My narcissist psychopath mother left me with a lot of toxic memories. They weigh heavily on my psyche and cast a shadow on everything in my life. Honestly, it brings me great peace to finally bring these dark secrets out into the light. Secrets that I was threatened to keep tucked away in silence, “or else.” She would call this a case of me being “rebellious!” “Wicked!” “Disobedient!”
No. It's just the sort of thing any legitimate investigator at child protective services would want to take into consideration.
When I was a child, she had the upper hand and succeeded to smoothly operate federal and county agencies, presenting the facade of a “Normal, law-abiding church going citizen who could do no wrong.” Most psychopaths do possess a charismatic influence on unsuspecting observers.
My grandmother, whom I loved dearly and was one of the only people I can honestly say, by her actions proved she genuinely loved me. My narcissist mother knew that and was threatened by that bond because it threatened her control, making it her goal to destroy that bond at every opportunity. For instance, in an act of “Triangulation” which is a tool of narcissists, she told me, “When I became pregnant with you, Gertie told me, “Margie! You have no business with another child.” To instill a belief that my own Grandmom did not want me to exist, before I was born. I asked Grandmom. She was offended. She confirmed, “I never said that, Sharon.” Of course she didn't. It was a projection of the Narcissist's own lack of human empathy. Margie didn't feel I deserved the right to exist.
My narcissist mother had a land dispute with my grandmother upon the passing of my granddaddy. So, in 1973, on the matriarch's demand the whole family was uprooted and were moved to another state for an entire decade. I was yanked away from my grandmother at around 3 or 4 years of age. That too, is a story for another day.
In 1983, the Patriarch had a change of heart and wanted to return home. At long last, I got to see my sweet Grandmom again. Before this, I had only gotten to see Grandmom on Thanksgiving holidays, once per year. So, in 1983, Friday nights, I was allowed to visit her. They were some of the best times I had in my childhood. My grandmom would tell me about the “real” Margie she knew. The real Margie people didn't dare openly talk about. The “Jim Jones underbelly” Margie.
In one account Grandmom Gertie explained after Grandaddy's passing in 1973 Margie came to her friend Lily's store. It was an old country store. Miss Lily and Grandmom were at work with produce. Granddaddy was barely fresh in the grave. Margie announced to Miss Lily, “Before Rosemond died, he asked for us to forgive him for any wrong he had done to us!” Miss Lily, who knew the facts since Grandmom Gertie was her friend since childhood, thought. Then asked, “Well Margie, did you ask Rosemond's forgiveness for the wrong you've done to him?” Any sane person would pick up on the Christian connotations implied, but not Margie. Margie snapped defensively, “I never did any wrong to Rosemond.”
Grandmom looked at me, with a silent expression. Yes, we both understood “Margie”.
I loved my Grandmom Gertie and still miss her. She was more of a mother to me, than Margie ever was. She died in 1997 at the same time of the birth of my second daughter. Grandmom had suffered several strokes, which led to her slow, progressive demise. Knowing her imminent fate, my aunt kept her confined in her house, providing necessary care. The last major stroke had rendered my Grandmom incapacitated for the most part. Her eyes remained closed, but she would turn her head toward light or sound, which was evidence she could see and hear, but comprehension was guesswork. Nonetheless, I visited Grandmom with my newborn baby and spoke loudly, since she was hard of hearing.
”Grandmom! It's Sharon. I have the new baby. We're both doing very well.”
The narcissist matriarch, observed, and knowing nobody else was around at that moment, approached us.
In an uncharacteristic way with both hands, intending to appear loving for benefit of potential observers, gently began stroking Grandmom's hair. She whispered where only I and Grandmom could hear her.
”She doesn't hear you. You can't understand her. Can you Gertie!”
It was the final disgusting act that sealed confirmation of the sheer underlying hatred Margie held toward my Grandmom Gertie, and the spite she reveled in toward the bond me and my grandmother had.
A bond which the matriarch had done everything in her power to destroy.
