I Broke Up With My Toxic Narcissist Mother
by Anonymous
Warning: This article contains details about childhood adversity.
When you live with a toxic narcissist, you don’t always know it.
I didn’t.
They are charming, social, engaging to outsiders. They often shine at special events and in public. Then when the doors are closed or you are one on one, their true nature comes out. Deception is their favorite tool. They use gaslighting to make you doubt your own reality. They use triangulation like this to emotionally separate family members and maintain the power dynamic. They are masters of deception because their lives depend on it. The charm hides the exploitation and manipulation.
It takes a long time for those around you to learn that you are not the problem, if they ever do at all. You can’t blame them. It is the toxic person’s greatest strength, the duality. Plus, if you don’t know, how can people on the outside know? For the person living in it?
It is an oppressive fog to extricate from. It is your normal and you can’t see outside clearly enough to realize it’s not.
I didn’t really know my family was different.
I had glimpses of it when I visited friends and spent time in their homes. But because my normal was what I knew, I just assumed that’s how it was for others. That they, too, grew up with a mother who could not be pleased, who withheld love as a form of manipulation and employed silent treatments as punishments.
I hear people joke that they are afraid of their mother. In that way that steers them toward better choices and actions that make parents proud. That makes sense. Healthy fear. I didn’t have that.
I was afraid of my mother. Afraid afraid. Afraid to anger, displease or disappoint her.
The tricky thing was that I never knew what the trigger would be. I didn’t know the punishment either. I only knew that it wouldn’t fit the crime. I walked on eggshells. Tried to be perfect. Toe’d the line. It didn’t matter, even a perceived slight was grounds for relentless assault. A toxic narcissist’s rage does not necessarily include violence. It can be the change in demeanor that triggers a fear response. For me? It was a stilling of the body, narrowing of the eyes and tightening of the mouth. I knew it was coming. Whatever IT was. I was scared of her. Hide-in-the-closet scared. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t normal.
I spent most of my childhood in trouble. Punished.
Not sure why. I was a great student, a kind friend, a good daughter and a thoughtful person. I would do everything I could to please.
But toxic narcissists don’t want to give you the actual rules to succeed. They change the rules constantly so that we fail and are always to blame. Every time I reached the bar, it was raised. I had failed. Again. And as a person who clamors for that gold star, this was intentional and painful. There was no chance at success but the constant message that you aren’t trying hard enough and aren’t good enough only instilled an even greater desire in me to succeed. It was damaging to say the least. I was told I was incapable, lazy, oversensitive, had OCD, was anal and selfish, etc.. Ridiculed for normal quirks and chastised for…anything. Everything.
At a time when I was supposed to be learning who I was and who I wanted to become, I was making myself sick trying to become whatever person I was supposed to be that day. It was exhausting and demoralizing. My sensitivity, OCD, etc. etc. was likely the onset of my adolescent depression and anxiety. Things I continue to treat to this day with counseling and medication. Am I saying my childhood caused my own struggles with depression and anxiety? Absolutely not. I am saying they went untreated and were used to further diminish my power and sense of self. A person like that is easy to control. And I was.
Until I wasn’t.
There were times in my childhood that I remember standing up to her. Deciding that the consequences were worth the fear. The consequences were not always swift but they were always present.
I got sticks in my stocking from Santa when I was 8. To this day, I weep for that little girl and if I allow myself to linger on that idea for too long, I can weep now. I have three children. I do not know what they would need to do to get sticks. Sticks were the start of the hurtful and false labels. Santa doesn’t give sticks for a bad thing. He gives sticks to bad kids. I was a bad kid.
“i was making myself sick trying to become whatever person i was supposed to be that day. ”
In high school, I was selfish and a slut. I spent too much time with my friends. Unlikely as I had a curfew like the lockdown procedure in a jail. I was off gallivanting with boys. Umm, I won’t show you a photo but I can assure you that was not the case. See also previous line about curfew. I was brought to Weight Watchers when I was a Junior. At 16. I barely weighed 105lbs. I remember them writing the number on the index card at weigh in each week. I was fat. I may have been a good dancer but so and so was better. I could sing but not as well as her. I was smart but not as smart as him.
These were the labels I was given in my formative years. Writing this now, I am almost writing it as an observer. Not impartial, of course. But one who wasn’t in it. Because if you ask that girl, I would still say I had a good childhood. We did. Vacations and gifts and things. I have often likened my childhood to that scene in Sleeping with the Enemy. He beats her and then buys her flowers. Same. Except I didn’t have visible bruises. And they weren’t flowers.
I went off to college, started counseling and began experiencing how other families lived. I was free to talk to other people about their childhoods. Without censure or whispers or fear. There was being out of the house and the distance between living it and seeing it. I read books and articles. I talked to family and friends from my childhood. I started keeping a journal and taking screenshots of texts. Not to emotionally cut myself later on. But to keep a record of my experience so it couldn’t be discounted or changed later.
That’s part of the legacy of a toxic narcissist. They make the OTHER person feel crazy. They speak with such conviction and assuredness, that you start to wonder if you remembered the words or saw the incident incorrectly. Spoiler alert: you did not misremember or misinterpret. You have to find people and things to be your touchstone. Who can validate things they saw or heard. Who can remind you when the world has turned on its axis that you are remembering it correctly.
Big moments were cut short by drama or need for attention. College graduations were not celebrated moments. They were quick and with little fanfare. Maybe it was because I had surpassed her educational level and toxic people and jealousy are a shit combo. I didn’t even get to stay for the entire ceremony. We had to leave as she was unwell. Toxic narcissists need the attention. What, was I special? Attention seeking.
When I got engaged, she raged. Telling me that moving forward with the wedding planning I had to be more considerate of her feelings. When she, my future mother-in-law and I were dress shopping, she was looking at white dresses to wear. She would assure you she was joking. She was not. Gaslighting.
When she rifled through our apartment bedroom during our son’s nap time because she was bored she wouldn’t admit it. Even when confronted with stark evidence. She told me our apartment had gotten broken into but nothing was taken. Didn’t matter that she had been in the apartment all day and there were no signs of forced entry. Pathological lies.
When she saw me leave for work and lock the bedroom door? She asked me why I would not want her to have an additional place to hide with my son if it were to happen again. Emotional manipulation.
When I had just given birth to my second son and did not text a personalized invite to come to the hospital? I was postpartum not yet eighteen hours and when I didn’t respond she texted — ok, guess you’re busy, kiss the baby for me. Yah. Busy. At the baptism of that same child? Walking out of the church appearing to cry after ignoring an invitation to participate. Then making the celebration in our home such an uncomfortable and toxic environment that, literally, everyone else sat outside in the blazing sun to avoid it. Cutting the fancy cake and leaving a few slivers for those at the party before leaving early and taking the bulk of it with her. Not enough attention. Playing the victim.
That was the moment my husband was done. Her lack of respect for the event and his wife and guests in his home did him in. He waited patiently for me to get there. It took me another four years. They don’t talk about that. The strain a toxic parent can have on a marriage. It is there. It is real. It can be devastating.
The partner doesn’t understand the damage that was done. How can they? They don’t understand how the good daughter and the healed daughter are constantly at war when creating boundaries and limiting contact. Even if the partner is an equal part of the decision making, you are the one left feeling shame, embarrassment, resentment and self-doubt. I was told I was weak to let my husband make decisions for me. I was told I was an awful, selfish child for making these decisions myself. See? Lose-lose.
The first transformative moment came when my first child was born, I looked at him and thought — holy fuck, this is love. This is maternal love. This is what it feels like. That was one of the most beautiful and painful experiences of my life. I started to realize the chasm between mental illness and parenting. One really can prevent the other. I was learning. Way too slowly. Way too fucking slowly.
The second transformative moment came when I was talking to a friend at work. Recounting one of the many times I hid in my closet after getting in trouble. I did not hide to be a passive aggressive piece of shit. I hid because I was scared. Actually afraid. So I hunkered down in the dark, in the way back, under piles of clothes and waited out the storm. My friend looked at me and with the most kindness she could muster said, “That’s not normal.” And after years of friends, family members, therapy, partners, strangers on cruise ships all validating what I knew, this was what hit me.
It wasn’t normal.
As boundaries went up and I moved into my own strength, time with her became even more difficult. For myself, my children, my marriage. Even for her I would imagine.
Toxic narcissists do not respond well to strength in others.
At this point I had two children. I started to put distance between us. Between my children and their grandparent. It hurt but was a must. There were many times playdates would be scheduled and ignored or visits canceled at the last minute. I was tired of seeing my kids disappointed. It got to the point where my husband and I would not tell the children she was coming until she pulled in to the driveway. We were tired of the constant letdown and explaining.
Days before a visit I would start to snap at my family, get anxious and downright mean. During the visit I would refuse to be left alone with her. I would be on edge watching everything, listening to everything, counting down the minutes until it was over. When she was gone I would spend days processing what was said and done. Trying to figure out where I went “wrong.” Trying to anticipate the inevitable text full of venom and anger. All the while trying to be a colleague, wife, parent, sister, friend. The cost was high but the benefit minimal.
“when the toxic narcissist in your life is your mother, she knows just where to press the hidden bruises.”
Four years after that, I went no contact.
It was ten years into my marriage and upon the birth of my third child. We had been moving toward that for a while. We had created boundaries and lessened contact. We opted for short visits at family gatherings if possible. I did the grey rock method. I became wholly uninteresting and non-responsive. Not rising to the bait or putting myself into situations that I felt were harmful. The toxic narcissist gets bored and moves on. But it takes time and this shift often does not go over well. It did not for us. There were texts and calls. Some expressing shock and confusion as to why she was not allowed in my home or with my children. Alternately saying the most cruel and hurtful things. Direct hits that I haven’t forgotten because they’re crafted to be unforgettable.
When the toxic narcissist in your life is your mother, she knows just where to press the hidden bruises. It’s astounding how well they know how to hurt you. Even more astounding that they do.
I remember the final day or maybe it is, more accurately, the first day. We had planned on telling her and giving our reasons before the baby was born. We knew it was a futile exercise but wanted to present as the united front we were and offer transparency out of respect and kindness. I told my sister and she simply said she had thought that had already happened. But life is funny and the break didn’t go as planned. Instead, I was induced five weeks early after a routine doctor appointment. As I was leaving the NICU garage after visiting my baby, I got a group text from her to myself and my husband. A presumptuous, entitled text that ignored the reality of it having been over two years with no contact. The text said she would be in town next week to visit the boys and see the littlest one in the hospital. Like it was a done deal. I had no capacity to deal with it. I called my husband and by the time I got home he had handled it. Told her in no uncertain terms we were done. I sobbed. In sadness, fear, gratitude, relief and, yes, a little more fear. Let the smearing and victim playing begin.
But here’s the thing, I see you Stockholm Syndrome, it was still hard. There was guilt and sadness and wondering. In the beginning I had to ‘break up” with her often. There was continuous internal dialogue. Don’t call her, or text or email. Don’t reach out. Don’t open up that line of communication. The reality is, I miss having a mom and I hope it might be different and my heart opens. Then I remember how she would treat me. I remember my anxiety and how her presence would impact my family for days before and after. In the beginning you revisit the slights and hurts. It reminds you of your purpose and it is fucking horrible. It is a special level of hell when you relive the past every day, in order to protect the future. But mostly I reminded myself that nothing is a given and I get to choose this life. So I chose every day - myself, my marriage, my kids. It was simultaneously the easiest and hardest thing that I have ever done.
In speaking to family and longtime friends while I moved through this process (of 9 plus years), I have had many of my experiences and feelings validated. It is so important and helpful to hear those other perspectives. If you need to break up with your parent, you can do it. I, myself, seem to have made a life out of relationship decisions that get the societal side eye (my husband had an affair and we reconciled after almost 18 months. Want to talk about that?). It’s hard. It sucks. But the clear air on the other side is so, so good. And you can be thankful for what that parent did teach you. Maybe they taught you how not to walk through life or how not to treat people. That helped me. There can be good in the hard. I acknowledge that finding the good is an annoyingly persistent strength of mine.
“here is a universal truth. you can’t fix other people.”
Here is a universal truth. You can’t fix other people. You can’t change how they treat you. You can only change how you respond to it. My responses were extraordinarily unhealthy. I weep for the little girl hiding in the closet. The momma who yelled at her kids because a visit was on the books. The young woman who had a colleague tell her she could have hung up the phone and that it was not ok to let anyone make me feel like that. I fucking fist bump the woman I became who knows what is right for her and went after it. I broke up with my mother. A toxic narcissist. I am not a psychologist but the Universe gave me a dozen signs all in one week that used those words (from psychologists, social workers, an abuse counselor and Google University). I’m not totally woo woo but I couldn’t ignore those coincidences. I read “Will I Ever Be Good Enough? Healing the Daughters of Narcissistic Mothers” by Karyl McBride and “You're Not Crazy - It’s Your Mother. Understanding and Healing for Daughters of Narcissistic Mothers” by Danu Morrigan both of which changed my life. I worked with a counselor on setting boundaries, how to go no contact and how to handle any and all fallout. It was a process and I did not do it alone.
It feels impossibly hard to mother without a mother sometimes. Especially since it’s a choice I made. But then I remember, a mother is not only the person that birthed you or raised you. I have been inordinately blessed to have been mothered by many amazing women in my life. Many of whom I am still very close. So if the one you are given doesn’t work for you, find another. You’d be surprised how many people are willing to stand in and step up. I don’t profess that no contact is right for everyone. Everyone has their own experiences and allowances and tipping points. Even people that may have grown up in the same house as you. This is what has worked for my home. I thought in breaking up with my mother I would lose everyone except my nuclear family. I knew the risk. I decided it was worth it. But It has been the opposite. The richness that has resulted from doing what was right for me, for my family, is immeasurable. As I write these words with tears in my eyes, I would do it all again tomorrow.
This article is for informational purposes only. It is not intended to be used in place of professional advice, medical treatment, or professional care in any way. This article is not intended to be and should not be a substitute for professional care, advice or treatment. Please consult with your physician or healthcare provider before changing any health regimen. This article is not intended to diagnose, treat, or prevent disease of any kind. Read our Terms & Conditions and Privacy Policy.
