Until recently I never thought of myself as a victim of abuse, a survivor of domestic violence yet I am. The feeling of dread, unworthiness, I come last, the idea that my feelings don’t matter makes sense now that I understand domestic violence and the narcissists who are the perpetrators.Until very recently in 2021, I wasn’t even aware of what my feelings and desires were. I spent my life assuaging others and second guessing everyone else’s needs before mine.

My story begins with a 21-year-old mother meeting a 31-year-old abused man who became a wife beater. According to my mother, my father’s mother, called Olive used to beat him with a belt while he was in the bath. That caused my mother to forgive him and try to fix him her whole life at the expense of her children and her own emotional and physical wellbeing. She was beaten up regularly by my violent father who people said, lived with a giant chip on his shoulder.

My mother was also a narcissist who threatened to ‘batter’ me if I didn’t tow the line. For example, one of my earliest memories is her threatening to batter me when we got home if I didn’t stop asking for sweets when we were out shopping. She spent a great deal of time in and out of Winwick mental hospital and on tranquilisers and sleeping pills. She had no love for any of her six children. We all suffered from being the children of these two narcissists who were more concerned about maintaining their toxic co-dependant relationship that loving and caring for their kids.

Being brough up as the scapegoat caretaker caused me to marry Gordon, a sly, nasty, timid type of narcissist who devalued me and hated me from day one. I was used by him as someone to control, for emotional fuel, the residual benefits of me basically living his life for him, and character trait acquisition when he fed off my ability to interact socially and be ‘popular’ while he is socially inept.

I have come to realise that my life has been filled with narcissists. Parents, friends, siblings, husband, other relatives.
The following posts tell my story and the story of the poor people who were raised by my parents and the children of my parents. And so, the tragedy of psychological and emotional trauma passes down through the generations.


How I Ended Up With A Narcissist.

Poor Me Face Rubbing

Poor Me Face Rubbing

Gordon was a  'poor me' victim type of narcissist. He sighed, huffed and puffed and rubbed his face a lot. This...

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