Chris2,
I've been reading along this thread with a great deal of interest and recognition, but also with a sense of anxiety and confusion. The anxiety and confusion is within me because I'm having a hard time getting a handle on how to fit my parents into the narcissism spectrum (have had this trouble all along since I learned about narcissism). It feels like I'm still too close to it. Still not able to separate out the traits from just plain old having been so used to my upbringing that I thought it was normal all those years. Now I know it was not. But I'm still somewhat at the beginning of the discovery stage, I think. Having a hard time understanding how I could have parents who perhaps truly did not care about me anywhere in there.
My father diagnosed himself with Asperger's. This was towards the end of his life and it gave him great relief and peace of mind to finally understand what was "wrong"with him all his life. I believe he diagnosed himself correctly and, had he lived, might have made real progress as a result of that new knowledge.
My mother, I don't really have a handle on yet.
Here are some of her reactions to my having been hurt several times as a child. These injuries were the result of nobody really paying attention to me. Bad all on it's own. But the reactions seem significant to me as well.
Oh, this is hard to talk about.
I have been kidded somewhat about having fallen on my head a lot. To this day I have nasty headaches on the left side of my head whenever the weather changes. The first injury I know about was when I was an infant. A little girl down the street liked to come see me and my mother would let her hold me. One time the girl dropped me and I landed on my head. My mother freaked out at the girl and sent her away never to visit again. Don't believe I was ever checked by a doctor after this incident.
One night I fell out of bed. I vaguely remember this one. I got myself down the hall in the dark to my parent's room and told my mother I had fallen out of bed. She told me I was fine and to go back to bed and I did. No memory of her (or my father) getting up, turning on the lights or whatever. In the morning she was shocked to discover that I was covered in blood from my head having been cut when I fell. I don't remember that part. Don't believe I was taken to the doctor.
At a family picnic I was climbing a slide and fell from the very top of it and hit my head on the cement pad below. I was only about two when this happened. No mention of going to the doctor.
When I was about four or five we visited a friend of my mother's. There was a hammock in the garage and I was laying on it and swinging it. I fell out and hit my head on the cement floor. I remember this one vividly as it hurt so very much. I told my mother what happened and she took us home and put me to bed to sleep it off. The worst headache of my young life. No trip to the doctor.
All this is filtered by decades of time. The reason I don't think I was taken to the doctor was because we usually were not taken to the doctor. My mother's parents never took them to the doctor either, due to lack of money. So that is how she was raised. I don't know that it was malicious. It was just how my parents thought. My father's mother had been a nurse and they were poor so he probably rarely went to a doctor either. This probably seemed normal to him as well. Over time, they became much more reliant upon doctors. But when I was growing up it was different.
One time I was riding on the back of my sister's bike and fell off. She accidently ran over my arm. I freaked out because I was afraid it was broken and a blue lump immediately appeared on my elbow. I ran crying to show my mother and she reacted by pointing at me, laughing hysterically at me and basically making fun of my tearful, frightened reaction to having been hurt. She sent me back out to play.
This next story is the hardest one to tell about. My husband is the only one I have ever told this one to. I was about three. My sister was about two. It was winter and my mother was trying to go somewhere with us, probably the grocery store or laundrymat. But the car got stuck in the snowy driveway and she just couldn't budge it. She was incredibly frustrated and angry. Any young mother in that situation would be. I understand that part so well. We went back in the house again, in defeat. And something small I did, or my sister did, was the last straw. It set her off in a rage. We were in the kitchen. My mother was sitting in a chair spanking me but it just wasn't enough punishment. So, she grabbed me and held me under the shoulders as high as she could and dropped me to the floor from that height. I landed on my tailbone. It took my breath away and I could hardly cry, just moaned. She did the same thing again and maybe one or two more times until she came to her senses and realized that I might be severely hurt. So, then she was frantic and made me get up and walk it off. I remember how wobbly my left leg felt in my hip joint. She made me keep walking around in a circular path through the house until she was satisfied that I didn't need to go to the doctor or hospital.
This particular incident has never been talked about. I'm sure if I confronted her about it now she would deny it completely.
Immaturity, lack of empathy, I don't know what this is. I see there is a pattern. But I don't know what to call it. I have heard all the stories of her own childhood where she had several severe illnesses or conditions due to her parents having waited too long to seek medical or dental care, due to lack of money. Was she too traumitized at this point to trust doctors? Too uncared for to be able to care for me? My sister was not denied care or medical attention when it was obviously needed. She was the one who acted out. I was the one who could take care of myself. Maybe it was as simple as that.
My mother's mother suffered from untreated depression her entire life, perhaps even post-partum depression. There was no mother/daughter bond between my Grandmother and any of her four daughters. Period. Anything they did with her or for her was through a sense of duty or obedience only. Grandmother's brother was diagnosed bi-polar but refused any treatment. So, serious chemical imbalance runs in the family. My mother was raised in this atmosphere. I don't think she has a chemical imbalance herself. She is very selfish, materialistic, etc. I have seen her laugh in hysterics over a very sad and tragic documentary on TV.
She never got excited by our accomplishments as children. Only worried about how much effort she would have to make to attend a concert or ceremony of some sort. In fourth grade I received an award for having the highest average in the class. I was shocked that she attended the ceremony. Then I remember that summer she got mad about my friends who often bragged about themselves and what nice things their family had. So, she made me wear this award medal to the park one day so these friends could see how smart I was. I felt stupid. It was so inappropriate. Nobody even noticed my stupid medal, luckily. But what an odd thing for her to make me do. And how obedient I was to go through with it even though it made me very uncomfortable to do it.
Each year when we got our new school clothes, she would ask me when I got home, "So, did anyone say anything nice about your new clothes?"
I couldn't have certain colors of clothing, red or purple, because they would "clash" with my red hair.
My sister had to wear a lot of brown because brown was a good color for her.
Another color memory: When we made Christmas cookie cutouts, we could not have any blue frosting, even though there was blue food coloring, because there is no such thing as blue food. It probably only came up as a subject because blue was my favorite color. My mistake.
"Rules" like these made me even more self-conscious than I already naturally was. Made me a very tense, uptight child. And a very entertaining target for neighborhood bullies. Of which there were many on my block. My parents told me to ignore it. What clueless people they were. My father did actually have some sympathy for my plight. My mother did not seem to have any sympathy or understanding. Afterall, she had been fairly popular growing up. What was wrong with me? She often wondered that aloud. My father was afraid it was because I was like him, and that idea made him feel guilty and gave him a lot of grief. My mother always said I was like my father's side of the family and not like her at all. She would pick on characteristics of mine that were like my father. Anything about me that was like her, she just didn't see or acknowledge. "Look at how you hold a sandwich just like your father!" "Your eyebrows sweat like like your father's!" "You are just like your Aunt Polly!" (my father's sister, who my mother didn't like). It is true that I take after my aunt in many ways, but it sounded like an insult when my mother said it. When someone who loved my aunt says it, it sounds like a good thing to be.
I never was just me. I was never fine just the way I was. There was always something that should be fixed. If anyone was paying attention at all that is.
I think my mother is getting worse now. She has been married for nearly 25 years to someone who may be N as well. And it is like they are engaged on a battle to the death for some kind of power. So, that may be what is making her worse. At the same time, I feel some distance now that I didn't feel before. I'd rather work on healing than getting caught up in her condition. But I guess part of my healing is to look at how I was raised. A work in progress.
Pennyplant
