Narcissistic father . All lovers and partners have all originated from this core wound.

My father, my hero, my everything. My first heartbreak. My pattern for codependence. My pattern for conditional approval. What would I like to say about my relationship to my father, and why am I writing about it?

Well, in order to heal unresolved trauma I need to focus on and what caused the pain in the first place. When I cried today I saw my dads face in my minds eye. My inner being tried to bring attention to the unresolved, suppressed trauma. I would like to say, first and furthermost, that this is my healing journey. I am not writing about this to slander anyone or to intentionally hurt someone. Writing is my modality of healing, but my words being received by others is what actually enables my healing. This is how I heal myself.

Secondly, this is my perception of my father, through my filters with my overlays, coloured by my personal traumas and heightened sensitivity. It is highly unlikely that anybody else’s perspective of him will match mine. We are wired different, what I notice others might never ever pay attention to, what is the most important thing to me, others might never have heard of. Keep in mind that this is just my perspective, with faults, cracks and illusions. Undoubtedly.

I was born to a young married couple, studying medicine at university. They were 24 years of age living with dad’s mother, sister and niece. When I was born they moved in with granddad. Not the best relationship between the women in the family. My dad’s niece was like a daughter to him.

I was born a month pre-mature and the first couple of days my chances of surviving were slim. Dad got his first grey hair. He was into many different healing modalities to ensure my health was optimal. Yet my immune-system was overloaded and I suffered from chronic inflammation growing up. Dad tried to academically ensure I would become the best person ever. I was sent to pre-school and the age of 3. Almost as soon as I began to talk properly.

I have a memory of the family sitting in the living room while dad recites poems that he had written to my mom and me. He also picked up his guitar and sang some songs he had composed. I remember him bringing home lilacs for me and mom. He had a phrase he’d always say to me ” you and I, are of the same blood”. I remember feeling that it was specifically him and I, not him, my mother and I. It was implied that only me and my dad were the same, only me and my dad belonged together. And so enmeshment began.

I don’t remember much of my mom really… the one thing that does come up is a fight she had with my dads mother and my aunt. Then my mom would cling to me and make me sit on her lap, the feeling was more like I was a prisoner, or hers, and that she got to decide when, and how much I interacted with anyone else.

In the mornings my parents would have to leave for university and leave me with my emotionally unavailable grandmother. I would scream at my father every morning to not leave me, that I would do anything as long as he stayed for just five more minutes. When they left I would hide in my mothers robe, cry and smell her perfume. I remember that I couldn’t logically reason as to why I was so upset, and everyone would tell me that they would return, it didn’t matter to me. To me I was abandoned. Over and over again.

When people asked me what I wanted to become when I grew up, I would answer ”my dad”.

When he boarded a train to build us a better life abroad, it broke my heart. In my mind dad always ”had to” leave me, it was always someone or something taking him away from me. He left for a scholarship and 3-4 months later me and mom would move to him as well. But we didn’t know this when he left that day. I resented the world after that. I wanted nothing and no-one. But when I met my father a couple months later, it was just not the same thing. During those months I had been dreaming of his funeral every night. And I didn’t have anyone to soothe me. I recall no memories of me cuddling with my mom. I only remember us running errands and her not having time to deal with my stupid emotions.

What becomes really difficult while writing this, is navigating the gaslight. I don’t know what the truth is, and that is scary. Relying on my memories and my emotions, then I didn’t have a loving family, I didn’t have a family at all. I had people who threatened me weekly, occasionally would hit me for disobedience (til this day I don’t know what in my actions was so wrong) and on random occasions said they loved me. A weekend always contained a massive argument, threats and tears, candy, watching a movie, maybe riding our bikes somewhere, some form of play/games/ crafts and fights over homework that I didn’t understand (should have done during the week and not procrastinated) and needed help with. I don’t understand it. I don’t understand why we couldn’t live a peaceful life. I was marked as the family problem. 20 years later I would stumble upon Teal Swans teachings and recognise myself in the family scapegoat.

My parents were fighting a lot, and it would get really nasty. But a couple hours later they would pretend it never happened. Or the next morning it would be as if nothing had happened. Never ever ever would any resolution occur or communication happen. But one thing that would solve things yet still would entail some form of punishment later, would be if I apologised. So I did. I became really good at apologising. For everything.

In my teenage years I decided that I would rather take a beating than apologise for something I didn’t do. In the end they would somehow put enough pressure on me that I eventually would give in and apologise. Usually ”enough pressure” would mean that they would turn other people against me, making me ashamed of being who I am and making me question why anyone even bothered to be my friend or like me. I would be told that nobody really cared for me, that I was a joke and a burden for everyone involved, that the only reason people dealt with me was because they had to and because of their good manners.

My mom was the master manipulator in the household, she could turn anyone against anyone and you’d never be able to prove your point even if you had proof, witnesses and a powerpoint-slide. In fact, any of those ridiculous tactics for justice meant that you disrespected your mother and had to be punished/ put in your place.

I liked to tell myself that my father had no option, that he had to hit me, that he had to punish me, that he had to scream at me and reject me, otherwise my mom would do those things to him. After I apologised, my dad would tell me that he loves me and that he would continue to love me no matter how much pain I cause him or how much hardship I put him and the family through.

” If we love someone, we accept them no matter what.” You must love your mother. You mustn’t pick fights with her. This was what I was told by my father when I would come to him for support and protection. Going back to these memories is really painful because I’m confused and I can’t make any sense of it. But it feels good to have it written down, staring at me black on white, as if a first step toward owning my own reality.

Truth is, I identified with what they said about me. That is something I realised while writing this blogpost. I identified with their reasoning as to why these bad/unpleasant things happened to me. Why I didn’t have any friends, why my cousin rejected me, why no boys liked me, why I was fat, why I was a disappointment to my sister, why my grades weren’t good, why I was lazy. Why every relative was ashamed of me, why I didn’t deserve to get a dog, why no one would ever love me, why I was miserable. It might even have worked for me if it wasn’t for the inconsistency.

The fighting didn’t happen everyday, the judgements weren’t worded everyday. Somedays they were in a good mood, and then I had to match their mood otherwise that would be the point of argument. We would go on trips, visit places, go to restaurants, I would get to meet up with friends, cute boys would smile at me. Some cute boys would talk to me. People would call me their friend and invite me over for birthdays and sleepovers. Teachers would occasionally agree with me, sometimes I’d get a good grade. Relatives would send me gifts and hug me when we met. Parents would tell me they loved me and drive me to different events or pick me up from places. They would occasionally buy me things.

It was that inconsistency that would drive me mad. It was the lack of explanation when I’d ask ”but why did you tell me yesterday that I was a big fat cow and a loser?” that til this day keeps me in a mental prison. I didn’t get any answers and I still don’t have any answers. Everything is just as confusing to me today as it was while I was growing up. I still don’t know why.

As I identified with what my parents were saying about me, I also manifested that into my existence. But I also manifested the opposite. Because I was also identified with the opposite, and well I don’t know… I really don’t know. But I see now, how I took on certain accusations and made them my truth. The sad thing is I have no way to actually find proof for if I am a horribly selfish, obnoxious fat cow that is a disappointment to her whole family and needs psychiatrical care, or not? The only power I have is to choose what proof I want to find. This might be confusing and not make much sense, but people are a match to what they want to find. If I want proof or an explanation I might go into self-blame, thereby being blamed by others and creating that proof that yes, I am the problem. But not my whole internal being is on board with self-blame. There are parts within me that are aware of that I grew up in a dysfunctional family with patterns of behaviour that existed there long before I was born. And those pattern haven’t changed within that family so why would I be the cause of that? Those parts within me thereby create opposite proof. So what is true? And how should I act? Whom should I be? Do my parents hate me or love me? Am I deserving of love? Will my life work out? Will I be happy?

I’ve been told that I am too much of a black-or-white thinker. That the world is grey and that both truths are real yet neither of them are at the same time. I don’t comprehend that. I don’t even understand how I would move forward with that knowledge. I need something that makes sense to me to serve as my foundation upon which I can build an image of self. I don’t need more contradictory truths. I didn’t think I signed up for a 3D perspective that’s actually non unanimous at all, and everyone involved can have their own perception and truth isn’t a given. Even physical proof can me illusional. Did my parents hit me? Yes they did. Do they acknowledge the fact that they did? Not always, some days yes, some days no. Did my parents hit me constantly everyday til I was black and blue? No. Do they use that question as a justification? Yes they do. Still, I don’t understand. I don’t want my parents to be monsters. And even if they are, I still love them and I want to build a good relationship with them. I can even stop always trying to find truth in the past, as long as they stop the abuse. But they haven’t stopped, it still continuous til this day. Both conscious and subconscious.

I don’t want to choose a truth, find proof for it, only to make my parents into monsters and lose all possibility to create a loving family with them. I also can’t suppress the things that I observe currently going on, and I can’t ignore the inner truths of some of my parts. This makes me want to scratch my way out of my skin. And so my eczema gets worse. There is a futility that I don’t want to acknowledge. It takes two to tango. There are some patterns present that look like my parents don’t desire a change in the family dynamic. For example they don’t make any alteration so as to bring about any changes. Doesn’t matter how big the conflict gets, how many people get hurt in the process, how many friendships are lost or how bad someones health gets, nothing makes them want to change their relationship pattern. Nothing makes them want to learn to communicate and consider others. To be kind. To not intentionally hurt others. To take others as a part of oneself. Nothing. I don’t understand why someone wouldn’t want to learn communication and conflict resolution. They don’t desire to understand another. That is an area where I have yet to grow. Currently I still wish for everyone to learn conflict resolution and I can’t find approval for lack of awareness, given the possibility to become aware of ones own patterns. Maybe that is me struggling to take them as a part of myself too.

At least I get to love you, right?

I’d like to conclude this post by making an observation of my own patterns. These patterns were created through everything mentioned in this post, most of all my dads way of being. I decided that taking others as a part of myself and caring for them felt good, and that that was something that would always be in my control. I would always be able to choose to love someone and take their best interests as part of my best interests. I told myself that I could be happy as long as I had someone to love. As long as I had someone to give to. Even if I didn’t get anything back. I told myself that people would love me if they could, they would chose to not hurt me unless the opposite had to happen. If they ended up having to hurt me, because they needed to take care of themselves and ensure that they themselves don’t get hurt by others, I still got to feel good about their presence in my life because I still got to choose to love them. And love felt good, love felt positive. Love would save the world, no matter what. Letting a person go, or choosing something that didn’t bring me pain, was out of the question because then I would give up my sense of control. And I couldn’t afford that. There was enough instability in my life, who I love was my choice. My stability. I’d decide that I love someone and that was the end of it. I would adhere to their best interests no matter what, they would have no say in it. I would always be available to anyone who wanted to care for me, otherwise I would feel guilty. I think that is why I struggle so much with letting go of my father and mother. I want to love them so bad. I see them as a part of myself. Their best interest seems to be that I forgive them no matter what. That I stay around no matter what, that they have someone to let their anger out on, no matter what.

Finally, analysing this pattern I see that I’m only creating a war between parts of myself. I also see that them, as parts within me, are not compatible with other parts whose needs are stability, kindness and safety. So I enable internal abuse, just like I experienced in my childhood, and I tell my other parts to just ignore it because at least I get to love.

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