I've been in a funk now for a while. More than a funk, really--more than just the blues or feeling down in the dumps. And more than just a while. I really think it started around Mother's Day this past May.
For many years I struggled with buying a Mother's Day card for my mother. I couldn't buy one that showered her with praises for her extraordinary maternal virtues or gushed with my undying gratitude and love for her, because frankly that would have been dishonest. If Hallmark made a card that said, "Happy Mother's Day...Thanks for not actually killing me," that would have been perfect. But I didn't have that problem this year, or last year either for that matter, because I no longer have any contact with my family of origin. Haven't had in 1 year, 2 months, and three weeks, in fact. But who's counting?
I have one happy or positive memory of my mother from when I was growing up: decorating the Christmas tree together when I was about 14. But that's it. I have some neutral, everyday memories of her, such as watching her sew or cook dinner, going grocery shopping with her, and driving down to my grandmother's house together in the summertime. But no memories of snuggling with her and reading books, shopping for shoes, playing at the park, breathless tickle-fests, working on craft projects, or even digging into an ice cream sundae together--the kinds of fun, relationship-building activities my daughter and I share all the time because we take such joy in each other's company. I simply cannot recall any more than that one warm, anxiety-free, and nurturing memory of my mother.
Far more prominent in my memory are the incidences of abuse, terror, and humiliation. I do remember being beaten with a tree branch for crying when I was scared of being alone, beaten with a wooden spoon for slamming my bedroom door, beaten with an extension cord for a reason I don't even remember. The beatings my siblings and I received throughout our childhood sort of blur together in my mind. I remember her threatening to slap my face for looking at her "the wrong way," I remember hiding in my closet and under my bed when she was on rampages, and I remember the way her face would transform in an instant into something almost demonic when she was enraged. I remember being shamed for being chubby and the contempt in her eyes when I faltered and showed any any of weakness. I remember how she often seemed irritated and impatient when I needed her help with something. I remember how she always favored my oldest brother, the golden child, and how she finally admitted to that favoritism many years later.
On an intellectual level, I understand her behavior and her personality. My therapist--while he is careful to note that he cannot diagnose someone he has never evaluated--says she has all the symptoms of Narcissistic Personality Disorder (NPD). In popular culture, the narcissist is thought of as a vain, power-seeking, arrogant attention-whore. Many of them are, but narcissists can also be unobtrusive and outwardly modest and humble, while projecting a persona of an upstanding and moral member of the community. This is the image my mother cultivated. But in either case, underneath that superficial layer lurks a crippling sense of fundamental worthlessness, a total lack of empathy for others and resulting inability to form healthy attachments to others, and a deep sense of emptiness and despair. These characteristics often manifest in a tendency to be controlling in relationships (particularly with those perceived as weaker, such as children), intolerance of differences and disagreements, and inability to perceive or respect interpersonal boundaries.
If you know a narcissist, you may observe pretty early in the relationship that he or she lives in a black-and-white world, unable to tolerate ambiguity or any criticism that threatens to topple their fragile sense of self. For example: Let's say my mother's favorite kind of pie is apple pie. For many years, my favorite kind of pie is also apple. This delights her, as it affirms her reality that apple pie is the best pie in the universe; therefore, I am The Best Daughter Ever. One day, I decide I like lemon meringue better than apple. Now I have threatened her belief in the supremacy of apple pie simply by stating an individual preference that differs from hers; the very foundation of her pie universe is rocked and she panics, denies that lemon meringue could possibly be better than apple, and if I don't cave in and agree to change my mind, then suddenly I am The Worst Daughter Ever. I am now her enemy.
This black-and-white thinking is called splitting and it's a common trait, or defense mechanism if you will, of people with certain personality disorders, including NPD. I believe it's also why fundamentalism is so attractive to narcissists: in the fundy universe, everything is black and white, us versus them, god and the devil, Republicans and Democrats. And for the narcissist with a strong need to publicly control others, being a leader in the fundamentalist world provides unlimited opportunities to exert power over faithful followers who are devoted to fulfilling your every command. Or--in the case of my mother--the religious framework for keeping children sheltered from the world, homeschooled, indoctrinated, socially isolated, and completely dependent upon the narcissist. The narcissist and the fundamentalist live in a world of unwavering absolutes, and who better to have on your side, proving your superiority and righteousness, than god himself?
I know way more than I ever wanted to know about NPD, both from my first-hand experience with my mother and the near-obsessive need to research the subject that has, thankfully, loosened its grip on me over the last year. I have also learned, in the course of my reading, that the development of NPD is often associated with an abusive and/or neglectful childhood. I don't doubt that abuse and neglect were contributing factors in my mother's case; she told me stories of her childhood that made me shudder, and her mother (my grandmother) was a veritable ice queen. She inspired terror in me as a child, and my mother feared her until the day she died. My mother was the scapegoat in her family, just as I am in mine. I know she has experienced unbelievable pain in her life.
This doesn't excuse my mother's behavior, though. I also grew up in an abusive and neglectful environment, but I have made different choices as an adult. I am not like my mother. But I still suffer the effects of growing up with her, and I will never get over not having a good enough mother. Nothing--no amount of therapy or meds or real-life loving and safe relationships--can undo the damage to my soul. I think I am slowly accepting the limitations on my ability to overcome my childhood, and that, along with the mother I never had, is what I am grieving now. And I don't know if I can bear that reality.
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