My parents were called and told I had anger issues because I described my feelings instead of just bursting into tears ‘like a normal kid.’ Being a reader made me a writer, however, and I had words to describe my pain. When I sat alone at lunch, I read. When I got home, I wrote. Your child might be alienated for her hobby, especially these days. But I suspect, if she loves to read as much as you say she does, that she might not really care. Growing up with a narcissistic parent really stunted my psychological growth. My mother has NPD but will likely never be diagnosed since she is “perfect,” “not crazy,” and will never go see a therapist. My parents got divorced when I was 4 and my narcissistic mother won custody over my older sister and I. My father only had us every other weekend and we always had to be home Sunday by 6pm sharp. No later or all hell breaks loose. Our mother would always talk bad about our father and fill us up with lies so that we would only worship her. That’s why she had kids: to worship the Atlanta Braves mix it up shirt and I love this ground she walks on, to do every thing for her, and have someone take care of her when she gets old. She even bought a small bell and rang it every time she needed something (like passing her the tv control~stupid shit like that) Growing up I felt like her servant, yet thought that we were in a normal parent-child relationship. I didn’t realize my mom was being unreasonable in every aspect until I spoke to friends about my home life in middle school. Every time she asked us to fetch her something and came back empty-handed she’d call us useless, worthless, or anything to bring us down. And if she also couldn’t find what she had asked for she would never apologize. Honestly, I think I’ve only heard my mom apologize once in my life. In public she controlled us by pinching and twisting our skin with her long ass nails. At home she would hit us with anything near her. Whether it was a pair of pants, belts, sandals, heels (yes, heels. She hit my sister in the head at age 2 with her fucking heel—in front of her family which is how we know it’s true), or just some of her own punches.
Atlanta Braves mix it up shirt, hoodie, tank top, sweater and long sleeve t-shirt
Once she almost hit me over the Atlanta Braves mix it up shirt and I love this head with a ceramic plate. She only stopped cause I called her out on it and brought her back to her senses cause even my ~8 year old self knew that was extreme. I know parents are supposed to “spank” your butt or what not when their kids misbehave but she would hit us for no real reason. One occasion I remember clearly: my sis wanted to weigh these two picture frames that were placed above my mother’s bed so when we placed the frames back my sis left one crooked. I was laying on the floor watching tv when my mother got home and saw what horrible thing we had done. She came at me with a pair of pants telling me my sister ratted me out that I had left the frame crooked (yes, my sis threw me under the bus, but what could you expect from a scared 7 year old. Once she was done using the pants she started punching my arm so that I could snitch on my sister too, and of course I did, to stop her punches. To this day I still can’t believe how absurd she was about the frames. Weight was another issue as I grew up because it has always been important to my mom. Fat=Ugly in my mom’s world. She made us believe we were fat when we def were not. She liked to call me ‘tres barrigas’ which means ‘three bellies’ and just engraved in my brain that I was fat and made me feel horrible about it. Never thought someone could like me for the way I looked if not even my mom liked the way I looked. It really damaged my self-esteem, which I continue to struggle with to this day. I still have no confidence in myself since my social skills are shit. I was never allowed to question her since she made me feel dumb for asking them, which played a huge role in my experience in school and college. I never understood why I disliked raising my hand and felt like asking a question was the end of the world. Why was it so uncomfortable to be put on the spot? My damn mother always snapped at us when we asked questions. It would always turn into a fight and made me scared to ask questions in any situation. Made me believe people were gonna laugh at my question and think I’m stupid. I’m still struggling with asking questions but at least I’m aware and am working on it.