When grief becomes performative, silence is more honest.
It’s a strange kind of cruelty — offering your condolences with one hand, and turning your back with the other.
My daughter received a message — soft, kind, sorrowful — from someone who used to be her friend. Someone who had once laughed with her, and more recently, laughed at her. Someone who once knew her inside out, and now won’t even stand beside her in the hallway.
This girl messaged my daughter after the death of her best friend. She offered condolences. Words of comfort. A digital candle in the storm.
And when my daughter — raw, grieving, desperate for connection — said, “Can we please rebuild our friendship?”
She was met with silence.
⸻
You don’t get to break someone, then pretend to care when they’re shattered.
No.
Worse than no.
Nothing.
Ghosted. Erased. Forgotten again.
Because some people only want to be seen grieving, not actually feel it — not sit in it, not show up for the ones left behind.
The silence screamed louder than any message. And the grief? It got heavier.
You don’t get to offer your sympathy, pose as the wounded soul, and then bolt the moment someone needs you. If you do, then your sympathy was never real. It was a mirror for yourself — not a light for someone else.
⸻
Friendship doesn’t end at the funeral gates.
True friendship doesn’t dissolve under pressure. It doesn’t hide when the moment is hard.
It doesn’t vanish when someone asks for warmth.
You can’t send your “I’m so sorry for your loss” texts and then vanish when someone asks for human connection. That’s not kindness — that’s cowardice.
And to those who perform compassion while refusing to practice it — let me tell you something painful:
Your fake condolences are more hurtful than saying nothing at all.
Because pretending to care is not harmless.
It’s another form of emotional abandonment — and sometimes, it hurts just as much as the loss.
The Envious Die Not Once, But As Often As The Envied Win Applause
Let’s not pretend anymore.
Let’s not sugar-coat cruelty with the words “kids will be kids.”
Let’s call this exactly what it is: violence.
Today, during a quiet school moment that should have been safe—a grade assembly—a girl decided it would be hilarious to mock my daughter’s face.
Yes.
Her face.
The one thing she can’t change.
The face I’ve kissed a thousand times. The face I adore.
This evil little creature, who’s been trailing my daughter since primary school like a bad smell, decided that it was her moment to shine. She contorted her face—mimicking, mocking, humiliating—in front of the entire Year 8 cohort.
To impress her five likeminded friends.
To get laughs.
To dehumanize my child.
Her actions didn’t stop there — next came her verbal assault:
“Look at her shoes—they look retarded.”
That’s what she said — it’s part of who she is as a person. That’s what a child raised by other humans thought was acceptable.
⸻
These Girls Aren’t Mean. They’re Monsters in Training.
Let me be very clear: this is not a phase. This is not a mistake.
This is cruelty.
This is violence.
This is premeditated emotional destruction.
And it didn’t stop there.
Another girl—from an entirely different toxic group of students—decided she would throw a pen at my daughter shortly after.
Two different packs of wolves.
One target.
This is pack mentality, and their only goal is to break her.
⸻
Don’t You Dare Say “It’s Just Kids Being Kids”
No. These are not harmless kids. These are bullies being raised by adults who model this behavior.
Because it’s not just in the school yard—it’s in their homes.
Parents who excuse it.
Parents who enable it.
Parents who make snide remarks about families like mine, because they assume we’re “better off.”
Because they see a child with nice shoes and decide that child deserves to be torn apart.
This isn’t about shoes. This is about jealousy.
This is about poverty of character.
⸻
Let’s Talk About Those Shoes, Shall We?
Powder pink Nike Shox.
A bold, iconic staple in the Nike brand.
Expensive. Well-loved. Desired.
If they’re so “hideous,” why are they flying off the shelves?
Why are they everywhere in the fashion scene?
Why are people lining up to buy them?
Because they’re not hideous.
Your insecurity is.
And those shoes?
They weren’t easy to afford.
They didn’t come from nowhere.
⸻
I Sacrifice So Much for My Children—And I’d Do It Again Tomorrow
I don’t spend my weekends getting my nails done.
I don’t splurge at the hair salon.
I don’t party or go clubbing or waste money on things that don’t matter.
You know what I do?
I sacrifice.
So I can give my children joy.
So I can see their eyes light up when they get something special.
So I can build them up in a world constantly trying to tear them down.
And then a pack of miserable, mean-spirited children tries to rip that joy away.
⸻
Bullies Don’t Just Happen. They’re Raised.
The comments we’ve already heard from their parents this year?
Unforgivable.
Things like:
“You wouldn’t understand where we’re coming from.”
“It must be nice to be you.”
“We’re just trying to get by.”
Translation?
“If someone seems to have more than us, let’s torment them for it.”
What kind of twisted logic is that?
You hate your own poverty so much, you attack a child for having a pair of shoes?
Let’s be real.
If you’re raising a child to hate others for having nice things, you’ve failed as a parent.
And if your child is bullying others for their face?
You’ve raised a monster.
⸻
Jealousy is a Mental Cancer
To the girl who threw the pen:
Your aim is weak, just like your character.
To the girl who mocked my daughter’s face:
You will never break her. You will never reach her level. You don’t even deserve to be in her presence.
And to the parents of these girls:
Do better.
Your children are proof that hate starts at home.
You don’t raise your kids. You program them to hate, and then let them loose in the world to hurt others.
But let this be known:
My daughter is not the weak one.
She’s the one walking away from your warzone with her head held high—and powder pink Nike Shox on her feet.
She will thrive.
Your daughters? They will rot in their own bitterness.
There were days when I was pregnant and still living under my mother’s roof that I wasn’t allowed to eat. She would watch me grow weaker. I was carrying my firstborn son, and she made sure I suffered for it.
She told me she hoped I’d rip from end to end giving birth to him. That I’d suffer. That I’d never forget the pain. She said it with hatred in her voice — a mother wishing agony upon her pregnant daughter. I can still hear it.
She Assaulted Me. Screamed at Me. Isolated Me.
She hit me with a phone. She screamed at me. Every single day.
My own brother, my own grandmother — people I loved — weren’t even allowed to speak to me. I lived under that roof, pregnant and afraid, silenced by the one person who was supposed to protect me.
The emotional abuse didn’t stop when I gave birth. It only got worse. She kicked me out with nowhere to go and a newborn baby in my arms.
She’s Never Been a Grandmother to Him
She has never cooked a meal for my son.
She has never babysat him.
She has never cared for him, never nurtured him, never been a safe space or a warm hug.
My mother has never loved him the way grandmothers are supposed to love their grandchildren.
What she has done is try to destroy my family. She caused division. She manipulated. She insisted I host separate parties just for her — without lifting a finger to help — because she couldn’t stand to be in the same room as my in-laws or our extended family. She only brought drama, never support.
And Now… She Wants Him to Be Her Carer
Today I got a phone call from the hospital.
My mother — the woman who never once cared for my son — has listed him, my teenage boy, as her full-time carer.
The child she wished pain upon.
The child she never fed, never held, never helped.
The child she ignored, excluded, and emotionally neglected.
And now that she is bedbound and can’t walk, toilet, or bathe herself, now she thinks she has the right to demand his care?
No. Just No.
She is not dying. She is expected to live many years in this state. And she wants him — a child she’s done nothing but hurt — to be the one to sacrifice his future, his freedom, and his well-being to take care of her.
It’s a level of selfishness and delusion that has left me in shock. I shouldn’t be surprised — but I am. Deeply.
She’s not a mother. She’s not a grandmother. She is a user. A destroyer. An architect of pain.
And I will not allow her to harm my son the way she harmed me.
Even in her final days, my mother chooses lies over love—and I’m left holding decades of heartbreak.
A Lifetime of Manipulation
From the moment I was old enough to recognise emotional manipulation, I saw it in my mother. She has always been a master of twisting narratives, of turning situations to suit her needs, and of denying her behavior while accusing others—especially me—of the very lies she tells. Growing up with a narcissistic parent is like walking through a minefield blindfolded. Just when you think you’re safe, something explodes.
And now, here we are. My mother is in the hospital, dying. A wound on her foot became infected—so severely that the infection entered her bone. Her body is giving out. But somehow, the manipulations continue.
⸻
Lies, Even Now
I recently received a message from her saying she had vomiting and diarrhoea. Concerned, I called the hospital. I wanted to know if there was a virus going around her ward, if it could be related to her infection, or—worst case—if it was a sign of sepsis. The nurse I spoke to was kind, but also confused.
“There’s been no vomiting. No diarrhoea,” she told me.
I thanked her and hung up, but the sting stayed. My mother lied to me. Again. About something so ridiculous, so pointless. And I still don’t understand why.
⸻
A Final Opportunity, Lost in Deceit
This should be a time for healing, for final moments filled with truth and forgiveness. But my mother—true to form—continues to weave her web of deceit, spinning stories for her medical team, for the family, and for me. She manipulates conversations, embellishes symptoms, plays the victim. And even now, facing the end, she clings to the same patterns that poisoned our relationship.
She has accused me of being the liar, the manipulator, the untrustworthy one, my entire life. But now the truth is bare. The lies were always hers. Still are.
⸻
Grieving the Mother I Never Had
I’m grieving, but not in the way people expect. I’m grieving the mother I never had. The nurturing, honest, stable presence I longed for. The kind of mother who might have used her final moments to say, “I’m sorry. I see you now.” Instead, I’m left with the weight of her fabrications, even as the machines beep beside her hospital bed.
Sadly this is not just about a woman dying. It’s about a lifetime of damage that never found a moment of repair. It’s about the pain of knowing that not even death can change some people.
Becoming a mother and becoming homeless on the same day is a reality few can fathom. One minute, I was cradling my newborn son—this perfect little bundle of warmth, love, and hope. The next, I was facing the cold reality that I had nowhere to go. No roof. No plan. No safety net for the most fragile moment of my life.
That was the day my mother kicked me out.
The Cost of Defiance
She did it the same day her first grandchild was born.
My husband and I were in our twenties. Grown, but still tethered to family expectations. Our love wasn’t the issue—permission was. And we knew we would never receive it. So we chose each other, and we chose our child, fully aware that it would come at a cost.
But we underestimated just how steep that cost would be.
A City With No Shelter
We searched tirelessly across Sydney for housing. Queue after queue, inspection after inspection, rejection after rejection. No one wanted to take a chance on us—too young, no credit history, no references. And then, in a hospital bed with my baby in my arms, my husband delivered the final blow: the Department of Housing had a ten-year waiting list.
That was the moment I truly understood fear. I’ve been held at gunpoint before, but nothing compares to the terror of not knowing how you will protect your child.
A Mother’s Love—Conditional
I’ve tried to make sense of it. Why did my mother cast me out when I needed her the most? Was it because I was pregnant out of wedlock? Because I disobeyed her wishes? I was still her daughter. I was carrying her grandson.
But all I received was shame. Disappointment. Rejection.
What I’ve never understood is this: why does a son deserve more love than a daughter?
History Repeating in Reverse
Sixteen years later, the pain remains. Especially now—watching history repeat, but in reverse.
My brother has a girlfriend. They’ve only been together a month. They’re not married. She isn’t pregnant. But my mother is happy to open her home and heart to her without hesitation. No lectures. No judgment. Just warmth and support.
Everything I needed and never received.
Mother’s Day: A Time for Silence
Mother’s Day is the hardest. The world tells us to honour our mothers with cards and gratitude. But what do you write to a woman who discarded you when you needed her most?
How do you express gratitude to someone who made your most fragile moment even more terrifying – who kicked you and your newborn baby out with nowhere to go?
I’ve considered telling her the truth. Pouring all my pain into a single letter. Telling her exactly what she’s done, how deeply she’s hurt me, how much her favoritism destroyed any hope of closeness. But I know how she would react.
She would turn it around. Call me stupid. Remind me of the money she spent on my private school education. Accuse me of being ungrateful, useless, a disappointment. She’s said it all before.
So instead, I stay silent. Or I write something generic, like people do in Christmas cards for people they barely know.
Maybe I’ll write something like: “Season’s greetings this Mother’s Day. Congratulations on birthing your son. I hope his girlfriend is everything you ever wanted in a daughter.”Maybe that’s as honest as I can be without inviting more pain.
“Best of luck with everything hopefully you don’t destroy your potential daughter-in-law in the same way that you destroyed me.”
“May you continue to move faster than your karma” – now that’s a nice one, especially towards someone who has been nothing but cruel to their child for their entire life.
How about – “you kicked me out of home when I was most vulnerable with a newborn baby and absolutely nowhere to go – this Mother’s Day, and always, I hope you remember everything that you’ve put me through” – realistically it sounds so much better than saying something along the lines of “I hope the universe treats you as fairly as what you have treated me my entire life”… that wish although filled with sincerity would not go down very well.
The Truth I Carry
Maybe one day I’ll forgive her. Maybe I won’t.
But this is my truth:
I became a mother and lost a mother in the same breath.
And every year, on the second Sunday in May, I remember it all over again.
When Love, Loss, or Survival Reshapes How We Honour Our Mothers
A Day That Means Many Things
Every year, as Mother’s Day approaches, I find myself sitting with a mix of feelings—some warm, others sharp, many unspoken. It’s a day drenched in expectation and sentimentality, but for those of us with complicated histories, it often feels heavier than a bouquet of flowers can carry.
This year, I wanted to explore what Mother’s Day really means when your relationship with your mother isn’t simple or sweet—and how both the first and the last Mother’s Day can reveal more about us than we expect.
The First Mother’s Day: A Memory We Never Made
Our first Mother’s Day is really just a dream. A haze. None of us can truly remember it—what we wore, what we said, whether we made our mothers smile or feel special. We don’t remember if there were flowers or cards or the scent of breakfast being made in a chaotic kitchen.
And yet, we were there. Just babies in their arms.
At that point in life, there is no decision to be made. We love without thinking. We give ourselves over completely, because we have no choice. Whether our mothers deserved that love or not is another matter altogether.
In those early years, Mother’s Day isn’t for us—it’s for them. And no matter what kind of mother we had—kind, distant, nurturing, unpredictable—we were too small to choose anything different. We were their children, and that was that.
The Last Mother’s Day: The One That Stays With Us
But the last Mother’s Day—that’s something different.
That’s the one that stays with us.
That’s the one that asks something of us.
Some people don’t even know it’s the last. Life doesn’t always come with warnings. One day you’re bringing flowers and awkwardly worded cards, and the next, the seat at the table is empty. There’s an ache in your chest, and you wish you had said more, done more, asked more.
For others, the last Mother’s Day doesn’t arrive quietly. It builds slowly, with a kind of dread. Not because of loss, but because of harm. Because the woman who gave birth to you doesn’t feel safe. Because honouring her feels dishonest, painful—even harmful.
And yet, on that day, we’re expected to smile, to entertain, to act as though she’s the greatest woman on earth.
When Honouring Feels Like a Lie
But what if she wasn’t?
What if she hurt you more than she held you?
What if being around her drains every ounce of your strength and makes you forget who you are?
That’s when the last Mother’s Day becomes something else entirely.
It becomes a choice.
And that’s what makes it powerful.
For the first time, you get to ask:
Do I want to spend this day with the woman who gave me life? Or do I want to protect the life I’ve built in spite of her?
That choice is not easy. It comes with guilt, with judgment from others, and sometimes with a lingering grief for the mother you wish you had.
But it also comes with truth.
Choosing Peace Over Performance
You get to choose peace.
You get to choose distance.
You get to say:
This day is sacred, and I will no longer perform love for someone who has harmed me.
That doesn’t make you cold. It doesn’t make you cruel.
It makes you whole.
It makes you brave.
So whether you spend Mother’s Day at her side, across the country, or surrounded by the people who feel like family—you get to decide.
Maybe the last Mother’s Day isn’t about her at all.
Maybe it’s about you—choosing yourself, your sanity, your healing.
Maybe that’s the most sacred act of all.
Honouring Your Truth
Mother’s Day doesn’t look the same for everyone, and it’s time we stop pretending it should. For some, it’s a joyful celebration. For others, it’s a quiet reckoning. And for many, it’s something in between.
Whatever this day brings up for you—grief, relief, love, loss, confusion—you’re allowed to feel it fully. You don’t have to perform. You don’t have to explain. You just have to honour the truth of your experience.
That, too, is an act of love.
A note for you and a reminder for myself-
If this piece resonated with you, please know you’re not alone. Mother’s Day can stir up complicated emotions—grief, guilt, anger, even relief—and all of those feelings are valid. Whether your relationship with your mother is loving, painful, or somewhere in between, your experience matters.
You’re allowed to protect your peace, honour your truth, and give yourself the care you may never have received.
If you’re navigating this day with a heavy heart, I see you. I’m walking it too.
There are some days etched into your memory so deeply that you feel them pulse with every breath you take. For me, it was the day of my daughter’s 10th birthday—a milestone that should have been filled with joy, love, laughter. Instead, it became the day I shattered a lifetime of silence and paid the price for seeking truth from a mother who never saw me as her daughter, only her mistake.
I thought maybe, just maybe, this would be the right moment to try again. To offer peace. To fight for understanding. After all, she was in a hospital bed, vulnerable and confronting her mortality. If there was ever a moment for redemption, surely this was it.
But I was wrong. So painfully, achingly wrong.
The Slow Build of a Lifetime of Hurt
In the weeks leading up to that day, I had gently—so gently—tried to talk to her about the differences in how she treated me and my brother. I wasn’t attacking. I wasn’t blaming. I was pleading. Trying to open a door that had always been slammed shut in my face.
My brother—the golden child. The sun she orbits. The one she can never seem to do wrong by. She loves him so much she even extends that unconditional warmth to a girlfriend she’s never even met.
And me?
I don’t remember being loved. I don’t remember being wanted. I don’t remember being enough.
I think she hated me from the moment I was born. Maybe even before that.
Today, She Couldn’t Walk—and I Couldn’t Stay Silent
Today was also the day she realized she couldn’t walk anymore. She’d been pretending to the medical staff that she could—swearing she was walking in secret like it was some twisted game. Delirious, yes. But manipulative? Even more so. She’s spent a lifetime crafting illusions and bending reality to serve her. She’s a master of deceit. And I was tired of being the student of her cruelty.
The final crack in the dam came when she proudly told me she had just given my brother $250—for groceries.
That was it.
I told her I wished I had even a fraction of that kindness. I told her I wished she had ever seen me as her daughter the way she sees him as her son. I asked her the question I’ve carried for decades:
“What’s the difference between me and him? Is it because I was born with a vagina?”
She didn’t answer. Not really. She didn’t have to.
A Starving Daughter, A Favoured Son
When I lived at home, I paid rent. And the groceries I bought for myself? Fed to her five dogs.
Yes, you read that right. I would buy food with my own money, and she would feed it to the dogs. Sometimes, my grandmother would wait until I made a meal and then demand half—only to give it to the dogs, right in front of me, as if my hunger was a joke.
I was pregnant once, starving, not allowed to leave my room because my mother was home and in a fury. I went the entire day without food, growing life inside me while starving, while they all feasted.
Meanwhile, my brother? A grown man with a full-time job. She gives him money for food. Pays for him and his girlfriend to go to the nail salon. Funds their weekends away. Offers him the luxury of love I’ve never tasted.
I Asked Her Why—and She Hung Up
I asked her why. Why she hated me. Why she couldn’t love me. What was wrong with me.
She claimed she never treated me badly. Denied everything. Even when I listed the moments of pain like beads on a rosary, she insisted she treated me “well.”
And then she said something that broke me even more than I thought possible:
“We can’t be friends if you keep asking these questions.”
As if we were ever friends.
And then—she hung up.
I Don’t Regret Speaking My Truth—Even If It Cost Me a Mother
Maybe my daughter’s birthday wasn’t the right day. Or maybe it was. Because watching her turn ten, watching her feel seen and celebrated, reminded me exactly what I never had—and what I will fight like hell to give her.
I chose truth over silence. I chose healing over pretending. I chose to stop begging for a love that was never mine to begin with.
And maybe that’s the most painful kind of freedom.
Itwas a beating to last a lifetime – one I will never forget.
As a child, I thought I was giving my mother the greatest gift I could possibly offer. I had a tiny glass bottle I adored – no bigger than 5ml, delicate and perfectly formed. I cherished it for its size, its fragility, and the way small treasures often captivate young minds. To me, it wasn’t just a bottle. It was my bottle – my most prized possession.
In my innocence, I thought combining my favorite item with hers – her favorite fragrance – would be the ultimate expression of love. I imagined her unwrapping it, smiling at the thoughtfulness of the gesture: her perfume, my bottle, one cherished thing inside another.
But I was painfully mistaken.
She didn’t see a sweet gift. She saw waste. A waste of her expensive fragrance. A waste of her money. A thoughtless act, not a generous one.
And instead of praise, I got punished – severely. I was beaten. And I learned, in the harshest way, a lesson about boundaries, about value, and about what “gifting” really means – especially when it involves something that doesn’t truly belong to you.
The beating wasn’t just physical. It marked a turning point. I learned to keep my hands to myself, to think twice before using anything that wasn’t mine, and to understand the financial pressure she was under – even if I hadn’t fully grasped the weight of that as a child.
What stung more than the physical pain was the emotional fallout. I had tried to surprise her, to make her smile. But instead, I triggered her anger. And from that day on, something shifted. She resented me more. Maybe because I was her daughter. Maybe because girls weren’t allowed mistakes the way boys were.
It’s almost ironic now, watching my brother do what I never could. Spending her money freely – not just on himself, but on his girlfriend and her family. My mother, sick and bedridden, gets bank notifications from her hospital bed about every new purchase he makes. And she allows it. No beatings. No lectures. Just silence.
I think about how differently she would have reacted if it were me. A single cent of her money in my hands would have been seen as theft, not thoughtlessness. But he’s her son. And sons are treated differently.
The perfume I used that day – how fitting its name was – Poison. At the time, I thought it would make her happy. Instead, it became the symbol of everything I didn’t understand about her, about money, about love. That tiny glass bottle didn’t just spill a few drops of fragrance – it shattered whatever bond we might have had. From that moment on, it felt like I became a burden, a disappointment she could never forgive. And somehow, that moment – so small, so innocent in intention – became the line between being her daughter and being her mistake. Poison was the scent, but it was also the beginning of the rot.
We fed the narcissist – completely unaware of the consequences. Nobody warned us – and we were too young to understand the dangers. We just knew that defying her meant facing a wrath we could not survive.
We enabled her – as did everyone who knew it was best for their own well-being. From family, to friends, to work colleagues – we all knew that to challenge her meant being ensnared in a web of lies, dragged down into her toxic world. Confrontation was never really an option, so we chose peace – a peace that stretched into decades.
But what happens when the narcissist gets sick? Hospitalized, her fabricated stories now target medical professionals. She claims to walk around her room, but the evidence tells a different story. The medical staff reveal her non-compliance with therapy, her refusal to engage with rehabilitation. Yet, she insists she walks unaided, even accusing the nurses of dropping her.
It’s not just a matter of who you believe when your entire life has been shaped by her lies – the medical professionals or the toxic narcissist… you’ve seen her twist words into weapons, turn family against family with a mere whisper for your entire life.
Now it’s a matter of breaking your own toxic cycle. Realising that you are safe and that you no longer need to play pretend enabling her evil behaviour – allowing her fabricated world to continue turning.
Easier said than done though – especially as you watch this person, once a towering figure of control, now frail and weakened in a hospital bed… relying on you for assistance, for support, to be there for them in their time of need – in a capacity that they have never in their lifetime been there for you.
I can’t help but question if the narcissist would be in the same position she is in today if we had just confronted her in the beginning. If we had seen her web of lies for exactly what it was and instead of getting stuck in it – we simply stood up to it.
Would she still be as filled with delirium as what she is today if we had forced her out of the delusional state that she was in for so many decades?
Maybe the difference between us is intention – her intention was always to manipulate, to control, to bring harm – whereas ours was simply that of peace – of survival.
We saw what she could do to you if you weren’t obedient and we didn’t want to be hated the way anyone was who didn’t play along with her – and yet complying with her delusional state never enabled us to be loved by her anyway.
We gained nothing by remaining silent – nothing other than a breath of peace. For the most brief of moments she allowed us to feel happiness – until her next unrealistic demand came along… and once again she began playing one against the other, singling us out, isolating her only children from one another because as a team we would have been stronger against her.
And so, standing at the crossroads of a lifetime of manipulation and a newfound sense of self, a choice has to be made – do we continue enabling, offering comfort to the architect of so much pain, or do we finally break free, to speak the truth that has been suppressed for so long. It is a battle between ingrained habit and the desperate longing for ‘freedom’ – a word that I wear on a chain around my neck to remind myself how far I have come.
A decision has to be made, a commitment to oneself to step out of the shadows of the narcissist’s control. It won’t be easy, the guilt and fear are formidable opponents, but the first step has been taken. A path towards healing, towards reclaiming a life that had been dimmed for far too long, has finally begun… or at least it’s what I’m hoping for – without having to wait for her to take her last breath for us to finally be free.
If I could go back in time, I would warn my younger self not to feed the narcissist because if I do, then eventually she will end up consuming you entirely.
Although she’s in hospital, we can’t tell the difference between her normal state of evil, toxic, menacing delusion – and her medical state of delirium – because we fed the narcissist… when we should have let it starve.
My daughter is a child – first and foremost she is my child – and therefore I should extend more understanding towards the situation than what I am… however I am nothing like her and I just can’t give her that grace.
She’s so naive – not more naive than anyone else of her age and nature, but unbelievably trusting, so filled with hope, and always seeing the best in people – even when dealing with others who are nothing but the absolute scum of the Earth.
She still trusts them.
She still gives them a chance.
Nobody likes you because of your ‘disorders’? My daughter will be your friend.
Nobody likes you because of all of your ‘personal problems’? My daughter will STILL be your friend.
Nobody likes you because you’re new to the school? Not only will my daughter be your friend, but she will make you feel so very welcomed.
This is her downfall!
She is excessively trusting. She only sees the good in people. She will be your friend even if you are a rubbish human being.
So what do you get in return when you extend yourself to people who you should never have been extending yourself to?
You end up with FAKE friends – or even worse – USERS!
People who only associate with you to see how you can benefit their lives.
Two-faced creatures who do nothing but drain all of your energy and talk about you behind your back.
The type of fake friends who will see you being threatened by your bullies and rather than stick up for you, they befriend your bully – all whilst claiming it’s because they want to preserve themselves and not get beaten up alongside you.
They are nothing but bystanders in life – and they will never amount to anything more than that.
The worst part is they’re not even like your bullies – the strange thing about bullies is that they are willing to communicate with you and tell you exactly what you’ve done or what it is about you that they hate the most.
Whereas these snakes that call themselves her friends, her acquaintances, her associates – when they are asked what she’s done wrong to cause them to treat her as badly as what they treat her – they merely walk off.
They tell her that they’re not going to include her in a conversation because possibly she doesn’t share those same interests – without even finding out first whether or not she’s interested in a particular subject.
They will exclude her, walk away from her, remove her as a friend on social media – and then tell her that their actions is an “answer” – without ever providing a reason as to what caused the fallout.
No closure is given.
She’s just left to question what could have possibly gone wrong to end a friendship like that…
As a mother, I could tell her that it ended in that way because there never was any real friendship there to begin with.
She was being used for what she could give them.
She was being used because it was convenient for them at the time.
Revoltingly she was even being used racially as they explained to her that she could be the coloured person in their group – they would call her the “darkness to their light”, in reference to her skin tone being darker than their own.
They hate her because she’s a good person.
They can’t manipulate her and force her to vape or do anything unsavoury which would put her or anyone for that matter in a compromising position.
They hate her because as much as she is a trusting person she will not do anything that is inappropriate.
They hate her because they can’t drag her down to their level.
As much as it hurts my heart that she gives people like this a chance, that she overextended herself to include everyone, to trust everyone, to give everyone a chance – it also fills my heart to know that the reason why they hate her is practically the same thing that frustrates me about her:
She is a pure, decent, human being. That is a representation of everything good in this world, of everything good in this lifetime. She is the exact opposite of me and my only wish is that there were more people like her in the world to balance out the deceitfulness, the deviousness of everybody else around her.
Perhaps if we had more people like her, she would be able to find someone to call a true friend, opposed to being surrounded by the most deceptive of creatures.
SomeonesMother 