The Adult Child Of a Narcissit

Oxford dictionaries define the word narcissist as, “a person who has an excessive interest in, or admiration of themselves.” Narcissists think the world revolves around them. They are often described as ego-driven. A therapist told me that leaving a narcissistic relationship, or removing that person from your life, is one of the hardest battles we have as humans (it has been a year since speaking with my mother). Being an empath makes that even more difficult.

I didn’t know my biological father growing up. The men that attempted to fulfill that role never stayed. My sisters (all 5 of them) had relationships with their fathers, while I did not. When relationships went south, it was my fault. My step father was verbally and physically abusive, and that was my fault. I would ask about my dad a lot as a young child, but her choice in men was not my responsibility.

When the childhood trauma came, I felt like she was protecting me from harsh reality. Looking back, I know that she could not go through pressing charges. It had nothing to do with me; she was scared. I cannot fathom turning someone else’s pain, especially your children’s, into your own.

Music helped me escape. Grade school brought opportunity for friends. I started playing the horn and excelled. It brought solace and control to my life. Routine and structure finally became tangible. As I got older, I got better. Private lessons, competitions, and concerts filled my days. At one point, it was my fault we struggled financially, because those things required money.

Alcoholism is a huge part of this story. Friends didn’t come over after school; she was usually drunk by then. My sisters and I would watch TV and I would make dinner. If anything disturbed her, switches would be flipped. Power, TV, etc. would be cut off. Sometimes my horn would be locked in a closet as punishment for something I did. There were several professional groups in which I played, during my senior year of high school. Borrowing horns from my band director was the norm.

As an adult woman, there is unrelenting fear of being alone. When there is turbulence in life, I must apologize, as anything that occurs must be my fault. There is guilt; when a relationship fails, or even when I make a minor mistake. I should have done better. These mistakes may be taking too long to cook dinner for a guest, or forgetting something at work. We all deal with being our own worst enemies, but the child of a narcissist takes the cake.

My patience is extremely low. If a text doesn’t get answered, it’s because I’m not important enough to warrant a reply. If not invited out with friends, it’s because they don’t like me. I’ve done something wrong in most situations, because, it’s always been my fault. The need for structure is obsessive. Everything in life needs an itinerary. The week is planned and if one task or event doesn’t follow that plan, the world crumbles. Expectations are set, and then resented.

Relationships are difficult; fear of failure fights with hope in long-term companionship. Things go well and I wonder when the “other shoe” is going to drop. Often I will drop all the baggage on a potential partner’s lap, to see if he can take it. It’s a game of poker, and I’m all in. Here are my cards. Will you fold, or accept the challenge? One of us inevitably walks away. They can’t handle me, or maybe I self-sabotage. They don’t know how to emotionally support someone who has a need for validation. I was raised by a woman who would move across the country over a man. It has made me a flight risk. I cut and run. I start arguments. The littlest of things make me cry and wonder what is wrong with me, asking myself why I’m so unsuccessful in love.

It is a daily battle to feel “enough.” Nothing has ever been enough. My mother never told me I was beautiful. She never reminded me of my inner strength. It was always, “Do better.” Creating these personal thoughts of support internally is nearly impossible. Believing in something that never existed in my life is like fighting a bully. “You’re beautiful, but not as beautiful as her.” “You’re smart, but look at this person who is your age; they’re doing so much more with their life.”

Acknowledging these emotional behaviors is the first step of improvement. Retraining the heart isn’t easy. It takes work. It takes a village; surrounding ourselves with cheerleaders. I’m so fortunate to have a tribe of empowering, strong, women in my life. Sometimes it takes being told, “You are beautiful,” to buy in. We have to hope for a life without insecurities. Some days it works, some days it doesn’t. This life isn’t a sprint; it is a marathon. There may be something to the saying, “slow and steady.” My eyes stay focused on independence from guilt and emotional insecurities. It’s believing those around me love me for who I am. It’s living a life without internal doubt. Keep trudging this path.

We are enough, just for today.

I Have a Voice.

It must be really easy for some to just sweep things under the rug like they never happened. Sure, everyone tells white lies here and there, but the key word which changes the entire interpretation of the statement is the word easy.

I say this because of the startling statistics that go along with my post today:

20 percent of girls (1 in 5) and 8 percent of boys (1 in 12.5) will be sexually assaulted by their 18th birthday.

95% of these children will be abused by someone they know and trust (NAPCAN 2009).

Of those molested under the age of 6 years old, 50% were family members. These family members accounted for 23% of 12-17 year old survivors.

The above statistics were found in an online article from Huffington Post, dated 01/27/2017. Read the article here

My mother and I were on our own. She was a single Southern woman in South Jersey, trying to make it in the world. She worked long hours in an industry predominantly run by men. We were very close to an Italian family who looked after me while she did what was needed. We spent what seemed like all of our free time there. Two of the kids became my Godparents, college-aged siblings.

The dad, let's call him "Uncle John," was an architect. I spent time in his downstairs drafting office, drawing while the adults socialized. My earliest memory of his visits are preschool, maybe 4 years old. Uncle John would come down, lock the door, sit me on his lap, and unzip.

I didn't say a word until I was in second grade, the week of my 8th birthday. It was 1991.

We had moved a few hours away, and a trip had been planned for me to visit with my Godmother..she was my best friend. She had the best dolls, the coolest car (a brand new Monte Carlo), and she was the most beautiful human I had ever seen. I loved every waking moment with her, but this time, I did not want to go. I didn't want to spend the weekend at Uncle John and Aunt Jane's house.

I don't know how long it took for my mother to pull the information out of me, but I do remember being terrified. Was I going to get into trouble? Were they going to be mad at me? I didn't want to tell anyone. I didn't know what to say.

Instead of charging ahead, full force at the justice system, my mother gave me a choice. She painted pictures of what family court would be like if we pressed charges. I was scared of facing anyone, especially in the light shown. Option two was much more appealing to me. We could move on, like nothing ever happened. We could pretend we never knew Uncle John and Aunt Jane, or any of their family. So, I hid. I 'acted as if.'

That's when the drinking started. I was sneaking my mother's wine and scotch regularly by the age of 12. She never noticed. I usually drank when she drank, which was often enough to know exactly when she would fall asleep and the leftovers were mine. At this point, there were 3 younger sisters in the picture as well. In hindsight I'm glad it was just me. If I had stayed silent in our home, who knows what may have happened. Would my sisters have been open to this?

I grew to resent my mother. For most of my young adult life I felt abandoned by her, by our extended family, by my Godmother who accused me of being a liar. None of it had made any sense to me. What child makes up a story like that? My alcoholism added just enough to be a recipe for disaster. I looked for solace in companionship anywhere I could find it. I had surrogate families, friends, relationships. I tried to forget. I ran away. I rebelled.

Therapy started in my early twenties, and I decided to visit Jersey. I spoke with a detective and we knew it wouldn't be easy to catch the dirty Uncle; I had no proof at this point. I made phone calls, tried to get him confessing on tape, with no luck. It devastated me. (The detective was wonderful, by the way. He believed me, which I think is what really mattered.) I had spoken of an outfit, a striped jumper that was wet when my mother and I left their house once. The detective kept reminding me how helpful that piece of clothing would have been. Sorry, sir. I wasn't thinking about a Lewinsky garment while at KinderKare in the mid-eighties.

When I spoke with Unlce John, his words were so odd to me. He'd said I was such a "vibrant young woman," and all he did was "try to love me." What preschool-aged child is described in such a way? It made absolutely no sense, and reaffirmed everything that I already knew - this man was a monster.

I reached out to Godmother; she was again appalled I had said anything about her dear old dad. I still wonder if he did anything to her or her four daughters. How many others were there? The truth is, I will never know. All I have now is the comfort that I survived. I was scarred for most of my life, but I know now; this does not define me. He knows, they know, and I know. It's been documented.

As I compose this, I still feel as if walking a tight rope. There is the part of me who wants to speak out, be strong, and stand with others who have experienced what I have. There is also a part that is terrified of the judgment which comes along with being a "victim." I don't need pity, apologies, etc. I need to feel better. There has to be something I can take from this. What is the learning experience?

For me, this whole thing has taught me that things happen to everyone. I used to think I was the only one; no one had been through anything as horrible as me. Woe is me, the victim! Why me? The crucial step for me is what I do after the horrific experiences occur. I can't wallow in self-pity or despair. I have to stay in the solution. I hope others can too. By sharing our experience, strength, and hope, we can all get through this together. I am no longer a victim. I am a survivor.

The Endo Battle

Looking back I can say the struggle started around 17; it was my junior year of high school. The cramps were so miserable I would stay home. The weird part was how long the pain lasted. It was like marbles were living in my guts for the week before...and then the week after.

I was not diagnosed with any pelvic pain issues for over 10 years. Honestly, I thought my cycles were just worse than the other girls' I knew, and left it at that. Sometimes I would have to lie on the bathroom floor and sleep, from the excruciating pain. They were just cramps, and I just had to deal with it. There were times that I woke up in literal pools of my own sweat.

They started to get worse in my late 20's. Something had changed. There were times the pain was so intense I would fall to the floor. I didn't have insurance, and was taken to the ER one night as a last resort. My friend thought I was rupturing cysts and I thought she was out of her mind. On the way, I listened to her tell me about a relative who'd lost the ability to have children as a result of things like this.

For 3 months straight, the ER doctors were telling me the same story - I had cramps. Take ibuprofen and midol. I had gone back repeatedly, as the pain was getting worse. During the last trip someone on staff thought it might be a good idea to do an ultrasound, where they saw a cyst had ruptured inside my right ovary. It was roughly the size of a large walnut. I was referred to the OB/GYN clinic and it was going to take forever to get in.

The first doctor was hesitant, with everything. She wrote a script for birth control and wiped her hands of me. When the pain did not go away, I called back. I was in tears with a nurse and had determined that I was going to show up if no answers were given. The nurse was so patient with me and asked, "Are you in the pelvic pain clinic?" She thought I had simply called the wrong number!

What. Clinic.

Apparently there was a pelvic pain clinic that one of the physicians ran (and still runs). I could not believe that after 6 months of bitching, crying, etc., I was just learning of this. She switched me over to the right people, and I was booked!

The first thing he accomplished that no one else did - thought in the solution. We were going to tackle what was going on and beat it. He was confident. First, birth control to keep the cysts from forming. He also thought I had endometriosis, and a condition called "interstitial cystitis." Basically, the basket weave of muscles in that area of mine were on permanent lock. Fortunately, though, I would feel a lot of relief with a modified diet.

We first had the standard surgery to confirm Endo, and it was done. The diet was the worst - low acid and gluten free! Let me tell you, it was difficult, but my body felt amazing.

It took some time finding the right type of birth control to fit my needs, but my new Doc was great. Mirena was the most difficult. I fainted leaving the office after "installation," and needed emergency removal 2 days later. I know it works for a lot of women, but I am not one of them! Back to the pill I went, on a rapid cycle version. It worked perfectly.

Doc reminds me of how far we have come in such a short time every visit. There are days when some interns will be with him on the floor, and he's asked for me to share a little of our story. I am (usually) 1000 times better. If I miss a pill, though, my body certainly reminds me, by bringing the marbles back for a few days. Fortunately now, I know ways to cope and handle the short spells. There is always light at the end of the Endo Tunnel.

Rock Bottom, Circa 2011

I was 28, when I woke up that Sunday morning. Coincidentally, it is barely Sunday morning as I write this. I woke up at home, in my bed, with my ex in his room across the hall. We had initially moved in as roommates.

A few days before, I had already hit bottom. I was at home then, too. I was angry with someone, and had decided, "This is it! I'm not taking any more!" I sat on the living room couch with all the lights on, texted him, and grabbed a dull wooden-handled Steakhouse knife from the kitchen drawer.

They were so quick, I had barely any time to begin. Off I went, to be evaluated by emergency services. I knew that I didn't want to die, but I didn't know how to live.

A man came to my bed; I still count my blessings for him. He worked for local behavioral services. He could tell that I needed help, let me go home under some conditions, and there I was. The soon-to-be-ex at home was so mad at the situation, I waited for a cab to go home. There weren't going to be any free rides for this drunk that night. 

One of my conditions was an out-patient program. I walked into the group on my first day, in shock. Everyone went around stating their first names, and what they were hooked on. Then they all stared blankly at me.

"Hey, I'm Carly, and I have a life problem."

Believe it or not, that night still didn't work for me. I figured I could drink around the urine tests and went out a few nights later - a Saturday, the 9th.

It was the bar where my boyfriend still worked, where I had worked previously. I went in, drank beers, danced my ass off, and started a fight.

I remember being walked out onto the street, but face planting in the road is foggy. The ride back is still unclear. I was driven home, and had to break into the downstairs bathroom to get inside.

When I woke up the next day, I felt more shame than ever in my life. Fuck the hangover; I could sleep that off. I went to get ready for brunch  - friends I could not cancel with. "Shit. Where did this black eye come from? How can I hide this? What will my excuse be?"

I found out about a relative passing the day after. It was completely unrelated but plagues me still. Someone I loved died, while I was throwing my life away.

I gave up that day. I waved my white flag, for the next 3 and 1/2 years. 

It was time to get to know myself again; I had to rewrite the script for my role in life.