Mother`s Story

In the interest of fairness I will tell my Mother`s story as best I can from what I know.

She was born in 1927 to a working class Black Country family, the second youngest of 7 children. My Granny was long suffering, not in the best of health and I dare not imagine what her life was like, or the children's. 

 By all accounts my Grand Father was a drinker and a socialiser, a man with a temper, quick with his fists and he liked the best of everything, the children came last. I was told he was a crane driver and it was a well paid job for a working class man so they should of been quite comfortable but he spent the money elsewhere and so the children went to bed hungry and cold and wore hand me downs and ill fitting shoes.

He went out wearing spats and carrying a cane, quite the toff.

If he was narcissistic and I can only surmise that, then that may have been where the seeds where sown with my Mothers issues. 

As the years passed the children tried to get away to a better life. 4 girls and 3 boys, I girl emigrated to Australia, 2 became Nannies, working away, one in London where she settled and married, the other moved to the countryside with her placement, that left my Mother who was thin and frail and ill a lot. She couldn`t seem to hold down a job as 
unreliable as she was and she was generously supported by her brothers. The young brother married a local girl, one brother started a new life in New Zealand though tragedy was ahead and the other brother, having been head boy at his school, secured a draughtsman`s job and lived at home. There is another sad part of this story too.

My Grand Father eventually hung himself, God Rest his Soul.

And my Mother lived at home, in and out of a job, being kept and cared for by her own Mother and brothers. At some point she had a breakdown and spent some time in a psychiatric hospital. She must of been a lot to cope with for her family. When my Father came on the scene they were by all accounts very welcoming and encouraging, eager for her to leave the nest and forge an independent life of her own. 

I will say that she once touched on the dread they all felt when her Father came home, she shared a room with them when she was younger and she once seemed upset when she said `the things that used to go on in that room`

I know she didn`t have a good start in life and I`m sure she was damaged because of it. Sadly she allowed the cycle of abuse to continue instead of breaking the chain.

Maybe that`s just one of the reasons she was unable to have any bond with me like a normal Mother, perhaps she saw me as having the life she was denied so she denied it me too.

My Bible

We were not church goer`s but there was a deep belief in God in our house and He was mentioned on occasion if a little divine intervention was called for. 
So I was raised a believer.

And I did pray, not because I was encouraged to but because I needed all the help I could get some days. My prayers were simple, asking not to get in trouble, could I be more popular, please don`t let them be mad and could I marry Donny Osmond. 

As every child of a Narcissist knows no matter how hard you try it is all to no avail, they are unpleasable but with child like hope try I did, over and over.

I blamed myself as I was trained to do, I must be so bad, I kept making mistakes, I was never good enough, what I did was never good enough so I would try harder, tomorrow I would be perfect, eventually I had to get it right...right ?

But I never could make her happy, it was exhausting and distressing and confusing,
having both a Mother who was never happy with me and a Father that never lifted a finger to help. I cried more and more when I was by myself. I tried not to cry in front of her as I had learned it made her madder, my emotions must never be addressed before hers and a young child's outward distress may easily do that so she threatened me and shouted even my sobs into submission. Even now I rarely sob noisily and when I do it is such a release. Mostly I just let the tears roll down my cheeks impassively.

So I prayed and tried and sobbed in succession, like a hamster on a wheel in a never ending circle. I believed so deeply that God could hear my prayers and was refusing to help that I became angry with Him. And one day it all got too much, I sobbed as I tore 2 or 3 pages out of my Bible, telling him, He couldn`t be real and if he was He couldn`t care about me if He had given me such an evil, horrible Mother and I knew my Father didn`t love me either because he never did anything to help me. 
I felt so ashamed and guilty afterwards, I put the Bible out of sight to ease the guilt.
 Its gone with me to many homes over the years and by chance I came across it recently.
 I saw the stubs from the torn pages and felt such empathy for the child I was then. 
I`m sure God forgave her the second she did it for surely He would of understood she was carrying more than she could bear. 

Music

I have always loved music. 

It lifted my mood, soothed my sadness, preserved my memories and provided a sound track to the emotional roller coaster that always seem to be my life.

I used a portable player to spin my parents old records, `An English Country Garden ` `Lets twist again` `My old man`s a Dustman`...an interesting mix !

 

I listened to the forever dipping in and out Luxembourg Radio and taped my favourites from the Top 40 on dreary Sunday afternoons. I began my collection of 45`s when I got a stereo system for Christmas and was told to keep it down and turn it up depending which way Mother`s mood swung, my Father banging on the ceiling with the mop when it was the later.

 I bought buckled cut price records in Woolworths from the reduced bin and ignored the distorted vocals here and there. Had a shocking selection of tribute bands `TOP OF THE POPS` albums complete with misogynistic pouting model on the cover and bought every album the Bay City Rollers released for which I can only apologise.

My Father introduced me to classical music, our DJ neighbour to jazz, jive and Tamala Motown which for quite a while I pronounced as Pamela Motown ! And my first love introduced to my lifelong love of Northern Soul, KTF, a later love introduced me to New Order and Echo and The Bunnymen. I loved it all, even a little punk crept in with Hersham Boys~Sham 69.

I built myself my own personalised soundtrack to my life. I had discos for one when they went to Bingo, practising my dance moves for the Discos I was just discovering, I sang along, memorised lyrics, daydreamed and drifted away to a better life or sometimes lay on the bed and let silent tears roll down my cheeks, Frankie Valley kindly muffling the occasional little sob I couldn`t quite contain.

Later when I was older I lived to dance, last off the floor I danced til I dare not slip my shoes off because I`d never get them on again. Those days are long gone now but I have a go at Pop Master on radio 2 every day and still enjoy a wide genre of music, spending far too much time on Youtube and wondering where about`s in the loft my old 45`s are.

 Tracks Of My Years

Four Seasons ~ Down The Hall

The Bangles ~ Manic Monday

Elkie Brooks ~ Don`t Cry Out Loud

The Script ~ The Man Who Can`t Be Moved

Billy Ocean ~ Red Light Spells Danger

Stevie Wonder ~ It`s You

Jocelyn Brown ~ Somebody Else`s Guy

Barbara Dickson ~ Another Suitcase In Another Hall

Swing Out Sister ~ Twilight Light World

Audrey Hepburn ~ Moon River

She made me pretend

This is a difficult post to write

For the longest time I pushed it to the back of my mind, feeling uncomfortable about it and remembering how very weird and unsettling it was for me back then, not least because I had no way of knowing if it would escalate or how I would deal with it if it did.

My Mother`s various crazy behaviour had many facets.

Depression, anxiety, hysteria, rages, tantrums, sulks, gaslighting, triangulation, character assassination, manipulation, threats of violence, threats of suicide, inappropriate behaviour, no boundaries, manic behaviour and wild up moods with loud music, alcohol and extravagant spending sprees, rushed intense friendships that quickly ended, down to silent days, weeping, living in the past and only speaking of what had gone before, disassociated with the present, taking to her bed, hypochondria, health anxiety....the list goes on,

a mix of Personality disordered traits, various mental health issues and I believe bi polar presentations, aided by an indulgent, unprofessional long time family Dr who readily prescribed whatever she demanded without ever seeming to get to treating the problem rather than the symptoms, he like my Father, wanted her off his back. `I like Dr so and so` she would say in her little girl voice `He gives me what I want` She took Valium, pain killers and sleeping tablets like sweeties, such was mental health care in the 70`s.

She also had different, voices, personas and personalities which she would slip in and out of at will, unsettling to witness and as she was my primary carer and often alone with me, as a small child it was quite scary. Not only did I not know how Mother would be, at times I did not know who Mother would be either.
If she was reading a Catherine Cookson and there was a nurturing type character who was the heroine, she would speak softly to me for a day or two and I could do no wrong.
Thank God she never read Horror...

From about 9 I can remember her role playing and I unwittingly became a bit player. If she began reminiscing her eyes would shine and widen, she had a permanent half smile and looked about her and off into the distance as if she was seeing something other than what was there. Often triggered by an old movie being on TV that she had seen at the cinema years before with some beau, she would tell me to sit beside her. The living room would be dark, the curtains half closed even if it was afternoon.

 Usually she found physical closeness uncomfortable but now she would want me near. She would get sweets out from her handbag and almost glow with excitement and so she would begin a monologue. She would ramble away as if talking to a new boyfriend, chatting about her favorite films and telling me details of her life as it was then and not now. Laughing coquettishly,  "Axe we is courting Mand"  translated that meant Act as if we were courting Amanda. "Axe we is at the pictures" Why the weird language I have no idea. I found it sickening. At some point she would hold my hand. I would sit as still as possible, my skin crawling, frozen with the weirdness of it all, praying she would loose momentum and her concentration would slip and she would come back to reality and realise where she was. During these episodes she would glance at me from time to time, she would look at me with such gentleness and affection whilst simultaneously looking right through me, not really seeing me at all. Eventually she would trail off and become silent, staring randomly into the distance not at the telly, then a deep sigh or two, she would slump a little, lose my hand, her gaze returning to the TV. 
When she became more aware of her surroundings I would then be dismissed. 
`You can go now` she would say quietly but coldly `And open them curtains`

This happened on and off until I was around 12 when the puzzlement and compliance of my younger days was slowly replaced with a freaked out reaction I found hard to hide, I guess it broke the spell for her and `pretending` came to an end. I was afraid wondering how deeply she would drift away. I was afraid seeing my Mother experiencing some sort of psychosis and having to be part of it.

And the sad part was she never ever look at me with such love and tenderness except when she was pretending I was someone else.
 Imagine how that made me feel.

~

He`s bought that on you

12 almost 13 I am at a disco, an evening wedding reception for a neighbour at a local hall and the lad I worshipped from afar was there. Me, in my isolated little world where I lived to catch a glimpse of him as he walked to the bus stop on his way to the Catholic school,

so close and yet so far. I could not take my eyes off him.
There seems to be a bit of a Frankie Valli theme here !!
 He was 13.

I was with a school friend and she said she liked him too. Towards the end of the evening I watched him walk our way, he was coming over to us, I waited for him to speak to my prettier friend, but he came up to me, wanna go out he says......I was struck dumb but my mate answered for me, Yeah she does, I came to and nodded yes, I`ll call for you tomorrow at 7, what numbers your house ? Seriously I thought my heart would beat out of my chest.

Our Song

We had a brief romance which lasted a few weeks, he was often late for our walks out or didn`t show up at all but I forgave him, hung on his every word and tried to be as entertaining as I could. 

I was always a doormat, no self worth.

My parents were in the midst of their Bingo mad phase at that time. I very daringly allowed him in the house a couple of times when they were out. It was all very innocent, we played records, he bragged about his brother being a DJ and I listened attentively, suitably impressed. He was late leaving one time though and they saw him walking out of our road as they came home and they put 2 and 2 together. Though `disgusted` I think my Mother was also delighted...here was proof I was a bad girl...another way to chip away at the fragile bond between my Father and I. 

When I was younger she had more energy and her rages were more physical, more vicious. I`ve seen her growling and holding a door with both hands to slam it again and again, 4 or 5 times, but now her rages were spent sooner, as she got older and maybe more bitter she was less physical but she went on and on and on, pushing my Father to loose his temper. And he had quite some temper, a lot of it was the stress of walking on eggshells around her and he would just snap. She rose late and napped in the afternoon so come bedtime she was wide awake. He was tired from work but she would start nagging and moaning, at times at him and it would develop into a row for an hour or so and sometimes she was on about me, she would not stop until she got him to get up, stomp into my room, fling the door open, snatch the light on and have a good go at me, jabbing his finger towards me. Only then would she be quite, only then could he sleep. This could happen as late as 2 in the morning. I would be listening to her droning voice through the wall, staring into the dark, tense and on edge waiting for the the landing light to go on...he was on his way.

You can imagine the fall out from my unapproved visitor. It went on for weeks, I was called every name under the sun, accused of just about everything possible. She was never going to let it be over, she was having too much fun. I also think she was jealous because she recognised I was growing up, getting attention from a lad, she knew I was on the cusp of being a young woman and all the fun it would bring, she in turn was into her 50`s, not old at all but her salad years were over and soon I would be slipping from her grasp.

I think they also knew leaving me alone so often at night was wrong too.

I had been listening to the drone of her voice getting louder and more insistent when I heard my Father start shouting, he was in my room before I had time to sit up, he lunged at the bed and hit me hard across the face, the blow forcing my head to spin from left to right into the pillow, his finger was in my face "HE`s bought this on YOU" he ranted, "Thats it Geoff, that`s it" my Mothers excited voice came from behind him, peering round to see the damage, her eyes blazing with delight. I was frozen in fear, bracing myself for another blow, my face burning, my head throbbing, choking on the sobs I was to afraid too let out. 

He threatened me again and stormed out. You`ve only got yourself to blame was her parting shot as she followed him, glowing with satisfaction. I soaked my pillow crying silently into the night. The lad had already lost interest in me, especially as they had been around to his house and had a word about the visits. They had spun a tale they were concerned and protective of me, in reality they were more concerned they would get in bother for leaving me alone for so long and so often at night.

The Comprehensive

So after Grammar school was not an option I moved to the local Comprehensive with everyone else until I was 16.

I walked there and back, some kids got the bus but by the time it turned up I was often nearly home when it passed by. It took about 25 mins each way and I came home for lunch too so that was about 2 hours walking a day. I was slim and fit and also frozen and drenched when the weather was bad.

Mother was usually just about up when I got home. Lunch was anything she had to hand, toast or a paste sandwich, there was nothing one day but cucumber and when I said OK I`ll have that she gave me a beaming smile of approval and said sweetly, " You`re not much trouble are you"

My confidence grew a little and I made a few friends to sit by in the various lessons.

Things got tougher at home though, I went through puberty and Mother the menopause.
I continued to be kept busy with chores and as I grew and Mother aged she took  more of a supervisory role in the housekeeping department.
She also realised I was becoming more clued in to how off things were at home, I was growing up and becoming harder for her to control, I sensed this and it was empowering and I was quicker witted than she was and shot back with one liners more and more. There were some blazing rows and my Father became more menacing in an effort to control me and appease her, he scared me but I tried not to show it.
When I arrived home from school chances are she would be in bed napping, I let myself in with my key but had to call to her so she knew it was me entering the house and not some mad axe man, we never got that lucky.

I was in a quandary here. If I went in and shouted loudly and woke her with a start she would be mad. If I went in quietly and called softly she could not hear me {remember we are in a 3 storey house so she is on the 2nd floor} and if she woke later to the sound of me downstairs she would be mad I had not let her know I was home. It was a fine art calling out at just the right volume. Then there was her reply. A sleepy response meant I`d been successful. A startled response meant I had woke her and it she could not nod back off and got up she`d in a vile mood. Or if she was up and answered me in a sharp voice it meant she was awake and mad about something and I was going to be her verbal punchbag or if she answered in her quiet moody voice `I`m not happy and I`m not saying why ` well that may mean she was waiting to lay into me about something or nothing and maybe waiting to enlist my Father to help her. He had become her bully boy more and more in recent years as her mood was more erratic and she went through the change.
Of course in between all this there were the days when I got home and things were OK but I just never knew when those day would be, I never knew what I was walking into when I was walking home, home where I should of been safe and loved.
I messed about a bit in the last year or so at school, I made friends with a girl who was trouble and I revelled being in the company of someone who just did not care. I wasn`t in any trouble myself but I could of done better if I had tried harder.
I was set on a career in nursing, though all I got from them was that it would be very hard work and I`d be on my feet all day, why would that come as a shock to me I was hardly spoiled was I. I went for an open day at the hospital and was full of excitement.
But when my results came in I didn't quite have what I needed to take the SRN, State registered nurse and so decided I would go for the SEN, state enrolled nurse, I was hoping to work up to the other qualification but when I told my Mother`s sister, my Aunt, she put me off by saying SEN was for duffers so I asked if I could stay on school for an extra year, re take an exam and apply for the SRN.

I was told "Listen Amanda, we`ve kept you all your life and you are 16 now, its time you bought something into the house, you need to get a job and start paying your way"
My Father had been made redundant a couple of times by now and he was in his 50`s so took what he could and the money wasn`t great. They were waiting on my keep to top them up financially. I was too shamed about the SEN course now after my Aunt`s careless words so I felt I couldn`t opt for that and so I left school. I applied for shop jobs in town and wrote lots of application letter`s.... 
"Christ, you don`t need more bloody stamps do you " she moaned.

Jackie Baker

Her name was Jackie

Her name wasn`t Baker though, but sometimes you need to change a name to protect the innocent as they say and this is the unforgiving internet.

Jackie was everything I was not, she was very pretty, blonde, bouncy, always seemed happy and friendly with an easy confidence that comes with being one of the popular girls and I never knew her to have that superior hardness a lot of her crowd had.

Her Mother knew my Mother as they went to the same Bingo and we lived just a street away from them. We also went to the same schools. We never really did more than brush by each other though, we didn`t move in the same circles, I didn`t move in any circles at all.

My Mother liked to tell me all about Jackie Baker, whatever morsels she picked up about her at Bingo were retold, embellished to convey to me how well she was doing...

Jackie loves school ! {I didn`t}
Jackie Baker hangs about with so and so and such and such, why don`t you try and join in with them {because they wouldn`t want me to}
Jackie`s got a boyfriend {I hadn`t yet}
Jackie`s got a Saturday job ! {I didn`t}
Jackie goes to disco`s, goes roller skating etc...
I saw Jackie Baker the other day, she was wearing ____ oh she looked lovely, eyes me and scowls. She revelled in feeding me titbits of Jackie`s fabulous life, so very different from mine, and the more unresponsive I became and uncomfortable I looked the more it confirmed she had found a new stick to beat me with.
If she was at a loose end and fancied some sport Jackie would be mentioned and her mean eyes would shine with delight, a sickly smile curling up the corner of her lips.

My Mother had bought something from Jackie`s Mom`s catalogue and it fell to me pop over every other weekend and pay the instalment.
She would eye me up to see if I `would do` before I left. `Put a bit of make up on Amanda` she would instruct me `make a bit a something of yourself`
More proof I wasn`t good enough.

I grew to hate Jackie Baker, not the girl herself, I smiled at her in passing and she smiled back but I hated what she stood for, a constant and ready reminder of all the ways I was found wanting. How I would never be good enough.
It was Jackie Baker this, Jackie Baker that.

When I briefly had my first boy friend I told him a little about things at home, it was hard to explain for me and hard to understand for him though he did pick up on the changing atmosphere at home when he visited, it bounced from oh, come in, come in to Is he here again? I also told him about Jackie Baker.

We were walking along one day and bumped into Jackie, looking fabulous as ever, she said Hi and so did I and when she passed I told my Lad who she was.
He wrinkled up his nose and said "Doesn`t look anything special to me"
He was lying of course but he was lying to show his loyalty to me, he was on MY side, 
imagine that ! What a rarity. 

Why

She had been agitated and edgy all day. Itching to find something to vent whatever was eating away at her. It could go two ways, a full blown Narc rage or silent sulkiness where everyone would pander to her to make her `happy again`

We sat side by side on the sofa watching TV. Arms crossed she had a sullen expression and her head was down, forcing her to have to raise her eyes to see the screen, making her look even more like a sulking child.

A troop of young girl dancers are introduced and they begin an energetic routine, all jazz hands and cheesy smiles, head to toe in sparkles and sequins. I`m enjoying the show when out of the blue, sensitive to others energy, I am aware of a change in Mother.

She stiffens and straightens, folding her arms tighter, she flicks both her foot and then her elbow several times as if trying to shrug something unpleasant off. The elbow thing is a frequent habit and a sure sign of trouble. And then...

"WHY can`t YOU be one of those dancers on there AMANDA ?"

Her voice was icy with accusation and anger.

Despite anticipating something was `up` I wasn`t expecting an attack of this kind. It was so random, so indefensible, without logic and yet delivered with such indignation...

How on earth did I reply, how did I even begin to explain why I was not one of these talented bright young things on the TV show..... 

Bizarre does not even begin to cover it.

She didn`t seem to need any answer and reached for her library book, elbow now on the arm of the sofa, her chin resting in her cupped hand, head down, posture slumped. 

Another familiar none verbal sign, `I`m about to go into one of my depressions, I`m not happy and you all better know it`.

I sat beside her feeling an inexpiable sense of guilt and shame. My face hot and red, my tummy turning over. I dearly wanted to leave the room but was scared it would set her off again as I had offered no defence to her question.

I waited, watching the hands of the clock move slowly round, the TV programme forgotten.

When she had been reading for a while, a few pages turned, I was reassured enough that she was focused elsewhere. Standing, I began to creep past her, heading for the relative safety of my bedroom. As my hand touched the door handle.....

`TURN THAT OFF` 

She nods at the TV at the same time as tutting at me as I had jumped out of my skin.  Whenever I showed my nerves by being jumpy that in itself would illicit an exasperated reaction, `For goodness sake why was I like that, I needed to grow out of that softness`.

The Analysis 

All these years on and after endless reading and research in my non professional way I can at least see the tip of the iceberg. I will offer my slightly more informed take on what was in her head. And what a scary place that must be !

She`s had no Narcissistic supply for a while. She has no sense of self and all validation must come from outside sources. Basically she was `rattling`, with no supply she was in need of a fix.

Seeing the TV show she imagines being the Mother of one of the performers, all the glory and attention, swanning around the studio full of grandiosity, a Narc Mother`s dream. Basking in the second hand glory of her daughter`s achievements, what a little star she had produced, why I must get my talent from her ! 
But in reality her dull little under-performing, disappointment of a daughter was just sitting beside her, achieving nothing, a failure in her Mother`s eyes.
The rush of hatred that bristled out of her was undeniable and hard to hide, not that she would of tried to.
Her unhappiness was all my fault and she let me know it by demanding to know why SHE had been denied all of that by me. Why I wasn`t like those girls who surely made their Mothers proud.

I could never be good enough, however hard I tried.

Its a sad fact that I never truly understood this until a year or so before her death, I wasted years of my life endlessly trying to please her and jumping through ever changing, ever smaller hoops.

Can you imagine if I had wanted to become a dancer, can you imagine her paying for and taking me to weekly dance classes, buying outfits and standing on the sidelines while I pranced about with the spotlight firmly fixed on me not her....
why, it`s almost laughable.

  

The suffering of Others

I realised there was something very wrong with my Mother from a very early age.

Over the years how I described it often changed as I understood more, suffered more, grew older and wiser and finally with a little help from the internet had the light bulb moment and found it has a name and I`m not alone.

I went from, my Mommy`s horrible {don`t say that}, 

Mom doesn't like me {of course she does}

 my Mother`s evil {that`s a wicked thing to say}

 I hate my Mother {me too, no hash tag}

to feeling like the mystery was never going to be solved after she died,

googling evil Mother and then there it was,

Narcissistic Mother

and it was her, her all over, exactly her.....I grinned like an idiot and sobbed like a fool 

and then read til my eyes nearly bled and my head was ready to explode with the 

even further validation that the phrase Daughter Of a Narcissistic Mother was popping up again and again

I was not alone......oh God....poor souls...

Before I had a label for it though I saw the same type of abuse happening about me on a few occasions.

The Girl On The Bus

On the bus, two girls about 11 or 12 get on with a woman. It becomes apparent she`s the Mother of one and the other girl is a friend. The girls sit together and she sits in front.

They begin to chatter excitedly, off for a trip to town and a burger. Mom however, instead of looking ahead and allowing them their privacy to chat away, sits half turned eavesdropping and it soon becomes apparent she`s leaping in every chance she gets to add something, a sly dig at her daughter, a little unnecessary teasing, a put down here and there, mocking and sniping and laughing merrily away as if its all in good fun and she`s one of the girls. Except it it`s not in good fun. Its classic Narc Mom behaviour. 

Every time the girls try to carry on chatting or the subject bounces around to school, boys, music, fashion, whatever, Mom`s straight in with a thinly veiled dig.

I watch as the happiness drains from the daughters face, she begins to blush and looks uncomfortable, eyeing her Mother nervously, wondering how far this will go, the friend looks puzzled and laughs along at first then picks up on her friends tension and goes a little quiet leaving the Narc Mom to talk at the two silent faces, giggling at her own jokes talking about, herself. 

I would dearly like to grab that woman's head and slam her face into the bus window a few times, at least til blood is drawn, possibly a broken nose and few broken teeth thrown in for good measure would be good and shout to the daughter to run like hell.

Yes I still tend to daydream when triggered.

Oh dear ! Dear little Amanda !!

I stand for my stop and catch the girls eye, I give her a warm, gentle smile, she pauses wondering why some random woman is smiling at her but I hold her gaze and deepen my smile and she seems to understand I am conveying my sympathy and she accepts it with a soft smile in return. I move forward down the bus and pause hoping to catch Narc Mom`s eye and deliver her my best filthy `I`ve got the measure of you` look but shes smiling to herself and is away with the faeries.

I have thought about the girl numerous times since then.

The Girl At The Shopping Centre

I had parked my car and was on the way into a shopping centre when I heard shouting.

Along the lines of ..you`re so naughty, I hate you, nothing but trouble, come on, hurry up.

As I move through the sliding doors I see a young girl about 6, pale, scruffy and sullen, she is fastened around the wrist with a toddler strap and holding the other end is a thin, haggard looking woman, she`s dressed as if much younger and I wonder if its her own child but then she says something like wait til I tell your Mom you little....she yanks again at the strap and child gets pulled along, I`m sure she says Gran to her and the woman again says something about wait til you get in....

I`ve walked past now but turn to see them stop in an alcove by the door and seem to wait for someone, the girl sits down on the floor and the woman carries on cursing her though tones it down as she sees me taking it all in.

I carry on slowly my mind racing, I want to say something but what, it was bad but was it bad enough for me to have good grounds to intervene, I drift into a shop and realise I`m triggered, back to when I was taken home and knew I was for it. I start browsing, realise my hand is shaking and my eyes blurred with unfallen tears. I should of said something, I walked right by, but if I said something and the woman got really mad it may make it ten times worse for the girl when she got home....What to do...what to do...I leave the shop quickly, looking around for maybe a security guard, no luck and as I retrace my steps I find them gone, I dash outside frantically looking about....no sign

I went back in and tried to carry on with my shopping but I could not settle,

I drove home with tears rolling down my face

to this day I don`t know if my intervention would of made it worse rather than better but I so wish I had tried.

The Daughter Of A Friend

I knew she was a Narc after a couple of chats. Especially how she spoke of her daughter, oh it was all very cheery and light hearted but it was always about her faults and how much trouble she caused...we are always late because she hasnt got something...she never wants to come with me I don`t know why...off to parents evening wonder what shes been up to now...look at the state of her, look at her bag, her shoes her hair etc

All the time the girl silent and straight faced other than an odd eye roll.

So one morning I`m hurrying along and see the daughter ahead of me and ahead of her I hear Narc Mom...come on come on you always make us late, I catch the Daughter up as she`s dawdling and just as I over take her I spin around and say "It won`t last forever you know you can get away when you are older, do anything, go anywhere" the Daughter looks flabbergasted and I give her a cheeky wink and say "NO REALLY, You can !!!"  And with that I catch her Mom up. 

We part ways shortly and by now the Daughter is grinning from ear to ear, I wink again and tell her Don`t forget and she laughs, Narc Mom glances between the two of us wondering what she`s missed. 

I have seen her once since, winked and laughed and she`s nodded and laughed back.

I hope that young lady will be one of the luckier ones that breaks free early.