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When I was a child, I lived in my mother’s shadow. I stayed hidden in the background just beyond the form of her shadow. My mother was physically beautiful. It is the first attribute that most people have ever noticed about her. From my dad’s stories about my mother, her physical beauty made me believe that he was overwhelmingly captivated by her. He considered himself lucky to be her husband. I considered myself lucky to be her child, but something was wrong.
I was fine to live in my mother’s shadow until I knew otherwise. She had enough light to shine for the both of us. Her mannerisms, her smile, her laughter, and her presence seemed to be rather intoxicating. She lit up a room when she entered it. She had a silent type of charisma about her that made her different than most mothers I knew back when I was a child. She was quiet and reserved but could also be outgoing around the right people. She is an introvert just like me, but in retrospect, that is where a lot of our commonalities stop.
I loved my mother just because she was my mother, but there was something else. I had a profound need to be close to her. I had a profound need to love her. I was starved for her affection. I was starved for her love. I was starved for validation and recognition from her. I seemingly fell flat. Something was missing. My mother was definitely not like the other mothers. Not only was something wrong, but something was missing. She was missing. My mother was missing.
Has Anybody Seen My Mother?
In time, I would grow to realize that my mother was missing. She was present in body but all the while vacated in soul. Even as a small child, I knew this instinctively. I caught a glimpse of it when I was three when she ridiculed me for my fears of the dark, when she lashed out against me for my accidental spill of water, and when she beat me into a corner for not being the perfect child that she needed and wanted of me. She was the mother I loved and longed for, but she was the mother that was not.
My mother did not seem to have feelings. I detected this much without really understanding it when I was a child. I longed to be close to her, but to no avail, I could not contain her. Hugging her was a no-no. She was not receptive to me. When I tried to hug her, she always seemed so hollow inside. Without even touching her, I could see her hollowness. She sometimes looked like a vacated shell. Her eyes often stared at me blankly without emitting any emotion as if she did not even see me. At times, I felt that I was invisible to her. She would stare right through me.
My mother rarely touched me. It seemed like drudgery for her to do so. She never gave me affection. If she did give me affection, it was because she was being watched by others. If she did give me affection, I always knew her affection was forced and fake. I always knew that she was acting on the behalf of others. Her entire demeanor would change. She would go from happily excited when she needed to impress others with her mothering skills, but the moment no one was around, she became a person I wish I did not have to know. I knew that if she did not have to hug me or kiss me, she would not. Love for me seemed to escape her.
I always imagined that her love for me was not strong because I was not born as a clone of her. Many people marveled over the fact that I did not resemble my mother at all. In fact, mostly everyone said that I looked more like my father. The question implied an answer that was never really stated unless it came from my mother. How could a woman so beautiful have a daughter who looked like me? For whatever reason, my physical appearance was ugly to my mother, and she took many chances to tell me this by indirect implication or through subtle jabs of directness. She either treated me with disdain or she treated me as subservient.
Either way, I was quick to recognize that the relationship that I had with my mother growing up our was different. I knew from the time that I was three that my mother’s treatment of me may not have been the same as other mothers’ treatments of their daughters even though I did not know this for sure. What difference did it make to compare right? I guess I did so because I knew that something seemed off. I internally questioned my mother’s love for me. I internally felt the distance between us, and I did not know why.
Although outwardly my mother would show excitement when she dressed me up, I knew the clothing display had nothing to do with me. She often bought me clothing that I did not even like. Even though she boldly gloated about my achievements, I saw and felt how her words did not match her treatment of me. She was proud to be associated with me during those times publicly, but in private there was a great void. It was clear to me that something was wrong. She often indicated that something was wrong with me, however. Yet, she was perfect in my eyes. She could do no wrong until I realized that she did.
Moments of Perceived Closeness
I had moments of perceived closeness with my mother. Those were the times that I did not have to walk on eggshells with her after having done something wrong that I did not that I had done. She was easily irritated, but those moments that I could get close to her I would literally cherish. Combing and/or brushing her hair was my favorite way to be close to her. It was literally the only way to be close to her and not have her recoil away from me.
Those moments with her felt like bliss as she would sit comfortably in a chair with her eye closed as I stood behind her on a stool and pampered her. I would pretend to be in a hair salon while I groomed and prepped her with the most magnificent hair styles ever. In actuality, I would scratch her scalp to uplift any dandruff just before she would wash her hair.
Nevertheless, it was cool to imagine the closeness of literally leaning on her as if I could hug her, but unfortunately, those times with her did not last long. If I scratched her scalp too hard or if her peace and solitude were somehow disrupted by anything no matter how miniscule, her mood could change at the flip of a coin. I would immediately go from feeling idealized for my scalp scratching skills to feeling devalued for failing to do something so simple the right way.
Parentified Child
I was between the ages of five and seven when those hair moments occurred, and they somehow ended to never return even years later. I am not sure what actually occurred that made them stop, but those times were rare and the closest that I have ever felt to my mother in my entire life. The other times I perceived closeness was when I was a parentified child. These were the times that I felt like I was taking responsibility for her problems. Somehow how roles switched to where I was an adult to her as she sought adult-like advice for adult-life problems.
Basically, my mother would vent to me and my siblings about problems that mainly dealt with her coworkers. My siblings and I would listen and then give her advice on what she might be able to do to alleviate her problems. My mother would listen to us and might even say we had great ideas, but she more or less just use us as sounding boards. We would have times of laughter as she ridiculed and berated the people that she talked to us about though. Those were fun times even if it was at the expense of adults we really knew nothing about.
I do not believe my mother ever used our advice, however. She just wanted listening ears. If we ever complained about being tired of hearing about the same problems, she would complain, belittle us, and use things about us against us as backlash. Yet, I took those moments of perceived closeness as being the closest that I would ever get to my mother. As a child, I realized I needed to take what I could get since my mother was not very giving of affection … at least not when it came to me. With my other siblings, she was different. She did not treat us the same. She literally showed more love to my siblings when I was a child than she had ever shown to me. That is how I figured that there was something wrong … something very wrong with me.
In retrospect, I realize that of all my achievements, I have been a complete failure at obtaining closeness with my mother. It just has not been possible. Closeness is simply not possible with a narcissist. I can tell you what has been possible though. It has been possible for me to achieve gaining the most of her narcissistic abuse. She inflicted a lot towards me. She was my first experience with a narcissist when I did not even know nor understand the term.
Stay tuned for details about some of what I experienced as a child in my next post.
My Voice Unchained 