My parents were called and told I had anger issues because I described my feelings instead of just bursting into tears ‘like a normal kid.’ Being a reader made me a writer, however, and I had words to describe my pain. When I sat alone at lunch, I read. When I got home, I wrote. Your child might be alienated for her hobby, especially these days. But I suspect, if she loves to read as much as you say she does, that she might not really care. Growing up with a narcissistic parent really stunted my psychological growth. My mother has NPD but will likely never be diagnosed since she is “perfect,” “not crazy,” and will never go see a therapist. My parents got divorced when I was 4 and my narcissistic mother won custody over my older sister and I. My father only had us every other weekend and we always had to be home Sunday by 6pm sharp. No later or all hell breaks loose. Our mother would always talk bad about our father and fill us up with lies so that we would only worship her. That’s why she had kids: to worship the Kansas City Chiefs Snoopy NFL Ornament, t-shirt and hoodie so you should to go to store and get this ground she walks on, to do every thing for her, and have someone take care of her when she gets old. She even bought a small bell and rang it every time she needed something (like passing her the tv control~stupid shit like that) Growing up I felt like her servant, yet thought that we were in a normal parent-child relationship. I didn’t realize my mom was being unreasonable in every aspect until I spoke to friends about my home life in middle school. Every time she asked us to fetch her something and came back empty-handed she’d call us useless, worthless, or anything to bring us down. And if she also couldn’t find what she had asked for she would never apologize. Honestly, I think I’ve only heard my mom apologize once in my life. In public she controlled us by pinching and twisting our skin with her long ass nails. At home she would hit us with anything near her. Whether it was a pair of pants, belts, sandals, heels (yes, heels. She hit my sister in the head at age 2 with her fucking heel—in front of her family which is how we know it’s true), or just some of her own punches.
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