Closing the Casket on The Narcissistic Mother

This is a hard post to write, but I know I have to write it. It’s kind of like the period at the end of the sentence. Or the lid on a jar. It closes and seals. I’m closing the casket on my mother.

A few years ago, I wrote a post about dealing with a narcissistic mother. It was a hard post to write because I had to make some people uncomfortable or unhappy with me if I was going to be honest.

And, if I wasn’t going to be honest, there was no sense in writing the post. Part of my purpose in writing this blog is to help heal from all the pain and trauma I experienced in my life. There’s no healing in lying.  I revisited the topic again later in a different post.

My mother died in April. Our relationship had not improved. I didn’t really expect that it would. She could never understand what she was doing that was so offensive to me. It literally was beyond the realm of her comprehension.

And I could not live peacefully with her lack of respect for my boundaries. That was my biggest issue with her. Instead of allowing me to be an independent adult, individual, she wanted me to be an extension of her, and thus controlled by her head instead of my own.

Poor Dan got accused of controlling me every time my will didn’t match hers. It was inconceivable that my will should be different than what she wanted.

I’ve had so many mixed feelings over the years. How could I respect and treat her as my mother and still protect my emotional health with boundaries?

It’s kind of like cooking hot dogs on a stick over a campfire. The fire is necessary, but if you get too close you will get burned. My mother was that fire.

Sure, I could cook my hot dogs another way and avoid the fire altogether (in other words, completely shut out my mother.) But then I wasn’t giving her the respect due as my mother.

I chose to roast my hot dogs with a 5-foot pole. I kept distance but allowed minimal contact. The problem is that sometimes that pole caught fire and flames licked my fingers. She was always trying to find a way to close the gap. But, every time she did I got burned.

Her health gradually declined. A smoker most of her life, she developed COPD early. I remember her having a smoker’s cough before I was 15 years old. It was embarrassing because it sounded like she was coughing up a lung.

In time, my sister and her family moved in to take care of her. Since there were two apartments in the house it worked out as far as living quarters went.

Of course, as time went on, my mother’s health grew worse. She did less and less for herself and demanded more from her children. It took a toll on those who lived with her.

About 3 years ago, I tried to bury the hatchet yet again. I went to visit her and was shocked at what I saw.

My mother, who had always been plump for as long as I could remember, had withered away to less than 100 pounds. Not only was she skin and bones, but she had no strength. With every step she took with her walker, she let out a cry of pain. She hadn’t been exercising her muscles enough and they didn’t work.

My sister was not to blame for this. She and her family did their best to help her and tend to her needs. My mother was stubborn and choosing not to do the things necessary to keep her body going well.

I felt stuck. I didn’t want her to continue to live this way, but I didn’t want to open the door wide to her either. But, if something didn’t change, she would have no life. I was the oldest child and the responsible one. I felt it was up to me to initiate change.

After talking to my siblings, I contacted the local aging and disability center to get help. We arranged for a meeting with them for my mother. My goal was for her to get professional help to come in and work with her. They would have a better chance of getting her to take better care of herself.

My efforts were futile. My mother still had to agree to the help. She refused. Her argument was that she would have to apply for government assistance and she wanted nothing to do with that. She would have qualified and it would have all been covered if not for her stubborn stance on help.

More time passed. Her muscles grew so weak she couldn’t hold a regular coffee mug. She needed more help than my sister and her family could provide. She required someone trained to help an elderly person in her condition. I tried selling her on the idea of assisted living. She absolutely refused. She fully intended to die in her apartment.

Through all of this, I tried to be available but distant. If I allowed even a little extra she pushed for smothering me again.

Then, in March of this year, she fell. About 3 weeks later, she fell again. She spent a week in a nursing home “to recover”. When she realized she was probably never going back to her apartment, she literally gave up her spirit and died.

My sisters and I were at her bedside when she died. I had a hard time. Even though I knew she was dying and was no threat, I was afraid to be there. It was as if I expected her to make a miraculous recovery because I was there and start smothering me.

I know there were things I was expected to do, like say, “I love you,” or touch her in some way. But, I couldn’t bring myself to do either. For one thing, it felt too false. I couldn’t say or do something I didn’t mean.

But, also, even thinking about doing either made me feel physically sick. I can’t explain why. I have no answer. It’s just how I have felt for a very long time.

At her deathbed, I let her know I was there and I prayed for her and for us. I cried when she took her last breath. It still hurt.

It’s been a month. I’m still not sure where I’m at emotionally. There is a noticeable void. It’s an emptiness, but an unlabeled one. It’s a feeling of something missing that you can’t put your finger on.

I feel guilty relief that I don’t have to dodge her phone calls anymore. Or cringe at something she tactlessly posted on Facebook.

I know what I’m supposed to say, but I don’t do things because they are expected. And I won’t lie.

I’m supposed to say I miss her and life is empty. But, I don’t feel that way.

I mourned the loss of my mother a few years ago when I had to go no contact. Today I mourn the loss of what could have been, the relationship we never had.

I do recognize the loss. And, I do feel an empty space in my life. I do think of her off and on throughout the week, and I remember her in my prayers. But, to say I miss my mother, I would be lying.

I’m not sure how I’ll feel in the days to come. It’s all still kind of new and fresh. Maybe at some point, I’ll revisit this topic yet again if my emotions change. But for now, I think I can safely write …

The End