It's my second daughter's first birthday today. I feel joyful and proud. We'll celebrate with loving family on Sunday (only my maternal aunt and cousins on my side, yay!) and I can't wait for everyone to shower my baby with attention and love.
But I also feel so desperately guilty when I remember my first daughter's first birthday. The little I do remember. I was suffering from depression and nothing made any sense and there seemed to be no reason to celebrate anything. Sure, we had a birthday party. I just remember feeling out of place around all these happy people. I don't think I took any photos. In fact, there are very few pictures of my daughter's first year of life. Very, very few memories in my mind too. Just one long, dark, gray, hollow, bleak day.
I didn't use to feel guilty about my postpartum depression. I used to think I did the best I could to be a good mom to my child, depression notwithstanding. But now I know that the most basic, most fundamental piece was missing in her early childhood. The joyful love of her mother. I did feel some love towards her, although I blocked it and denied it out of "honesty". It was a sad, desperate love, full of pity towards my poor child who got stuck with a mom like me, a cold, selfish person incapable of warmth and nurturing.
I know the difference now. And I try to make up for it now. But I can never bring back those years. I just have to hope for the best. I have to stop doing the ACON thing where, if I haven't done something perfectly, it's over and ruined and I messed up my Big Girl for life and nothing I ever do can make it all right now and I might as well give up trying. No. I'll just keep doing the best I know how and hope and pray she'll be a strong, secure child who knows she's loved and worthy of love.
Showing posts with label PPD. Show all posts
Showing posts with label PPD. Show all posts
Friday, June 10, 2011
Saturday, June 4, 2011
My mother's psychological problems?
My mother was quite possibly bipolar. I didn't think it had anything to do with anything until I read that upsi's brother is bipolar. Is it a possible effect of having been raised by a narcissist? Does it make you more susceptible to narcisssists? I've tried doing research and came up with nothing. Thoughts?
I remember my mother taking sedatives at times and, when I asked her about it, she said she was "manic-depressive", as it was called then, and had trouble sleeping in the manic phases.
When I was trying to understand my postpartum depression, I asked my father if my mother ever suffered from it, or from depression in general. He said no, she was so happy when I was born, and loved me very much. I then asked about her BPD and he said I must be mistaken. She had no such thing.
So, yeah, he's lying. I've no idea why. It makes no sense. I guess it's a precaution with him - better lie, just in case. Or a mental habit.
Was she raised by a narcissistic mother, as I'm beginning to seriously believe now? Did she have BPD and is it in any way connected? Did it make her more susceptible to a narcissist's charms? Was she severely depressed at times? I do recall times when she just vegetated in front of the TV, dejectedly; and other times when she was highly energized and cheerful. It could only have been Bipolar II, and a relatively mild form at that, judging from my research. Did my PPD have anything to do with this? Did she have PPD too that my father's hiding from me? Am I more genetically prone to depression because of this?
Does any of this have any connection with anything? Or not?
So many lies, so many things I'll never know. Any little thing I remember or uncover has to be treated as a potential mine for meaning.
I remember my mother taking sedatives at times and, when I asked her about it, she said she was "manic-depressive", as it was called then, and had trouble sleeping in the manic phases.
When I was trying to understand my postpartum depression, I asked my father if my mother ever suffered from it, or from depression in general. He said no, she was so happy when I was born, and loved me very much. I then asked about her BPD and he said I must be mistaken. She had no such thing.
So, yeah, he's lying. I've no idea why. It makes no sense. I guess it's a precaution with him - better lie, just in case. Or a mental habit.
Was she raised by a narcissistic mother, as I'm beginning to seriously believe now? Did she have BPD and is it in any way connected? Did it make her more susceptible to a narcissist's charms? Was she severely depressed at times? I do recall times when she just vegetated in front of the TV, dejectedly; and other times when she was highly energized and cheerful. It could only have been Bipolar II, and a relatively mild form at that, judging from my research. Did my PPD have anything to do with this? Did she have PPD too that my father's hiding from me? Am I more genetically prone to depression because of this?
Does any of this have any connection with anything? Or not?
So many lies, so many things I'll never know. Any little thing I remember or uncover has to be treated as a potential mine for meaning.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Good Enough Mom
I'll admit it. I'll confess it to myself and others. I'm not an abusive, narcissistic mother. Nor am I a perfect parent, like my father had to convince himself and others he was. I'm somewhere in between, working to get better.
Part of my problem is that I only realized my parents had not been perfect after I had kids. I had few memories of my childhood and basically made myself believe that every early psychology textbook, parenting book, or article on good parenting exemplified their wonderful and loving treatment of me.
When I became a parent, I went through the motions of immaculate parenting, but kept getting more and more desperate. I wasn't measuring up to my father's standards because I didn't take my daughter out for long walks every day and play with her actively all the time, telling her what the right way to use that toy was. And even without measuring up, it was hard. And something didn't feel right. And I didn't trust myself with good feelings, so I only believed those moments of frustration and despair to be true, and discarded tender, loving emotions, because I thought I was faking it. I was convinced I didn't really feel love for my child, the way I was supposed to, the way my father always made it sound it had to be, and I was devastated about that. So I overcompensated with her, never leaving her, co-sleeping and breastfeeding longer than I really felt like, rarely denying her anything, all the while directing all my suppressed anger towards myself. All the while feeling like an utter failure as a mom and convinced my daughter will rightfully hate me as soon as she's old enough to see through me.
Then, lately, I've uncovered my anger and its hidden sources. I've started directing it where it's due - my father (or, rather, his representation in my mind's eye); but, also, where it's not due - I have, while learning to be "assertive", lashed out at my husband and daughter, raised my voice, even hit her. I'm sorry for this and have apologized. It's difficult to find the right measure between being a narcissist's doormat and being abusive, between being a victim and being a tyrant, if you've been raised by a narcissist and don't know how to be simply assertive and authoritative.
Because ACONs think in black and white. This is why parenting feels like such an issue. Because if I'm not a perfect parent all the time, then I'm an utter failure and my kids would be better off without me. There's no in between.
But there is. When I allow myself to understand that I am a "good enough mom" already, it makes me a much better mom here and now, and potentially better in the future.
Part of my problem is that I only realized my parents had not been perfect after I had kids. I had few memories of my childhood and basically made myself believe that every early psychology textbook, parenting book, or article on good parenting exemplified their wonderful and loving treatment of me.
When I became a parent, I went through the motions of immaculate parenting, but kept getting more and more desperate. I wasn't measuring up to my father's standards because I didn't take my daughter out for long walks every day and play with her actively all the time, telling her what the right way to use that toy was. And even without measuring up, it was hard. And something didn't feel right. And I didn't trust myself with good feelings, so I only believed those moments of frustration and despair to be true, and discarded tender, loving emotions, because I thought I was faking it. I was convinced I didn't really feel love for my child, the way I was supposed to, the way my father always made it sound it had to be, and I was devastated about that. So I overcompensated with her, never leaving her, co-sleeping and breastfeeding longer than I really felt like, rarely denying her anything, all the while directing all my suppressed anger towards myself. All the while feeling like an utter failure as a mom and convinced my daughter will rightfully hate me as soon as she's old enough to see through me.
Then, lately, I've uncovered my anger and its hidden sources. I've started directing it where it's due - my father (or, rather, his representation in my mind's eye); but, also, where it's not due - I have, while learning to be "assertive", lashed out at my husband and daughter, raised my voice, even hit her. I'm sorry for this and have apologized. It's difficult to find the right measure between being a narcissist's doormat and being abusive, between being a victim and being a tyrant, if you've been raised by a narcissist and don't know how to be simply assertive and authoritative.
Because ACONs think in black and white. This is why parenting feels like such an issue. Because if I'm not a perfect parent all the time, then I'm an utter failure and my kids would be better off without me. There's no in between.
But there is. When I allow myself to understand that I am a "good enough mom" already, it makes me a much better mom here and now, and potentially better in the future.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Parenting is a hard and thankless job
And you can do everything perfectly and be the best parent anyone could ever wish for, and your kids will still dislike you and be ungrateful.
At least those were the implicit messages I got and the conclusions I drew.
When I was three, I hugged my father and told him: "You're the best daddy in the universe!" He chuckled bitterly and said "You won't always think that. When you're older, you'll say you hate me".
Actually, I never did. But I remember being shocked to be accused of something that I was to do in a decade or more from the moment I expressed adoration of my father.
Later, though, I did believe him. I never told them I hated them and was a polite child and teenager, but I never actually truly loved my parents and never felt close to them or shared anything with them. And I thought how cruel that was to them - they were such wonderful, involved parents, whose only crime was spoiling me so much, and this is their thanks. I concluded that being a parent is horrible and all you can hope for is distance and contempt from your children.
I had PPD after my first child and saw the whole thing as a hard duty I must go through the motions of, but would rather be dead.
Having a good relationship with my husband's parents and, I hope, developing a real one with my own kids, I'm slowly starting to change my ingrained irrational thoughts on this.
How did you approach parenting after being raised by narcissistic parents? Did you have problems? Did you decide not to have kids at all? What surprised you in your own parenting and relationship with your kids?
At least those were the implicit messages I got and the conclusions I drew.
When I was three, I hugged my father and told him: "You're the best daddy in the universe!" He chuckled bitterly and said "You won't always think that. When you're older, you'll say you hate me".
Actually, I never did. But I remember being shocked to be accused of something that I was to do in a decade or more from the moment I expressed adoration of my father.
Later, though, I did believe him. I never told them I hated them and was a polite child and teenager, but I never actually truly loved my parents and never felt close to them or shared anything with them. And I thought how cruel that was to them - they were such wonderful, involved parents, whose only crime was spoiling me so much, and this is their thanks. I concluded that being a parent is horrible and all you can hope for is distance and contempt from your children.
I had PPD after my first child and saw the whole thing as a hard duty I must go through the motions of, but would rather be dead.
Having a good relationship with my husband's parents and, I hope, developing a real one with my own kids, I'm slowly starting to change my ingrained irrational thoughts on this.
How did you approach parenting after being raised by narcissistic parents? Did you have problems? Did you decide not to have kids at all? What surprised you in your own parenting and relationship with your kids?
Monday, May 2, 2011
Legacies
Spanking out of anger is actually a manifestation of a part of my (normal) mother's legacy. When I was little, and she was exasperated, or tired, or angry, or was told she "had to win to be a good parent" (although she begged to differ), she spanked me. And then felt sorry. And I never held it against her, because I guess I was so overwhelmed with the legacy of my "perfect" father's inhumanity that I was actually grateful to experience human behavior, even if it was unpleasant.
I'm messed up on different levels and in different ways.
When my daughter was first born and I had crippling PPD and hadn't even begun addressing my father's NPD, my behavior towards the baby and toddler was immaculate from the outside. I never let her cry. I breastfed on demand and co-slept. I held her in my arms all the time and later in my lap whenever she wanted it. I rarely raised my voice and never hit her. And I felt no love for her and was basically a well-functioning machine, and this was taking up all my energy and leaving me dead inside.
Now that I'm becoming human again, I'm doing the bad stuff my mother did.
When do I get to be good?
I'm messed up on different levels and in different ways.
When my daughter was first born and I had crippling PPD and hadn't even begun addressing my father's NPD, my behavior towards the baby and toddler was immaculate from the outside. I never let her cry. I breastfed on demand and co-slept. I held her in my arms all the time and later in my lap whenever she wanted it. I rarely raised my voice and never hit her. And I felt no love for her and was basically a well-functioning machine, and this was taking up all my energy and leaving me dead inside.
Now that I'm becoming human again, I'm doing the bad stuff my mother did.
When do I get to be good?
Sunday, March 13, 2011
What was done to my mother
Her daughter was basically taken away from her. We lived together, but she wasn't allowed to do anything, because she was incompetent. Her breasts were incompetent, too, so my father took over, a hero brandishing a bottle of formula.
When I was 20, she died of breast cancer. How creepily symbolic.
When I was starting to emerge from the depths of my PPD (postpartum depression) after my first daughter was already over two years old, I allowed myself some free associations and symbolic thinking.
Why is motherhood making you so desperate?
Because I know mothers don't matter, especially if they have daughters.
Because I know daughters will adore their fathers and ignore their mothers.
Because I know mothers get KILLED by their daughters.
Killed?
Why, yes. I killed my mother. I couldn't nurse well and my father took over and she was killed as a mother and, quite appropriately and symbolically, she got breast cancer. And it's our fault.
When I was 20, she died of breast cancer. How creepily symbolic.
When I was starting to emerge from the depths of my PPD (postpartum depression) after my first daughter was already over two years old, I allowed myself some free associations and symbolic thinking.
Why is motherhood making you so desperate?
Because I know mothers don't matter, especially if they have daughters.
Because I know daughters will adore their fathers and ignore their mothers.
Because I know mothers get KILLED by their daughters.
Killed?
Why, yes. I killed my mother. I couldn't nurse well and my father took over and she was killed as a mother and, quite appropriately and symbolically, she got breast cancer. And it's our fault.
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