'For 30 years, my narcissistic mother made my life a living hell. Last year, I cut her out of my life completely.'

Content warning: This story mentions emotional and verbal abuse and suicidal tendencies that may be distressing to some readers.

There was a moment, innocuous to the casual observer, that put the final nail in the coffin of my relationship with my mother.

After she’d spent a lifetime ruining every special occasion, celebration, birthday, Christmas, graduation, birth, and wedding with her histrionics, it was the cruel texts that pinged incessantly on my mobile during my son’s 6th birthday that did it for me.

I handed my phone to my husband and said, "please. I can’t." He went back and forth all day, but she wouldn’t stop.

We had a big birthday bash a week earlier with my parents - cakes, presents, the whole shebang - so on my son’s actual birthday, we could take him to the museum, just the three of us, for a special little day out.

But now, my mother was having a meltdown about not seeing him on his actual birthday, accusing me of being a ‘cold-hearted robot,’ a ‘selfish and cruel b**ch’ and much more. She wanted us to cancel our plans so they could come to our house instead.

I’d politely refused and no matter her emotional blackmailing and guilt-tripping, wouldn’t give in and now she was in a narcissistic rage.

Watch: Some signs that you were raised by a narcissistic parent. Post continues after video.

As we walked around the museum, my husband and I and put on brave and happy faces for our son, but whenever he looked away to delight at the dinosaur bones and bits of moon rock, my eyes stung with tears of rage and sadness.

The truth is, my mother has Narcissistic Personality Disorder. 

Her narcissistic style is engulfing. She has zero empathy. The world revolves around her, apparently. She is jealous, controlling, manipulative, emotionally abusive, incapable of loving me unconditionally, or anyone else for that matter, and worst of all, refuses to ever concede any of our long-running problems might be because of her.

Her lifelong criticism of me, the way I talk, dress, eat, cook, my friends, husband, parenting, home - everything - destroyed my confidence and led me to a near breakdown when I was four months post-partum.

I had a four-hour window in the night when I could sleep and my mother would send me long voice notes and texts, messages across social media, and even emails telling me how awfully wrong I was getting everything.

I was following all the modern safety guidelines given to me by doctors and health visitors, but still, my mum would say, "I love you, but I love your son more and I must protect him from you."

Because I wouldn’t put him to sleep on his stomach like she had, or kept the house at 21C instead of 26C, because I gave him baths instead of showers, she accused me of neglecting my perfectly healthy, perfectly joyful, perfectly thriving child. It was a bitter irony given I’d been so badly neglected by my mother throughout my childhood.

I begged her many times to stop texting me in the middle of the night. Her torrents sent me into a nervous spin of anxiety-induced insomnia. I even asked her to please instead send her criticisms during daylight so I could address them and soothe her worries but she didn’t give a sh**. All she wanted was drama, control and the starring role in my life, body and mind.

If I didn’t do what she wanted, she either harassed me or ignored me. She screamed at me in front of my children, left my house and slammed the door, making sure to wake my baby, or pressured me to agree to things in company. I’d say yes to save embarrassing and awkward meltdowns from her.

I asked her to go to family therapy with me, and she refused. So I went alone and kept my distance from her.

I realised the abuse had begun early in my life. I was punished with endless housework, never allowed to rest, forbidden from showing emotions or confiding in friends.

My parents fought like cat and dog, then she’d wail for hours and he’d ignore her. I was stuck mediating in the middle and desperate for peace. At 10, I begged them to divorce. They didn’t. I lived on eggshells, cowered by her rages and left horribly exposed by my dad’s indifference and lack of protection. She’d get angry with him, then punish me. If I looked to him for help, he’d be accused of ganging up on her, which cowed him.

My mother would threaten to kill herself by driving the wrong way up the motorway, then make me find the car keys so she could drive off sobbing. I’d wait by the window for hours, willing her to make it back alive. I often wanted to asked the universe to grant her the strength to follow through and leave us all in peace but I couldn’t bear the thought of others being hurt by her unsurprisingly harmful chosen method of self-destruction.

I grew up and grew enraged by her unfair and abusive tantrums. I tried talking to her often, hoping for compromise, or a resolution but she span everything into infuriating circles of nonsense. When I had her bang to rights on something, she stormed out, hung up, gave me the silent treatment, or feigned a heart attack. Yes, really. 

Friends abandoned her, relatives gave her a wide berth, no manager could work with her. She was such a nightmare, even the local pizza delivery company blocked her orders.

Meanwhile, I had to swallow down all the abuse at home because to raise an issue, or ask for fairness would trigger World War 3.

She’d ground me for six months at a time over silly things. For years she secretly read my diaries. I didn’t know, of course, and grew paranoid she or my dad were following me around and spying on me because how else could they know the things they did? I was being controlled and gaslighted at every turn and lived in fear.

She even cut me off from relatives who loved me fiercely for decades. My dad had enough too, separating three times before salvaging the marriage. He did find a convenient escape hatch though - taking a job abroad. I was left alone with her for more than a decade.

Many years later, he apologised to me for 'failing' me. Over a rare dinner just the two of us, his face flushed with shame as he explained he had been too weak to do anything about my mother. "I should have divorced her and got you out of there. I shouldn’t have left you dealing with her alone."

Too little, too late but I was grateful for the validation.

I was running on fumes, living in a constant state of fight or flight, anxiety and low mood. I was hypervigilant, terrified my husband would abandon me, and despite being in therapy for years, had no idea who I was. All my tastes, likes, and dreams were my mothers. My inner voice was hers too, and it was a savage place to be.

In reality, I didn’t actually exist. I wasn’t fully formed.

But becoming a mother cracked a chasm wide open in me. I loved my children unconditionally, was fiercely protective of their peace, safety and our lovely, happy home life.

My husband and I never argued, and it was our golden rule to never parentify our children. We became the adult shock absorbers I had so badly needed as a little girl, forming a steel band of safety, comfort and love around our precious kids.

The first time I’d felt our baby kick inside me, I’d sworn I would never behave like my mother. Unlike her, I’d never threaten to not come to my daughter's wedding the night before because of the flowers (or any reason), I wouldn’t banish my son to his bedroom alone when he had a cold so I wouldn’t get sick. I wouldn’t lie, emotionally blackmail or manipulate them. I’d never stop them going off to university, travelling or moving out - blackmailing them because I was lonely. And I’d never isolate or block them from their relatives or worse, their father.

It was that shove into motherhood and later, intensive therapy, that made me understand my mother was a full-throttle narcissist. There was no fixing it. I finally, painfully, unbearably, decided to go no contact.

I’d tried for years before to lay down boundaries instead, to create a healthier or more tolerable dynamic. But every single one was violated. She flew abroad and gatecrashed my holidays with friends. I told her explicitly not to buy a house a half mile away from mine as it was too close and we’d argue, so she quietly bought one two doors away. I begged her to stop calling me at work so she showed up at the office to embarrass me in front of colleagues.

When my children confided they were frightened of her, I told her not to ask about or pressure them to sleepover at her house. When I was busy cooking, she took them into another room and quizzed them on why they didn’t want to sleepover.

The emotional abuse and manipulation was endless, and I wasn’t willing to let it seep into my children’s lives. The generational trauma had to end with me.

So, despite much personal pain, I went no contact. I blocked her and my dad totally. Even then, after six months, he showed up at my house. Not to say he missed me or loved me, but to tell me they had no idea my problem was, accuse me of being the problem and demand I show willing (ha ha ha) to reconcile. "You refused to go to therapy when Mum asked you," he said and I lost the plot. Such a blatant lie, and utter reversal of the truth. He even tried blaming my husband.

Fair to say I had a volcanic eruption of rage and asked him to leave because what was the point? I’d told him countless times exactly what the problem was, but in recent years, he’d become Mum 2.0. His personality, compassion, understanding and logic had completely evaporated, worn down by the manipulative viper in his nest.

Like that terrifying creature that latched itself onto its victims’ faces in Alien, my dad’s body and mind was no longer his own.

It causes me endless pain, grief so big I often have mental fog and physical pain. But estrangement is the only way. They will never change, accept accountability, listen or apologise for their actions.

Sadly, they will never love me unconditionally.

People don’t often understand how a person can cut off their parents. Society puts parents, especially mothers on a pedestal. Yes, they’re special, but there is a limit to the extra room we give them to make mistakes.

As a mother myself, I know it’s my duty to protect and nurture my children. I’m far from perfect, but I will do as much as I can to keep them safe and allow them to become their truest, authentic selves. I will apologise, listen, change and remedy things to the best of my ability. I will support my children without hesitation.

The title of mother is a gift, not a right, and even then, it doesn’t give mothers a green light to abuse their kids and expect them to tolerate it for a lifetime.

People tell me "but he's your dad," and "you only get one mother." And I tell them, "exactly. Imagine what I’ve been through, how much I’ve tried, how much I’ve contorted myself to tolerate things, that in the end, this has become my only viable option?"

To orphan myself. To grieve so deeply. To shoulder all this pain and hurt, just to have peace and safety.

It’s a fate I’d never wish on anyone. But if estrangement is the only way to keep my sanity, find peace and be myself, then so be it.

The author of this story is known to Mamamia but has chosen to remain anonymous for privacy reasons.

The image used is a stock image.

If you think you may experience depression or another mental health problem, please contact your general practitioner. If you're based in Australia, 24-hour support is available through Lifeline on 13 11 14 or beyondblue on 1300 22 4636.

Feature Image: Getty.