The Confusion Is Part of It

One of the hardest things to explain about a narcissistic relationship is just how confusing it can be.

Because it isn't bad all the time.

There are good days.

There are moments of affection. Laughter. Attention. Kindness. Maybe even moments when you think, There you are. This is the person I knew was in there.

And hope comes rushing back.

Maybe they're changing.

Maybe they finally understand.

Maybe this time will be different.

That little bit of love or attention can be enough to keep you holding on.

And then it happens again.

You're hurt. You're dismissed. You're blamed. You're ignored. You're made to question something you were certain happened.

And you're right back in the confusion.

But There Were Good Times

I think this is something people outside these relationships don't always understand.

If someone treated you horribly every single minute of every single day, walking away might be much easier.

But that's not how I experienced it.

There were good times mixed in with heartbreaking ones.

That's what made it so difficult to understand.

You aren't only grieving the person who hurts you. You're holding onto the person you sometimes get glimpses of — and hoping that one day, that person will stay.

So you try again.

You explain yourself differently.

You become more patient.

You forgive.

You make yourself smaller.

You adjust your expectations.

You tell yourself not to take things personally.

And sometimes the people around you encourage you to do exactly that.

I've had relatives tell me:

“That's just how she is. Ignore it.”

And I remember thinking:

Wait. So that's just how she is... which means I'm the one who has to suffer?

Why?

Why am I the one expected to adjust?

Why am I supposed to tolerate behavior that hurts me because someone else doesn't want to change?

Why does keeping the peace always seem to require the person being hurt to do all the work?

At some point, my response became pretty simple:

Fuck that.

When the Person Is Your Mother

Of course, saying that and living it are two very different things.

Ending or changing any important relationship can be incredibly painful.

But when the person hurting you is your parent, there is another layer of grief that is difficult to describe.

Oh, how I longed to be loved by my mom.

I tried everything I knew to get her to love me in the way I needed.

It never happened.

And eventually, I had to face the possibility that the relationship I had spent my life hoping for might never exist.

No child wants that.

No child wants to believe her mother can't give her the love she needs.

A mother's love should feel safe.

Mine didn't.

I was always on my toes.

And the most confusing part was that I couldn't understand why.

Why me?

Why did she treat me this way and not my sister?

Why did other people seem to get a completely different version of her?

Why couldn't anyone else see what I saw?

That was the confusion I carried for years.

If she could be loving to other people, why couldn't she be loving to me?

If everyone else thought she was wonderful, why was my experience with her so different?

And when you're a child, you don't question the parent.

You question yourself.

My Confusion Started at Six

My dad died when I was six.

After he died, my mother told me that he didn't love me.

I was six years old.

Those words shaped more of my life than I understood at the time.

The person who should have helped me grieve the loss of my father gave me another loss to carry with it: the belief that perhaps my own dad hadn't loved me.

Looking back, I feel like I was on my own emotionally from that moment.

But at six years old, you don't have words for any of this.

You don't think, I'm experiencing an unhealthy family dynamic.

You're a child.

You just wonder what's wrong.

You're trying to understand why your dad is gone, why your mother doesn't feel safe, and why you're being told that the person you lost didn't love you.

How is a six-year-old supposed to make sense of that?

I couldn't.

So I carried the confusion with me.

And eventually, you may start wondering if what's wrong is you.

The Moment I Understood

When I was sixteen, my high school counselor called me into her office.

My grades were dropping, and she wanted to know why.

I cried.

Somewhere in that conversation, it came out that I was looking for attention.

Any kind of attention.

And my counselor asked me a very simple question:

“Is it working?”

The tears flowed.

Because I knew the answer.

No.

It wasn't working.

I couldn't make my mother give me what I needed, no matter how hard I tried.

For years I had been trying to solve something I didn't understand.

Maybe if I did this, she would notice me.

Maybe if I did that, she would love me.

Maybe if I tried harder, something would finally change.

That day, something became clearer.

I couldn't make another person give me what she wasn't giving me.

I remember realizing that my assignment was simply to get through high school.

Then I could leave.

Then I could be free.

There's more to that story, and I'll share it another day.

The Little Messages

Not everything that hurts you looks dramatic from the outside.

Sometimes it's a hundred little messages.

I remember being introduced to my mother's coworkers as “the problem child.”

I remember getting clothes from Target while my sister got clothes from Banana Republic.

Someone looking from the outside might say, They're just clothes.

And that's exactly why these experiences can be so difficult to explain.

It wasn't the store.

It was the difference.

As a child, I was left trying to understand what that difference meant.

Why was my sister treated one way and I was treated another?

What had I done?

Why wasn't I worthy of the same things?

It isn't always about the clothes.

It's about the message you receive over and over again:

She deserves this. You don't.

She's the good one. You're the problem.

She's worthy. You're less than.

One incident by itself can look insignificant.

Years of them can tell a child a story about who she is.

And those little differences reinforced the same confusion I was already carrying.

The story I was being told was that I wasn't worthy enough.

The beautiful thing is that eventually I realized:

Their story about me didn't have to become my story about myself.

Why It's So Lonely

When you're inside a relationship like this, you may feel as though you're experiencing two completely different realities.

There are the good moments that make you question whether things are really as bad as they feel.

And there are the painful moments that no one else seems to see.

Family members may minimize it.

People may not believe you.

Someone may tell you to ignore it because, “That's just how they are.”

And meanwhile, you're trying to reconcile the loving moment you had yesterday with the devastating one you're experiencing today.

It can be incredibly lonely.

It can leave you questioning yourself:

Am I overreacting?

Was it really that bad?

Maybe I misunderstood.

Maybe I should try one more time.

And maybe that's one of the most important things I can share with you from my own experience:

The confusion itself is real.

You can love someone and still be hurt by them.

You can remember wonderful moments and still acknowledge the painful ones.

You can hope someone will change while beginning to realize that you cannot do the work for them.

And you don't have to keep changing yourself simply because someone else refuses to change.

If You're Confused, I Hear You

So, my Willows, if you're reading this because you're confused about someone you love, I want you to know something.

I hear you.

I hear the part of you that remembers the good times.

I hear the part that keeps hoping.

I hear the part that is angry.

I hear the part that is exhausted from explaining.

And I hear the part that still loves someone who has hurt you deeply.

Those things can exist at the same time.

And I'm not going to tell you that you have to end your relationship.

I'm not going to tell you that you have to stay.

That decision belongs to you.

You don't have to figure everything out today.

For now, just start paying attention.

Pay attention to how you feel around this person.

Pay attention to what happens when you say no.

Pay attention to whether your feelings are heard or dismissed.

Pay attention to how much of yourself you are changing just to keep the relationship peaceful.

And most importantly, start listening to yourself again.

Your confusion doesn't mean you don't know yourself.

Sometimes it means you're finally beginning to recognize that what you're being told and what you're experiencing don't match.

Trust yourself enough to notice that.

Be gentle with yourself while you figure out what it means.

You are here.

That's a beginning.

And sometimes a beginning is all we need.

Let's grow, my Willows.