Growing up with a vulnerable narcissistic parent, in my case my mother, is not just difficult; it shapes the way you learn to see yourself, others and the world.
My childhood was marked by a cycle of abuse, manipulation and neglect that left deep scars, many of which only began to make sense years later. One of my earliest memories is lying in bed, terrified while my parents had one of their frequent blazing rows. The shouting was fierce. My father yelled that he was going to leave her and the argument turned to which child each of them wanted.
My father shouted that he didn’t want me and used words a child shouldn’t hear. My mother retorted that she didn’t want me either. Back and forth they went, rejecting me as though I were a burden to be passed around.
I must have gone into shock. I felt empty, with what felt like a void in my chest; just nothingness. I have experienced this feeling in later life and I now know its name: depression. I was just five years old.
The Subtle Cruelty of Control
Control was ever-present in my home. If I wanted or needed something, the rule was simple: either you do it, or you go without. This wasn’t parenting rooted in teaching responsibility; it was a calculated way to withhold care and reinforce my dependence on her moods. At the same time, I was made to feel worthless, constantly being compared to others.
A trip to the seaside would be dangled as a possibility, but first, we had to clean the house from top to bottom. By the time everything was spotless, it was deemed “too late” to go. I was too young to see that she never intended to take us; the trip was never real. The promise was manipulation.
The safest place for me was my room. It became a refuge where I could retreat from her unpredictable temper. Mealtimes were dangerous; with a captive audience, she often used them to spark arguments. I learned to avoid being trapped with her in any confined space, especially in the car, where her verbal assaults would escalate.
Absence of Empathy
Illness was met not with care, but with anger. When I had tonsillitis and struggled to swallow, her response was not concern but fury: “If you can’t eat, then I can’t either; I can feel the pain too!” My suffering became about her, and I was punished for it.
The lack of empathy extended to life’s biggest moments. When my grandfather was dying, I was young and kept from seeing him. Later, this act was used against me, as though I had failed him. I was only ten years old.
Her rage could erupt without warning. Sometimes she would scream and throw things at me simply for existing. Reasoning with her only made things worse. Logic and calm had no place in her world; it was submission or chaos.
The Lasting Impact
Children of narcissistic parents often grow up second-guessing themselves and carrying invisible wounds. I learned to read the smallest shifts in tone or expression, always anticipating the next outburst. I discovered that love was conditional, safety was fragile, and being myself was never enough.
The journey of healing is long, but it begins with naming the truth: what happened was abuse. It was not my fault. Living with a vulnerable narcissist mother meant growing up in an emotional minefield, but it also gave me a fierce clarity about the importance of compassion, authenticity and breaking cycles of harm. At an early age, I found myself on the path of holistic healing, which I still walk to this day.
Writer – Anonymous
