On Narcissistic Parents...

I wrote a book. And even after writing a book, I still have so much to say.

I'll start by saying: My sister and I didn't deserve the things our parents did to us. No child born deserves to feel so unloved; so unwanted; so hated.

My parents will deny it all, and at this point, it doesn't matter. They only feel comfortable denying my childhood because they never loved me. I know this because the people that love me never deny the days they saw me become a puddle of myself mourning them. There were Mother's days that I spent red in the face with tears missing a mother that did not love, did not want me, did not welcome me, did not celebrate me, and did not care if I lived or died. There were so many days that I just rather had died.

I need you to understand this: I felt so deeply unloved by the people who made me that I wanted to die.

That is the power that parents hold over their children, and don't let anyone pretend that isn't true. There are people who will pretend they are too tough, too big, too bad to be hurt by their parents. But deep down, there is an inner child that is so hurt by the actions of their parents that they crumble at the thought of them. So, to save face, they pretend it isn't happening. I refused to do that to myself.

On my 30th birthday, my fiancé took me to Palm Springs to celebrate me. My sister started a tradition when she was in college where we would call each other at midnight of every special day: birthdays, Christmas, etc. The night before my birthday, I had hoped they'd put their pride aside and call me. Maybe they'd miss me just enough to want to wish me a happy birthday. Midnight came and I found myself sobbing in a gigantic porcelain bathtub.

My fiancé found me crying, and like he always has, he sat with me and consoled me.

When people love you, it hurts them to see you hurt. When people love you, they want to make things better when the people that you love hurt you.

My parents did not care that my sister and I were hurt. I have memories of my father strangling my sister and my mom just watching or pretending it wasn't happening; totally dissociating into the blue light of our television. I would watch her watch him. I would watch myself watch him. Our father was the type to lash out on anyone who would intervene, but I never understood why my mother never loved us enough to stop him. I say that as a 30-something who would jump in front of any child to save them from harm. They don't have to be my child! They are a child; a defenseless child. And if there was anyway to describe my sister and me, it would be just that: defenseless.

No intelligence on our behalf could save us from the violence that that man inflicted onto us.

No entertainment value on our behalf could save us from the violence that that man inflicted onto us.

No athleticism on our behalf could save us from the violence that that man inflicted onto us.

No one saved us.

I posted a video on Tik Tok that amassed 3.6 million views. In this video I stitched asking "What was the weirdest tantrum that [your narcissistic parent] threw," I responded by telling a story that I always thought was the LEAST violent of all my stories about that man:

Boost Mobile had just released these phones created by Nextel that allowed you to "chirp" your friends using this walkie-talkie style feature. I wanted this really cute pink and black i55 phone. It was $55+tax. My dad asked me which phone I wanted him to buy and that is the phone I told him I wanted. I offered to give him the money for it because I had it in my drawer. I'd saved it from work I'd done over the summer. He said not to worry about the money and that he'd get it. But when he returned that evening, he came with a different phone. It was an i50, a phone just below the phone I'd asked for. Not wanting to be a bother, I thanked him and went to brag to my friends about the phone my dad had gotten me. One of my neighbors asked me how much the phone was, to which I told him "$50." He offered me an additional $5 to buy my phone from me because his mom would not let him have a phone yet. I told him I needed to ask my dad. I went to my dad and told him about the deal our neighbor was offering me. I told him, "That's how much the other phone was, can I sell it to him?" My dad said I could but first asked me to print out the phones so he could compare them. I ran into my bedroom to get the printout and quickly brought it back to him. He touched the paper and looked up at me with rage in his eyes. He said, "This is warm, did you just print these out?" I said, "Yes," and without another word, he punched me in the stomach, knocking the air out of me. He said, "You think I'm stupid? I told you to print these out earlier today!" But I couldn't hear anything else, I was already crawling to my bedroom trying to catch my breath. I was so embarrassed. My best friend sat on the bed, horrified. I looked up at her and then folded myself into a ball with my feet between the threshold of my bedroom and into the hallway.

My mother walked over my shaking body.

Within 24 hours, I had 1,000,098 views and hundreds of comments. People were disclosing their own personal traumas with abusive parents. Some were horrified just like my best friend, stating that she was shocked because a grown ass man had just punched a child, specifically, a girl. Some were half-joking asking for my dad's address to defend my younger self. Some were just so apologetic.

And to think... this was my least violent story.

What would they think if I told them the stories of him throwing my sister across the house like a rag doll? Or the stories of him picking me up off the floor by the collars my shirt, and how I had so many shirts with withered collars that seeing a neat collar confused me? What would they think of me if I told them about the men he let in the house who would go on to r*pe and m*lest me from age 3 until my teen years?

What about if I told them about him convincing me that the bruises on my mother's arms were an allergic reaction to the sun?; how she had so many thumb-sized "sun spots" on her arms after my sister left for college that I used to block the doorway when she'd try to leave? What about if I told them about the guilt that almost swallowed me entirely when I realized that I thought I was keeping her safe from the sun, but really I was helping him hold her hostage when she tried to leave so many times?

What about the sadness that suffocated me when I realized she had planned to leave without me?

When people think of narcissistic parents, they do not often consider violently narcissistic parents. My sister and I not only survived a father who thought he was the only one in the house who mattered, but we survived a father who thought he was the only one in the house who mattered while also slapping, punching, and strangling us.

Narcissism, just like any characteristic or diagnosis, is a spectrum. There are people with narcissistic tendencies, and then there are people who are narcissistic entirely. There are people who are selfish infrequently, and eventually remedy themselves; then there are people who take their the down payment their daughter saved for her first car to buy themselves a truck and in return give that daughter their car that is in the process of repossession.

There are good people who fuck up a few times, and then there are fucked up people who do good things.

Surviving a narcissistic parent means I have had to remind myself that the times my father was decent was not only the bare minimum, but also exactly what a parent should be doing. When I forget, I start to gaslight myself out of the hurt that they inflicted. When I forget, I make excuses for the violence and neglect.

Parents are supposed to provide housing, clothing, and food for their children. Parents are supposed to protect their children from harmful adults like teachers, school counselors, sports coaches, etc. Parents are supposed to enroll their children into activities. Parents are supposed to attend their children's activities. Parents are supposed to be kind.

While my parents did not do most of this stuff, for the things they did do, they expected a parade.

I had to do a lot of work to get where I am today. I had to do 14 years in human services and 7 years in therapy. I had to forgive myself a million times. I had to create space to feel rage, sadness, grief, frustration, and I had to mourn.

I have buried my parents a hundred times. I have mourned the parents they were not more times than I can bring myself to count. I have mourned the people they never were and will never be. I have grieved the relationship we did had because I am not that person any more, and thus, that relationship could never exist again. I have grieved the version of me they preferred to be in relationship with; she endured so much that she did not deserve.

All of this work allowed me to reveal a self that is assured, confident, joyful, accountable, transparent, communicative, supportive, responsible, adorable, and all the good they tried to beat out of me.

I am everything my parents denied about me. I am that child they hated because she was smart, and funny, and helpful, and saw the best in things. She did not get to grow with them, so I allowed her to grow safely with me. I allowed her to cry with me. I allowed her to be angry with me. I allowed her to be loud with me. I allowed her to be quiet with me. I allowed her to be curious. I allowed her to be.

If you'd like to read more about surviving narcissistic parent relationships, check out my book here.