Overcoming Narcissism
- Silvia Fiorita Smith
- 2 days ago
- 10 min read
by Silvia Fiorita Smith
When I was younger, I had read that narcissism was named for the figure Narcissus from Greek mythology. Narcissus was so taken with his own reflection in a pool of water that he eventually paid for this self-absorption by being unable to experience love with another being. Though it is healthy to possess self-love, it becomes troublesome when one is incapable of mutually loving another human being. This inability to empathize and understand another person’s needs leads to destructive behaviour, and relationships suffer as a result. The deleterious effects of narcissistic behaviour have been better understood and defined over the past several years. There are websites on the Internet and books published on the subject today, but I didn’t know exactly how narcissistic abuse had affected me personally. I was in my late fifties when I confronted the behaviour that had caused so much angst in my life. We all know someone who is overly vain or conceited but who doesn’t fit the description for narcissistic personality. I can’t diagnose the people who hurt me as having a disorder, but they certainly fit the description for narcissistic behaviour.
I grew up with immigrant parents who came to Canada from Southern Italy in the 1950s. My father was the first to emigrate, followed by my mother and siblings four years after he arrived. I was born from their reunion. What I didn’t know as an infant was that my family lived with a husband and father who ruled with an iron fist. For reasons no one could comprehend, he rejected my eldest sister, who was sixteen years old when I came into the world. He hated the very sight of her and was furious that my mother had brought her to Canada with the other children.
Apparently, my early life was rampant with chaos as my father raged at my sister. I have no recollection of the ongoing fights until I was about four years old, and I remember how my father slapped my sister across the face when she was late getting home. This episode resulted in my sister leaving home in the middle of the night. My father banned her from the family home forever and warned the rest of us not to have any dealings with her. He made it quite clear there would be dire consequences if we communicated with her. My mother secretly held clandestine meetings with her, sneaking out food and some money to help her out. There was so much tension in our home, you could cut the heavy air with a knife. My father was distant and morose, going to work and coming back home but rarely interacting with the rest of us. He continued to warn us that we would meet the same fate as my sister if we didn’t obey him. As he was fond of saying repeatedly, “There are two doors in this house. You can pick the one you want to leave through.” Ironically, my eldest sister had escaped through her bedroom window.
As a result of my father’s rejection, my mother became resolute in protecting and rescuing her eldest child. My mother also became emotionally unavailable to me. She was religious and prayed continually for the schism between my father and sister to heal. In the meantime, she vented her feelings to me and placed me in the awkward position of having to choose sides. I was afraid of my father, but this fear worsened with my mother’s assertions that my father was an evil man who did not deserve love or respect.
I was placed in the position of sounding board for my mother at a very young age. She never confronted my father for fear he would throw all of us out. She was in a new country without family and couldn’t even speak the language. I can now understand her dilemma at the time, but I was a young child who craved attention and stability. I received neither from either parent. I couldn’t voice my growing anxiety then, and developed a fear of dying when I was about ten years old, when I refused to go to school as I worried about getting hit by a car.
My father showed no affection towards any of us. Instead, he berated us for not showing him the respect he deserved for working hard every day to feed us and put a roof over our heads. He gave my mother very little money for grocery shopping. She had to take in children to watch and do some piecework for a factory to make ends meet. My mother was up at dawn and in bed by midnight every day, while my father boasted that he did not have a wife who was forced to work outside the home. As for my obsession with dying, it was my school principal who sat me down one afternoon and quelled my fears by showing me some understanding and compassion. I learned early on that I had to depend on other adults to provide me with a sense of security that I lacked at home. I became close to an aunt who lived near us, and would go to her home often to escape the troubles at home. She had a solid marriage and was content. I needed that outside relief.
The world in my childhood revolved around three major players: my mother, father, and eldest sister. Though my sister was not physically present in the home, she played a huge role in creating more tension for us. She was angry and hurt, and understandably so, but she thrived on crises, many of them self-created. Every crisis meant we were drawn into rescuing her, and all this had to be done without my father’s knowledge. It was constant drama, culminating in my increasing anxiety and fear. Teachers noticed my lack of confidence. I performed well in school but was extremely shy and sensitive, where I teared up easily. My father never complimented me on an excellent report card, and he expected no less.
Though I had two older siblings who tried to provide the affection I lacked from my parents, they, too, lived with ongoing trauma and had their own angst to resolve. My mother seemed to relish the role of sainted martyr. As I grew older, I began to resent her chokehold on me. Her constant complaining to me and drawing me into my sister’s messed-up life was too much. But I never confronted her. I was an empath. I listened to her all the time. She met me at the door as soon as I returned home, and we isolated ourselves in my bedroom, where she ranted about my father’s treatment of my sister. “He has to pay for this someday,” she asserted. I only grew more tense. At times, I thought I might burst and shake her. I wanted to cry out, “Leave me alone!” But I didn’t. I felt an intense loyalty to her, and I wanted to avoid the feelings of guilt I would have if I ignored her. She never asked me how I felt or showed any interest in my life. She was consumed with taking care of my eldest sister. I kept my feelings bottled up. I came from a tradition where parents were to be respected and honoured regardless of how they treated you, and I, too, feared abandonment. I was dependent on them financially, even up until my early twenties.
The ironic thing is that my parents were liked by our neighbours and friends. They always put their best foot forward and were helpful and friendly to strangers. They just couldn’t show that same outward affection to their family. People complimented me on having such lovely parents. I felt a twinge of guilt. Was it me? Was I overly sensitive? Was I being too judgmental?
In the Italian way of life, there is the concept of “bella figura”, which literally means “beautiful face”. We lived under its shadow. It means that no matter how much our family was imploding at home, we always put our best face on for neighbours and friends. No one was ever to guess that anything was amiss. It was a cultural phenomenon not unlike the Asian concept of “saving face”. My parents transported this value to their new country and inculcated it in their children. We were always questioning our actions and reactions along the lines of whether it would put our family to shame. That was the ultimate taboo.
I left home to get married; this was what a proper Italian young woman did. My wedding was really what my parents wanted. My older siblings had done the unacceptable. My brother married before a justice of the peace; my other sister had left home as a single woman and moved into an apartment downtown. My parents could not forgive her. This was all against the cultural norms of Italian life. Italian society had evolved during the years my parents were living in Canada, but they still had the mindset of the old country they had left years earlier.
A few relatives who knew my father’s disposition claimed he was just displaying typical Southern Italian macho characteristics, that many men of his era behaved in the same manner. They were self-righteous and aloof, showing disdain for husbands and fathers who displayed affection. I grew up with many Italian friends, and their fathers were not perfect, but they treated their children with kindness. They, too, had made many sacrifices for their children. My father demanded special attention; he never acknowledged that other men had to work just as hard for their families. I often felt that my father resented being saddled with five mouths to feed; he once claimed to have his happiness cut short by his marriage to my mother.
Once I left home, I thought I would leave the drama behind me. But I only felt more guilt-ridden. I was the last one to leave, and my mother was now alone with my father. She had once begged me to stay with her. I felt responsible for her happiness. How could I get on with my life when hers was so miserable? I was relieved to leave my eldest sister’s constant harassment. All I wanted was some peace and sanity, but the three of them continued to haunt me. My mother phoned me every day and continued her lamentations against my father. My father mocked my husband’s work as a church pastor. He thought it was a soft and easy job compared to his work in construction. When I had children, my mother never respected my wishes. Of course, I allowed her to spoil them, but she just ignored my requests. In typical self-absorbed fashion, she just responded, “They love me more.” I was hurt and angry at this woman who had never mothered me but who was now trying to usurp my children. Whenever I brought baking over, she bluntly expressed how much better hers was. My husband insisted I set myself up for a fall and tried to convince me to stop searching for something she could not give me.
They demanded we visit every Sunday for dinner. This was difficult for us, but I didn’t want to disappoint them. I dragged my husband away from church as soon as the service was done so we would be at my parents’ home in time to eat. We found them stewing that the food was getting cold. My husband was exhausted but complied. This eventually created tension in my marriage. I put my parents’ wishes over my husband’s. This was unfair, but I dreaded their disappointment.
I have no idea what I feared most. I had breathed in the guilt and tension for so long that they were just part of my inner makeup. I never stopped to ask if I was happy or whether my husband was happy.
My parents both lived to be a hundred, though my mother lived with dementia for the last twelve years of her life. It was a bittersweet irony that I finally received the mothering I craved at a time when she no longer recognized me. She would hug me and caress my hair, and I quietly shed tears for what might have been.
I was conflicted by my lack of grief at their deaths. My eldest sister had also died earlier, and I didn’t feel anything then either. Guilt reared its ugly head once more. A wise therapist introduced me to narcissism and explained how I had been a victim of it. My parents may have loved me, but they loved themselves more. They were so self-absorbed that they could not understand that I had needs, that I needed to break away from their demands for attention. My father took credit for the kind of person I became, when in fact I was a good, kind and giving person despite him. I had been so focused on giving them what they wanted at the expense of my mental health. It was hard to hear the truth, but I had enabled the narcissists in my life by being too frightened to set boundaries. I should have told my mother to cease her complaints, to stand up to my father when he insisted he was right and I was wrong, to tell my eldest sister not to call me with her latest self-made crisis.
But like a battered wife, I was reluctant to let go because I hoped they might change and see me. They never changed, and I had not changed either. Now, I was given the opportunity to understand how narcissistic behaviour had nearly crippled me. Therapy gave me the tools to forge ahead with healing that part of my past. I also found that writing gave me the catharsis I needed to move in a new direction and wrote a book of poetry on healing from narcissistic abuse. I have since met many people who share a similar story of abuse. Though I am still a work in progress, it has made a huge difference in my life to know that I was not the problem. I have forgiven myself for what I didn’t do and should have done. It has drawn me to a place of compassion for other victims and compassion for the people who knew no better.
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Silvia Fiorita Smith is a freelance writer living in Ontario, Canada. She has a special interest in creative nonfiction and poetry. She has published two books of poetry, Figs Beneath the Snow and This Strange New Path, Poetry to heal from Narcissistic Abuse. Her poems and stories have appeared in several anthologies.
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