One of the classic symptoms of a narcissist is the complete and total disregard for personal boundaries. In the case of a narcissistic parent, the child is often just seen as an extension of the self, or as a possession that the parent has every right to manipulate as he or she sees fit. In my case, with both parents being narcissists, I have had no respect for my own self, space, and especially my privacy throughout my entire life.
This manifested itself in some seemingly strange behavior when I was growing up. Some of these things may not seem THAT odd, but when combined with all of the other symptoms, today I see them as red flags of my parents’ impaired psychological condition. One thing that always seemed a bit “off” to me was my parents’ continual insistence on keeping every door in the house open. I wasn’t permitted to close the bedroom door when I slept. I was supposed to keep it open at all times, including when I changed my clothing. My parents, as well, kept their bedroom door open at all times, including when they changed clothing or slept. Sometimes, this was very annoying, even when I was very young, because my father would snore very loudly at night and it would be hard to sleep. And needless to say, as a teenager, I didn’t want my parents to see me when I was nude. In addition to the bedroom doors being open, my parents would always use the bathroom with the doors wide open! It didn’t matter if they were urinating, taking a smelly bowel movement (that was my father), or showering/bathing...the door was always open. Always. And it was expected that I would keep these doors open.
I don’t remember ever feeling comfortable about these “restrictions.” When I got to be a teenager, I started rebelling by closing my door when I slept and when I bathed or used the toilet. My mother would often cry if I tried to give myself some “alone time” - particularly in regards to a ritual I had every night where I’d write in my diary with the door closed, listening to my favorite radio program. She would say that I was shutting her out, that I didn’t love her anymore, and that I didn’t care. (I even have this documented, with her exact words, in my diary!) There was simply no respect for the fact that a young woman might want some space to herself, to be private with her own thoughts...and with her own body.
Nothing was off-limits to my parents when I was growing up. I was supposed to tell them everything. They were supposed to be my confidantes, my best friends. They limited my contact with others, and exercised very strict controls on whom I could associate with, or befriend. Only “approved” friends were welcomed into the house, meaning I was not even permitted to select my own friends with whom to share my confidences. In terms of conversations with my parents, they would want to know what boys I had crushes on and my absolute innermost feelings. My dad, in particular, treated me like some sort of locker room buddy, making all kinds of disgusting crass comments about women and their bodies. I remember - even as young as six or seven years old - how my father would make comments about what Solid Gold dancers or pop stars he’d “give anything for just one night!” There was no censorship, and no questioning of what might be appropriate or not. And at the same time, he would tell me that I was never, ever allowed to tell anyone about anything that went on in our home...because that was private. That was between family only.
Even my trash wasn't off-limits. My father often went through my trash in my bedroom, searching for evidence of I-don’t-know-what. I used to write a great deal of poetry when I was in high school. Lots of young girls do this, in their teenage angst! Mine went a step further, and frequently I’d write tomes about bleeding to death, wanting to die, how I planned to die, and how gross I was. One time, I wrote a poem about hating my body and how I was trapped in it. I threw away a draft of it - I even tore it in half and crumpled it up so no one would see it. My father found it in the trash, taped it back together and flattened it out. Then, he put it ON HIS DESK at work, taped to a framed picture of me as a little girl, on his desk. Keep in mind he was the superintendent of one of the largest public school districts in the state at this time. I was utterly horrified when I saw this! But it didn’t matter. He said it was a good poem and that’s why he put it up.
There were other strange occurrences too, dealing with privacy. My father really is a sneaky guy. He would go into my room often when I wasn’t home and look for my diaries. And he would read them! How would I know this? He would frequently quote passages from them to me when he drove me to cross-country practice, or to school in the morning. As a teenage girl, it was so invasive, not to mention overwhelmingly embarrassing.
As a grown adult woman, these strange practices continued, but in different ways. First and foremost, it was always expected that I would call home frequently in order to discuss all sorts of “matters of the heart” with my family, particularly with my mother. It was not tolerated well if I was unable to call for a while, such as during periods of time when I was busy on a gig or other contract. I would be expected to immediately respond to text messages, emails, or voicemails if they tried to contact me. I would be told that I was uncaring or selfish by not immediately responding.
During these conversations, I was supposed to talk about myself and about my marriage. My family often used these conversations to sow the seeds of dissent between my husband and myself - this is definitely a matter for another blog post of its own! It was like they were always looking for something that they could find at fault, something that was very, very wrong. If I was going through something tough, they were all ears; it was like they relished hearing bad news and helping me to “pick up the pieces.” They wanted to hear what was wrong, and they wanted ALL of the details...even about my own intimate life with my husband. Saying that something was off-limits was not tolerated. I would be accused of shutting them out. Something was wrong with me, obviously, because I didn’t want to share intimate information, or deal with something on my own.
If I was going through a happy time in my life, my conversations with my parents would be stilted and awkward. They would have nothing to say. In fact, they would rarely ask me how I was doing, what I was interested in, how things were going, how my husband was doing, etc. If I volunteered good news or good information, they would change the subject. (I never mentioned anything good, according to their versions of stories. I shut them out by not sharing anything I was interested in.) Frequently my mother would talk for an hour on her end of the telephone, often ranting about being misunderstood or abused at work, often discussing someone else’s horrible problems, or someone’s terrible illnesses. I would have to sit and listen. To be honest, I’d frequently sit on the computer during these long monologues just to have something to endure the rambling, much of which was paranoid and completely irrational. My father, on the other hand, would control conversations simply by not speaking. If I didn’t contribute to a conversation about something in which he was interested (like sports or golfing), he would just not say anything. If I brought up something about myself, he would ignore it. It was like I didn’t ever really exist.
Another way this lack of personal privacy would manifest itself would occur during their frequent visits to my homes over the years. The first thing my mother would do - almost EVERY time - was clean my house. This was under the guise of “I’m doing something for you,” but now I see this had nothing to do with actually HELPING me do anything. It was about control and power. I obviously needed her, because I was a terrible housekeeper and was unable to keep my home up to her ridiculously high standards of cleanliness. If I protested letting my mother scrub my floors or deep-clean my rugs, she would get angry. I didn’t care. I was ungrateful. I was selfish. And I was spoiled...she did everything for me growing up, hence why I was so lazy as an adult that I couldn’t keep a clean house.
Both of my parents would also control the decor in my homes. They would offer to buy furniture for my husband and myself in the guise, again, of “helping.” But my mother would carefully “guide” me through catalogs and stores, looking for the right items for “me.” Never mind what my actual tastes were. I was too stupid to have taste, and too lazy to keep anything up myself. The most recent conflict with my parents was over my mother sewing curtains for my kitchen; granted, I picked out the fabric, which I very much like. But I didn’t really want curtains in the first place. It’s not like I think about these things, or really even care, and neither does my husband. It’s just not that important to US. This is unacceptable to my mother, who made a huge point to fly up last fall - and who made a huge point that I needed her to make curtains for me. At Christmas, when my mother asked my husband what he thought of these curtains, she was enraged when he didn’t immediately grovel and thank her profusely for all of the effort she put into creating something that isn’t at all important to HIM.
Narcissists will make themselves at home, no matter where they are. That is because your home is their home. That is because YOU do not exist to the narcissist. Who you actually are, what you like, what your interests are...all of these things are immaterial. The only thing of importance to the narcissist is: the narcissist. And any effort you make to rebel against this will be met with conflict. Expect it if you continue to try to salvage a relationship with a narcissist.
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