Art by Rob Goldstein

Portrait of My MotherPortrait of My Mother

There is self-esteem and grandiose narcissism.

There is the sense that you can carry out your goals and grandiose narcissism.

My Mother was brutally narcissistic.

In her mind, I was an object, a toy used to control and dominate my father; a thing she used to secure and please new boyfriends.

A thing.

My Mother’s control over my intellectual and emotional life was so complete that when she cried, I cried.

I cried even when I didn’t know why she was crying.

Today’s therapy session focused on the fact that I still “discover” that someone I care about and admire is a pathological narcissist.

I repeatedly “discover”  that the breach of boundaries, the use of my resources without consideration, the inflated claims of competence and the derision for anyone who dares to contradict outright lies are signs that I’m in another cycle of repetition.

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