Escaping Hell: The Demon that Lived in my Narcissist Mother
STORY ONE
I always thought I was going crazy. I always thought it was me. The confusion and self doubt didn’t just haunt me at night in my dreams, it haunted me in every waking moment. The claws of a demon’s deadly grip always choking me and always ready to split my skin open right at my heart.
I was born from a demon. One so dark, that it made horror movie monsters look like wimps playing horror make-believe. Psychological torture is worse than the instant terror that physical pain can induce. At times, I’d rather be dead than be forced to endure such manipulative monstrocity. This is manipulation on an entirely different level. A conniving pierce that unravels a person’s ideas, passions, insides, and that continues to work its destructiveness forever. Almost forever. Escaping for good is the only hope for repair.
My mother is a demon. Not the usual type. She isn’t red, she isn’t hairy, and she isn’t even physically ugly. She does have the blackest eyes that destroy anything that comes into their event horizon. Light cannot escape and most people’s hopes and dreams cannot either.
I’ve always got along well with others. I am a social butterfly as they call it and have developed healthy and valuable friendships with people. For the most part, I’ve been told that I’m not too difficult to work with or hang out with. I practice meditation and acts of compassion, especially towards those who need it most. That’s why it took me so long to escape my mother’s talons.
If you’ve ever had direct and constant contact with a narcissist then you know what I’m talking about. If you haven’t, then it could be that you just haven’t discovered that someone in your life is a narcissist. I am here to tell you my story. I am here to tell you how I escaped hell.
I’m not going to explain my childhood or go through this in any particular order of events. Instead, like a diary, I will write out the events most memorable that continue to haunt me. These will be broken up into short entries and sent exclusively to you, my generous and dedicated reader.
Let’s start with the first story.
A Day at the Beach
It was the summer of 2017 and, like most people, I was excited for the long summer days, BBQs, bike rides, and the beach. I came home from work on a Friday and received a call from one of my best friends, Mara. She told me that, although last minute, she and some friends were going to the beach the next day and that it was a spontaneous decision on her part and she wanted to extend the invite.
The stars aligned and I was grateful that she and I had such a telepathic connection so I said of course. By the time we hung up it was around 7:00pm. I packed my basic beach necessities: a book, towel, sunblock, and a notebook to write in. I was to be picked up by 9:00am the next morning. I could hardly sleep, just like a kid waiting to go to Disneyland but I was twenty-seven and single in a one bedroom apartment.
The next morning we were off with the windows rolled down, the morning sunlight in our face, and a light breeze blowing our long hair across our faces. It was turning out to be a perfect Saturday. We beat most of the Saturday beach traffic and found a perfect spot, not too far away from the water but not too close. The sand massaged my feet and snuggled in between my toes, a warm welcome for the long span of time since I last visited.
The ocean waves roared and rolled onto the golden shore and a light breeze hit my face, a taste of sea salt on my lips. I laid out on my towel next to Mara. The sky was blindingly bright but hit my skin with a soothing vibration. I held my phone up to get a selfie with me and Mara, added a quick filter, and then posted it to Facebook. A nine year friendship going strong with more years to come.
About 5 minutes later, I received a text. It was my mother. The text read:
I would’ve liked to go to the beach.
She had seen the Facebook post since that is what she primarily looks at on her phone. She believes that all information on Facebook is fact and has to be absolutely true and although the truth was that I was at the beach, she loved to dissect Facebook posts, cracking the scheme of how friend and family postings were against her.
My heart dropped. Did I do something wrong? If it was my idea and more planned out I would’ve invited her. It was so spontaneous and I was invited by someone else. How was I supposed to respond?
I replied:
Mara invited me last night. Just a spontaneous thing. We can go to the beach again since summer just started :)
No response.
I couldn’t help but think about it. I tried to enjoy the rest of my day at the beach.
Four days after going to the beach, my mother came to visit. I told her I would cook her a yummy dinner. It was a Thursday. I started cooking right away after getting home from work. She knocked at the door and when she came into the kitchen, I asked her how her day was. She responded, “It was horrible.” She then proceeded to complain about all her coworkers. I replied in a genuine way. I mainly listened as she spoke.
I sat down at the table with her while the rice was cooking. We were directly across from one another. She continued to talk about work, then, with no transition, with red in her eyes and resent and hate, she said:
“And you went to the beach and didn’t even invite me. That adds to my stress and makes things worse.”
Her eyebrows were pressed downward into her eyes with rage as she stared at me to wait for my reaction. As I spoke, she broke eye contact with me and stared down at her hands, thinking about what she was going to say next. She had already tuned out.
“Mom. I’m sorry if you feel bad about that. I was invited at the last minute by Mara. It was just a spontaneous act, nothing else. We can totally go again. We have the whole summer ahead of us.”
Without responding to my above dialogue, she proceeded to say:
“You are my oldest child and you’re never there for me. I can’t rely on you. I never have been able to and I never will. After everything I’ve done for you too.”
Dumbfounded. I was dumbfounded. I felt like I had done something horribly wrong but wasn’t exactly sure what I did wrong. There is one thing I did know: I was a bad person, the worst person and the worst daughter.
She stormed out on that Thursday and when she left, I couldn’t help but cry. I felt physically exhausted like I just got beat down onto the concrete and then some. I went right to bed and thought about how I could make it up to her. My compassionate side set in and I realized that she was a lonely woman who just wants to be loved. The next day, I sent flowers to her work. But, I didn’t hear from her at all that day.
This all happened because of a day at the beach.
Until next time’s story Dear Reader. (The guard is coming around to do a night check.)
