Why I Speak Out About Narcissism and My Experience

Yesterday afternoon, I watched a Red Table Talk episode from season 3 with Brene Brown. Brene is an absolute rockstar, if you don’t know who she is, look her up! She has written some of the best books on courage and vulnerability I have ever read.

Of all of the amazing and wise things she said through the episode, there was one statement she made that stuck out the most to me. She was talking to Jada about vulnerability, and the vulnerability in sharing your story. She was saying that you have to be selective with who you choose to share your experiences with, and she put it in these simple terms: “My healing has to be in my sharing, not in what I hear back.” 

That caused me to stop and think. I am constantly sharing my story and displaying vulnerability. Am I doing it for the right reasons? 

I’ve been conditioned to constantly question myself since I was a little girl. Something as little as a word said the wrong way, or an unconscious eye roll, or the living room not being vacuumed when I had not been asked to vacuum ever before, could result in my mother’s rage and punishments including groundings and spankings. Afterwards, she would come into my bedroom and give me these soft speeches where she would break down my self esteem piece by piece by calling me names and telling me calmly all of the reasons why she was right and I needed to understand. She dressed me until I was a preteen, told me what clubs to like, and what hobbies were considered appropriate for a girl and which ones weren’t. When I asked my mother to play co-ed football at age 8, you’d have thought I had just asked to be shipped off to war by how hysterical and upset she became. She made me quit softball in favor of debate club when I was in middle school. And as I suffered through each one of these suppressions of my childhood and who I really was, I wasn’t allowed to talk about any of it. It was the cherry on top.

If I told my mom that I didn’t like the way I was being treated, it would just make her angrier. When I explained that I wasn’t rolling my eyes or that I didn’t know I was supposed to vacuum, it would make the punishment worse. Family members talking to her about her harsh treatment of me would fall on deaf ears, and nothing would change. If my brother said I did something, and I said it was not true, she would believe my brother, every single time. If I tried to call a family member and talk to them about what was going on, she would rage and in later years, take my cell phone and read all of my messages and punish me for them accordingly. 

Even after leaving my mother’s home at 18, my voice was suppressed through her stories to others that the only reason I left home was because I wanted to be with my boyfriend so badly. And everyone in my immediately family believed her, and continually invalidated me when I would say anything that differed with her reality. 

It led to this feeling like everyone around me saw me as this dramatic girl who talked about my drama all of the time, when in reality I hadn’t told but a few souls some of the most horrid things that had happened to me. When I first told my mother I was going to therapy back in 2016, her first response was “well, I hope you don’t talk bad about me.” 

By silencing my voice, I trusted everyone else’s version of events over mine, it was the only way to survive the psychological turmoil. And this lead me to constantly questioning myself. Was I doing the right thing? Should I say that? Did this outfit look okay? Are they going to think I’m weird? Is this an okay thing to be upset about? Am I allowed to say no? Do they think I’m a bad person? Was that an okay thing to say? Did that really even happen? Are they all looking at me? 

My inner critic is harsher than any bully I’ve ever had, including my mom. And sharing my story in the face of her sharpest criticisms has been my biggest triumph. 

"The flower that blooms in adversity is the most rare and beautiful of all." - Mulan

Whether 30 people read this post or 950 people do, I’m not sharing my experiences for your approval. For your praise and kind stroke of my ego. Anyone who says they don’t enjoy those things would be lying, but it’s not why I’m here. 

I’m giving a voice to the little girl who was stunned into silence. Who took on all of the abuses she was experiencing as her own fault because she was constantly being gaslighted. It brings her peace to finally be honest with myself after all of these years. And I choose to share these reflections publicly, because I know I’m not alone. 

Through support groups and online communities and random strangers I have ended up falling down the rabbit hole of conversation with, I’ve met so many survivors with stories like mine. People who I saw myself in as they said their experiences were not a big deal, or that they might be exaggerating, or that their parent wasn’t as bad as other narcissistic parents they’ve seen. They are gaslit by their families, and then by a society that ingrains in us the loving mother archetype who loves her babies instinctually and can do no wrong and be no evil. Even after movies like Mommy Dearest, or White Oleander, I still see posts on my Facebook proclaiming that mother’s know all and anyone who disrespects their mother deserves a place in hell! 

To put it bluntly, if you don’t like what I have to say, I really don’t care, and you’re free to leave. My goal is not to hurt anyone or to demonize any of the characters in my story, but I’m done pretending that my life is something other than what it’s actually been. I was abused. Deeply psychologically, emotionally, mentally, traumatically abused. I have had similar post traumatic stress reactions to children growing up in war zones. And by accepting what my life has been up until this point, I have welcomed in healing. I can’t begin to create the life I want until I accept the life I have. And for way too long, I put more value into what other people thought of me, than I did my own happiness. Releasing the fear of being vulnerable has brought me the loving, unconditionally accepting relationships and intimacy I always wanted. I feel myself giving my daughter a different childhood than what I had, and there is nothing, NOTHING, more precious to me in the world than that. Especially not your approval. 

I want to be an example to all of those survivors out there, including myself. Own your story, own your life.  You only get one, and you are in charge, no one else. It will be painful to accept that, you will lose people based on the changes you make because of that. But you’ll be gaining something so much more valuable: an authentic life. 

Some days I am so humbled into gratitude I cry, because for so long I kept myself from this beautiful life by giving into my fear of confronting my past, and once you feel what it’s like to live authentically, you realize that there is absolutely nothing in the world more fulfilling.