Update

Thanks for leaving comments, dear folks.

I've read them and hope to respond next week...as well as posting about Stockholm Syndrome.

My time and energy have been channeled into helping one of my teenagers through a rough patch. And if you've ever had a challenging teenager, you know what I'm talkin' about.

Back soon.

In the meantime, here's wishing you strength and inner peace.

Overcoming Hypchondria

While I'm doing a bit of research on the next post about Stockholm Syndrome and whether it applies to some of us adult children of narcissists, I'd like to the answer the following question posed by an Anonymous commenter:

"Yes, I actually got here by googling elderly narcissistic parent with dementia....I am in a long Groundhog effect loop with a narcissistic mother and hope to add lots and lots of comments. Right now though, I want to ask you about your getting over hypochondria?? How??? I could really use some help."

Well, heck, I'm probably just as qualified as some advice columnists out there, so I'll give it a whirl. Which means I'm hardly qualified.

First, some thoughts.

--Both my self-absorbed parents modeled hypochondriacal behavior. My mother spent a lot of time in bed with various ailments and a bad back. My father went to the emergency room. A lot. I think I picked up on their fear of illness, even though I rarely got sick myself.

--For most of my life, I've repressed anger and resentment toward my parents. Secretly, I hated them, but pretended to be loving and dutiful. I believe that in order to distract myself from my real feelings, I became riddled with anxiety and became a raging hypochondriac.

In order for me to stop being a hypochondriac, I had to admit I loathed my parents. I had to be honest. I had the luck of having mental health insurance. I spent a year with a therapist and just talked. For the first time in my life, I was allowed to express myself without being corrected, interuppted or yelled at. Much of my anxiety was released. More was released when I finally set some boundaries and began to stick up for myself.

But the hypochondria had got out of control.

It had become a HABIT. The repeated breast-checking for lumps, the constant nagging worry that every little ache and pain meant some horrible, lurking cancer had a life of its own...a thing that fed on itself and was eating me up. If you have hypochondria, I don't have to explain to you what it's like.

But there was something else, too. Something linked to feeling UNWORTHY. Like I had no right to be happy, to exist, to breathe or be well.

Every opportunity for joy I ruined with worrying about a possible disease.

So I had to break the cycle.

Don't laugh. I had to sit on my hands so I wouldn't check for breast lumps. I started off with small increments of time: an hour. For an hour I wouldn't think about any of that stuff. When I finally succeeded, I stretched it to two hours, then three, then four, and so on until I'd reached a day. The days eventually reached a week. In the beginning, I had to distract myself with projects or forcing myself to be in the moment with my children, my husband or watching a movie.

I repeatedly told myself, "I am worthy" and I "deserve to be happy." I forced myself to go to the doctor regularly and in between, gave myself permission not to fret. That sounds easy...the deciding. But it isn't. The most important aspect to this was the decision to embrace my worth. To value myself. To allow myself to be happy and joyful.

I honestly feel that if I were actually to get sick, now, I'd be upset, sure, but I'd fight whatever it was. I wouldn't want to let it control or define me. The hypochondria was masking something I was terrified to face.

If this sounds too simple to be true, please believe that this worked for me. It simply took a lot of practice and mindfulness to break an awful, terrible habit.

If you've dealt with hypochondria and would like to share any thoughts about it...or how to overcome it...please leave your advice!

Narcissistic Parent Reaction to YOUR Illness

Okay. Some poor soul found this blog by Googling, "narcissistic parent reaction to my cancer."

I can just imagine that reaction.

And I can just imagine how that reaction is dragging you down at a time when you've got enough to think about.

While I've not had cancer, I once had to have a biopsy. I made the mistake of telling my narcissistic father. This was before he developed dementia. I told him because I was scared. I guess I thought that this would be The Event that he'd pull it together and offer comfort and reassurance. Wrong. Instead, he demanded to know who'd take care of him if I died. I could go on. But I won't. He had no empathy. He then hounded me asking the results of the biopsy. Not because he was worried about me, but worried that I wouldn't be available to help him in his old age. I then had the additional burden of trying to reassure him. This was long before my father was diagnosed with narcissistic personality disorder.

Of course, not all narcissistic parents would behave in such a way.

My self-centered mother turned my few illnesses into her dramas. How worried she was when I broke my arm or had to have a suspicious forehead lump removed when I was a kid. What I was putting her through, how terribly upset she was. Yet, she refused to stay overnight with me in the hospital because it was too uncomfortable and boring.

A serious illness has a way of pulling off the the mask of the narcissistic parent. To our surprise, there's nothing much there. Just lack of substance. But maybe, just maybe, the person who Googled this topic found their narcissistic parent actually supportive? I suspect not.

Ewww...I Feel Violated

I have no recollection of being sexually abused by my narcissistic father.

In fact, I can't even remember any physical inappropriateness, like Enilina can. Her father used to bite her. (Please see her comment to the previous post)

Yet, the idea of any physical contact with my father is simply repulsive. If he kisses me on my cheek, it's all I can do not to run to the bathroom and wash my face. I sit as far away from him as I can. There is a picture of me, about five, and n-dad in our backyard. I'm in a bathing suit and we're standing on some steps. He's grinning at the camera. I'm unsmiling and my entire body is angled away from him. It looks like I'm poised to vault over the banister to escape, but I can't because he's got one hand on my arm. (Next post: Stockholm Syndrome...thanks to Roxtarchic for bringing it up!)

In an earlier post, I mentioned that my cold, self-absorbed mother did douse my private parts with alcohol when I was tenish. No idea why.

As my parents aged and it became clear that somebody had to tend to their failing bodies, I knew one thing. It wasn't going to me. Sure, I'd take them to doctor's visits, manage their medical care, daily care and finances, but I wasn't going to be the one giving sponge baths and changing adult diapers. It would have been like submitting to a daily, physical assault.

But I've often wondered WHY I'm so repulsed by my parents, especially my father. Maybe it has something to do with what Cinder Ella wrote:

"The whole thing about sexual weirdness...I've felt some of that, too. I've pretty much written abuse off as nonsense in my case, but there were other weird things. I suppose it shouldn't be surprising considering that to the narcissist everything is about them, why shouldn't that include sexuality?"

This is as good a theory as I've heard.

N-dad has no filters. Whatever is in his head rolls off his tongue, without benefit of a single gasket.

Since he talks, non-stop, some of that chatter probably included stuff of a sexual nature or, at least, inappropriate for the ears of a sensitive daughter. I can remember him talking, in detail, about his bowel movements. When I protested, he'd say, "But this is about me. You need to know this." He seemed baffled that I wasn't interested. This happened decades before his dementia. As he aged, his conversations became more scatalogical.

After my mother died and he began dating (which I encouraged), he wanted to tell me about his sexual conquests. I'd get up and leave the room.

Before my mother died from complications due to Alzheimers, her caregiver said my father had taken to complaining about his sexual frustration. He'd follow her around the tiny house and complain how he hadn't had sex for ages because my mother was no longer interested. I had a serious talk with my father. While he did stop complaining to the caregiver, he began complaining to me instead. Again, he was baffled that I wasn't interested. When I tried to explain that it was inappropriate and, more practically, what could I possibly do about it, his shoulders sagged and head drooped in a parody of the hangdog victim. "I can't never do anything right," he moaned. "Everybody is against me." (No kidding. He actually says stuff like this)

The point is, my father shoved every part of himself on me. And some of those parts were were his bodily functions and frustrated sexuality. And while I may not have been sexually abused, it still made me feel dirty. Violated. My narcissistic father had crossed some boundaries because, in his world, there are no fences.

I'd like to hear from you: your stories (long, medium, short) and thoughts and theories.
And so would some readers of this blog...who expressed their interest in this subject. Roxtarchic said it would be like opening Pandora's Box. So let's bravely open that box and see what flies out!

The Parent Who Could Not Listen

Of all my narcissistic father's behaviors, it's his total inability to listen that I have found the most troubling.

Joanna Ashmun described it so well:

I have observed very closely some narcissists I've loved, and their inability to pay attention when someone else is talking is so striking that it has often seemed to me that they have neurological problems that affect their cognitive functioning.

When a person says something to my father, if you can manage to finish your sentence without being interrupted, it's almost as if they hadn't spoken at all.

There is no acknowledgment of what was just said. There is no appropriate reaction. If you tell him you have the flu, he will tell you that everybody around him is sick. If you tell him his granddaughter broke her arm, he will not ask if she's in any pain or if she's wearing a cast, but he will tell you how terribly upset he is because you allowed her to fall off the swings. When I told him I had got into the dream college of my choice, he didn't register the news. Then he wanted to know why I was packing to leave.

I remember, as a child, trying to tell n-dad about something important that happened at school. I had been first to finish one of those SRA reading boxes filled with short stories. Since I had such trouble in math, I was delighted to excel in at at least one subject. I remember him saying, "Oh good for you," in a distracted sort of way before he began chattering away about something else.

I learned right then and there that what I said was simply not important. That I was not important. That I must be at fault, somehow. That I must be inarticulate and boring. I developed a very poor, tentative way of expressing myself, as if I had no right to speak at all.
In a conversation, I'm usually thrilled with a 20 percent share.

A lack of reaction when one speaks also makes you feel invisible. It's the most profoundly disorienting experience, to be in a "conversation" yet not speak or be heard.

And even though you may come in for a scolding or mocking, the n-parent who can't listen will also not offer pearls of wisdom, reassurance or practical advice.

Later, when I began going to medical visits with my parents, the nurse or doctor would usually take me aside and ask if my father had always been like that. "He doesn't seem to be registering anything I say," one doctor observed in frustration. "Does he have ADD?" another nurse asked.

When my Dad was in his early seventies, I thought he'd benefit from the expertise of a geriatric specialist, so found him a new doctor. He immediately noted n-dad's incessant chatter and that he couldn't seem to engage in a normal conversation. "Is this behavior new?" he asked. I assured him that's the way my father had always behaved. He wondered aloud if my father might be slightly autistic. Eventually, he'd use n-dad's inability to listen as a criteria for dementia.

So that's another way to look at interacting with a narcissist who can't listen. It's as challenging as dealing with a poor soul struck with dementia.

What Others Think of Us

When an anonymous commenter drifted by and called me an ungrateful daughter, I wasn't surprised.

In fact, I'm surprised it took almost three months of blogging about narcissistic parents to get that sort of reaction.

Because, in real life, that's a totally typical response if you dare break the Honor Your Parent code, even if you had lousy parents who neglected or abused you. You're either told to "buck up" or "get over it" and/or forgive them. Apparently, venting about one's abusive parent is offensive in the extreme to some people. It upsets their delicate sensibilities of how a good daughter or son should behave. We are not to have feelings. And we are certainly not allowed to express them. How dare we?

While this is sort of interesting, what's worth discussing is what people in real life think of us adult children of narcissists who have distanced ourselves from our toxic parents and how that impacts us.

We know the whole story and have made decisions accordingly. Outsiders can only see a small part. And because many of us children of narcissists have developed people pleasing tendencies, displeasing or disappointing people can really sting.

In fact, in the past, I've fallen all over myself trying to prove what a fabulous, responsible daughter I am. It was quite a show I put on...all for the benefit of neighbors, family friends and family members who didn't even like my father. Hah! The very same people who criticized me for placing him in an assisted living facility never called or visited him once!

Basically, I felt guilty as hell for being repulsed by my own father. This is something I've only recently been able to admit to. Because what kind of daughter has those sorts of dark and sinister feelings? An ungrateful, monstrous daughter. Naturally. I didn't like what those feelings said about me, so I pushed them away. Denied them. And became a raging hypochondriac instead. (I was also suppressing an incredible amount of anger, because my adoptive n-parents made me pretend I was their biological child.)

When I say hypochondriac, let me clarify. I did not seek attention for my imagined ailments. I mostly fretted about them 24/7 and nearly drove myself crazy with worry that I was dying of some as yet undetected disease de'jour.

Still, even though I drove my parents to doctor's appointments and brought over covered dishes of food and eventually took over managing their affairs, I heard through the grapevine that people were perplexed I wasn't doing more. Why I didn't visit more often. From their perspective, they saw a couple with an adopted kid who later bugged out of town to go to college and then basically disappeared for more than ten years, only to return after n-mom had been diagnosed with Alzheimers. I looked like an ungrateful lout who'd abandoned her badly aging parents.

This stung. Really, really stung. Because back then, I really cared what people thought of me. My entire persona was based on the good, dutiful daughter, until I couldn't stand it or them anymore and fled. When I returned, I resumed that role. And immediately became extremely anxious and hypochondriacal. Can anyone say Xanax? I self-medicated just to get through a visit with my parents.

It is with the greatest of effort that I am able to continue caring for my aging narcissistic father without falling into the trap of trying to prove to total strangers that I'm a fabulous, loving daughter. Because I'm not loving. Sometimes, it's more than enough to behave responsibly and morally. And I'm NOT judging those who've cut off their toxic parents. Believe me, if there was anybody else except me in nfather's life, I'd take that route, too. Sometimes, what we can do is what we can do. Plain and simple. Not caring about what others think can help set us free.

My Father the Leech

I'm going to share this story because it's a pretty good example of the elderly narcissist at his best.

This is a pretty typical interaction for my father. While this happened when Damned Old Dad was in his early 70's, it could have happened when he was a much younger man.

So we're at a restaurant: Dad, me, my husband and two daughters, at the time 5 & 7. This is almost a decade before he developed Lewy Body dementia.

We're waiting for a table. Instead of passing the time paying attention to his granddaughters, n-dad starts looking around and notices an attractive, composed professional looking 40ish woman. She's alone. My father leaps up and sits down next to her.

"I just lost my wife," he announces morosely.

The woman nods and offers her condolences. He launches. He tells her about my mother's Alzheimers, his loneliness, his whole life story. Just like that. He leeched onto her and expected this perfect stranger to offer him undivided attention and sympathy in a happening restaurant. It never occurred to him that she probably had a hard day and was hoping for some down time. He chattered on, hanging his head for maximum impact, without asking the lady her name or where she was from. Surprisingly, she didn't seem annoyed.

I was stunned. When we were called to dinner, I walked over to her and apologized. Some might say I didn't have to do that. Some might say it was none of my business.

In the past, n-dad pissed off or offended so many people that it often fell to me to smooth things over. At least, that was the (desperate) role I took on. The first time I remember this happening was when I was a kid and n-dad told some new parents their baby looked like Khrushchev. Their faces fell. I spent the rest of the wedding carting that baby around, gushing he was the cutest thing I'd ever seen.

I was every bit as embarrassed by n-dad's behavior at the restaurant as I was when he dissed that poor baby.

So guess how the lady responded?

She shrugged and said it was no big deal. She explained she was - HAH! - a shrink and used to dealing with "people like that." Then she dug out a card from her purse and handed it to me. "You can come see me some time," she said with a smile. "To help you deal with him."

I didn't do it. Not because I didn't want to, but because we were moving hundreds of miles away. That was ten years ago. I wish I would have pursued this issue much sooner and more seriously.

I spent much of those ten years catering to my leech of a narcissistic father. I allowed him to ruin family vacations and family time. I failed to understand that I'd become a people pleaser who always looked to others for validation instead of looking within. I too easily accepted the opinions of others. After identifying my father as a narcissistic personality and figuring out how to deal with him and me, I've become a much, much happier person. Gone is my own personal struggle with anxiety and hypochondria (more on that another time). And even though he continues to be needy, his needs are much easier to handle now that I've learned to say those magic words: "no," "I will when I can," and "I have to go because the girls/husband need me." Also, just because the phone rings and it's him, doesn't mean I have to answer. I actually learned to use voice mail!