Surviving a narcissistic mom

We called her Cancer. This was the most fitting description my husband and I could come up with to help distance myself when I decided to go no contact with my narcissistic mother, many years ago.

Anyone who lived in close range with with my mother for an extended period of time suffered. My brothers—adopted from the foster care system as an income generation source—are still homeless. My little sister lived with me and my husband during her last months of college when we learned she was living out of her car, sleeping in the library, and showering at the gym to escape the madness of our mother.

My mother’s second husband died, I believe, from not using his voice to defend himself or us against her. A man who didn’t smoke or drink, died slowly and painfully of throat and tongue cancer. Her third husband called me to share that she would knock back a bottle of Crown Royal before beating and berating him at home and in public. I later learned after he dated an acquaintance of mine—he was a younger guy—that he doesn’t mention being married to my mother. I understand.

If she was so bad, how did I end up so balanced?

First, after receiving the diagnosis of c-ptsd from childhood trauma, I’m admittedly still very much a work in progress. And second, relationships saved me.

Developing Survival Skills

My biological father gifted me with a computer he built when I was 13. Glaring at the computer screen late at night and living in AOL chat rooms until I could no longer see straight gave me a connection to the world when my mother would go silent. This was a common occurrence.

If she wasn’t speaking to one of us, no one in the family felt safe to talk to the person being shunned. So I learned to find friends she couldn’t see or keep away from me.

Nothing to Worry About

On early release days from school, I’d hitchhike home from Canal Street. The earth angels who picked me up would buy me food—something I couldn’t always depend on at home. They were always guys and would drive around to give me time to eat or rest before returning home. I was never attacked. I learned—when later sharing this with my husband—this was nothing short of a miracle in New Orleans.

I never feared for my life when hailing rides with strangers. I never feared anyone as much as I feared my mother.

My mother, Cancer, was an alcoholic, a shopaholic, a verbally, emotionally and physically abusive 4’11” woman with narcissistic personality disorder and bipolar personality disorder. She was unpredictable. She was broken.

After several years of going no contact to focus on my healing journey, I returned her chain of anxious calls that came in cycles. And I asked, “What do you remember about your childhood?” She would only ever answer with a memory of being five and wearing a pastel blue dress, with a matching bow in her hair.”

Childhood Trauma Tells

This was her only memory. No matter how many times I asked, this was all she had. Later, I learned the absence of childhood memories is a telltale sign of complex trauma. I learned this because I have very few memories of my own childhood.

Domestic violence and neglect peppered the timeline of my childhood memories, until my mother passed away two years ago today. A funny thing happened. In the six to nine months following her passing, I started to remember a few positive things from my youth. It was finally safe to see her softer side.

No One is All Bad

I recalled my mother singing and signing, in American Sign Language, Luther Vandross songs around the house. I remembered her explanation for naming me what she did; to ensure employers never made assumptions about my ethnicity—increasing my opportunities to be interviewed and possibly hired. She would also take me and my sister to plays.

I began to realize, as early as her funeral, that no one is all bad. I’m sure there were people who attended her funeral to confirm she was really gone. Hell! That’s the reason I traveled back to New Orleans for the send-off.

But there were people in attendance whose lives she impacted in a more positive way. They might have had surface relationships but that doesn’t detract from the impact. We require all levels of relationships in our lives to teach us what we need to learn.

My mother existed for a reason. She brought me into this world, whether or not it was for child support and to have a punching bag, I’m here. I learned from every lesson I experienced at her hand.

Silver Lining

I wouldn’t possess as many tools right now if it weren’t for the mother I had or have such deep context for self-love without witnessing the opposite for so long. With the support of real friends and a solid team of healers, I've been able to transform my pain and to stop transmitting it.

I have exceptional credit because she committed identity theft with my social security number for eight years. I’m empathetic because she attacked me from multiple angles for 17 years. I found love in my relationships because I was clear, early on, about what love was not. I survived my narcissistic mother and now I’m better prepared to support myself and to help others.

She must have been tormented. No one hurts people as much as she did and for so long without a body full of pain. I’m glad she’s no longer suffering. I’m grateful for the lessons I learned from her and for the freedom she granted me in her passing two years ago.

Freedom is my new foundation.