairvoyance at fever pitch. Your intuition trembling like a cat’s whisker, sensitive to the most subtle (but usually blatant) judgmentalism emanating from Grandma.
Ooops! Said the wrong thing! Hit a Grandma Land Mine (GLM)!
Quick! Take two-steps backwards, bowing from the waist, clumsily backtracking and trying to convincingly eating your words to get back into Grandma’s good graces. Her opinion of you is paramount. Authenticity be damned!
Now, up on your toes again. Take another step forward. Damn! Said the wrong thing again! Hit another GLM.
Two steps backwards, kissing Grandma’s ass.
And that, my dears, is how you dance the Granny Two-Step!
To read the whole article, click here! Believe me...it gets better!
She’s cute, sweet and has wrinkles in all the right places. She’s always weeping into her instant decaf, wondering why the shards of her broken family lie in ruins around her. She’s your quintessential granny — with a catch.
She’s also a narcissist...
Fiber optics has nothing on Grandma. She’s the original Gossip Information Superhighway. Her narcissism feeds on gossip. The slightest thing she disapproves of, the merest variance from how she does it better (i.e. not recycling tomato paste cans or having a speck of dust anywhere) gives her fodder for her non-existent self-esteem. (But more about that in Parts 2 and 3! Subscribe for instant notification!)
Unfortunately, gossiping about her son to her daughter (Scapegoat) and about her daughter to her son (Golden Child) destroyed the family. Oh, there were other dynamics at play, but the tale-carrying played a huge role in the Golden Child suddenly going “No Contact” with the Scapegoat.
And that, in itself, is another source of narcissistic supply! How she sobs into her decaf, bewailing her broken family, playing the victim-card to the hilt.
Got a narcissistic granny too? Read all about the endless bullshit here!
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!
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.