I need help. Little Dana is a raging bull smashing up everything in site, stewing at things she cannot control. Her sense of shame is unbearable. I feel like a possessed demon trying so hard to push her deep inside so adult Dana can control the her life. She is a nut job. Pushing me and prodding me to get out and wreck havoc. Somedays she’s worse than other days. Some days I have to stay home for a few hours until I convinced her to calm down and go play.

I was a work out class yesterday and she almost humiliated me again! My face was hot and my back filled with spots of sweat. I can feel the sweat seeping through my T shirt. It was not the result of my workout because the class had just begun, it was the result of little Dana.  “He’s a fool! Tell your instructor to kiss your ass!”

“Shut up Little Dana. Shut up!” I’d retorted looking at my instructor with a fake shit smile that he can see right through.

Then my mother’s voice jumped in.

“You suck so bad! Look at you! You still don’t know how to do this routine? STILL!” she’d taunt cruelly.

“Please stop it. I can’t focus. I can’t do my best here. Stop it the instructor is looking straight at me. This is so embarrassing I can’t even be normal, not even for one hour.” I can feel the tears coming. I swallow real hard. Feeling hopeless and defeated, I wish I never came to class I think to myself. Everything felt dark, black and heavy.

Class was over. I did not attract too much attention, just some. I smiled. I thanked the instructor and left. Myself talk started. “Dana, you are ok. You did your best. Today was not smooth, but tomorrow will be. I’m proud of you that you didn’t leave. I know little Dana and your mother were really acting up.”

“Yes,” I whimpered to my logical voice trying to comfort me.  “It was really hard.”

When will it stop. When?


Lock Her Up.

Little me wreaks havoc on my adult life.

My husband urged me to, “Lock her up. Don’t let her come out Dana.” I feel conflicted about this because this is what created the problem in the first place, locking up little Dana made her body shake with anger. Locking up little Dana made her feel insignificant and humiliated. Locking up little Dana made her feel unloved, abandoned and unworthy. So, adult Dana thought, let her out. Let her scream, laugh, giggle, baby talk; let her sulk, throw a tantrum, etc. Let her out! Open the damn cage! Let her run amuck and do as she damn well pleases!

My question is, how long do I let her out? When do I start to gently step in and tell her, enough, time to calm down and behave moderately; time to look at the bully and tell it to get lost. I feel the urge to spoil her because I know she needs to experience freedom and love, but I also too much freedom can imprison her again, lock her up again.

So maybe I parent her like I parent my daughters, let her have her say and then step in and say, “Ok sweetheart, I heard what you had to say and now it’s time to breathe and say, enough.” I think I need to do these two things daily because little Dana needs to go through this process, it’s not a one time deal.

Being two separate people is hard; I always wanted to be one person in one body, but I’m not.  I have a pretty angry and scared little girl inside of me asking me over and over again, “Why does my mother not love me? Why does she treat me bad and bully me? Why are random ladies in the supermarket kind to me, but my mom is cruel to me? Why does my friend Sara have a mom that hugs her and i don’t?”

 It hurts me to see her sad and confused.

She cannot yet understand that her mother is sick, learning that alone would break her heart. Inside she knows her mother is broken and is letting her down, so she does not need to hear an adult on the outside blurt that out loud. She already knows it.Screen Shot 2018-11-16 at 10.52.17 PM



I am mourning. I am disturbed…

When I think about what I find most disturbing about my mother is her never ending supply of rage. I remember thinking, maybe if I squeezed her, all her rage would ooze out of her.  I later discovered that she is rage, she does not have rage. I think if I carried that much anger in me, I would have exploded and perished. However, my mother’s system runs on rage. This still makes me shiver and hide under my blankets. How did her body give birth to five beautiful little girls? I feel betrayed by her body. How did her body allow her to conceive and give birth to five precious children? Children of God.

Growing up and well into my adult life my mother would repeat everyday, “A good child does not get angry with their parents.”  But this was the problem. My mother was enraged with her parents, but since she could not tell them so, she directed her endless supply of rage right onto my sisters and me.  She projected her rage at my two aunts, my father, the cashier in Walmart and anyone else you had a pulse and was breathing oxygen.

The rage increased as I became a teenager and a young lady. She would step up her crude remarks, bullying and perverted talk. “Don’t think you’re that pretty,” she’d spit with eyes bulging once again out of their sockets. She hated that I looked like my father. She felt betrayed that I got so much attention. I looked pale next to her olive skin. I had straight hair and full lips where she despised her tight curls and shapeless mouth, as she often described it.  My mom was actually very attractive, but she never accepted her looks. She despised every morsel of herself and projected that onto to my sisters and I.

My mother’s rage was out of control when she saw me hugging my beautiful daughters or dotting over them; scurrying around the house trying hard to meet their needs and filling their wee hearts with love and security. “Don’t worry your daughters are fine. No one is bothering them.” She said this in a cruel and disgusting manner. She said this trying to shame me for expressing love to my own children. She would eye them repeatedly. I knew this meant she was planning a way that she can disrupt the love and kindness I was showing my daughters. She was formulating a plan to squeeze out the love from my life and stop my flow of love to my children.  This is the truth. I am not making this up. She did this repeatedly. Each time she’s get more aggressive and vicious when her attempts failed. She was determined to take my love away from them and keep it solely focused on her.

She’s seventy-two years old. People filled with rage live long miserable lives working hard to make my sisters and people around her as miserable as they are. I dread how much longer she is going to walk this earth. I want all that rage to die, but I know it won’t. My sisters have learned to live on rage. It will never be done for them. As for me, I’ve moved on a while ago.

Baby Elephant

Baby elephant was strong, yet wee. Baby elephant knew that her body would catch up with her will. Baby elephant wanted to thrash about in the open dirt arena like the other elephants did.

Why are they putting chains around her strong legs. Why are they screaming at her, “It will take time, but it will happen.”  Wait, why are the men winking and laughing so hard.

Stand still, eat standing, sleep standing.

Days, months… one year, two years and three years.

Baby elephant can feel her legs getting weaker. She can feel the heaviness of stillness day after day. She can feel her authentic self shrinking.

Tricks, whips, clowns, lights flashing…. whirling about. Popcorn, kids cheering, acrobats… whirling about.

Unleash. Chains come off. Now that you are prisoner within, your body is free to obey us.

In the arena now, a big elephant, she goes.

No self.

No joy… just the prison engraved in her mind.




It’s Not Fair

My spouse is clueless. He has no clue what my mother did to my sisters and I. He has no clue what it means to grow up without a self or voice; to him, life was good. It’s frustrating for me to watch him bop about our house so clueless. It gives me great joy that he never dealt with evil or enraged people. It gives me great joy to know he has loving caring parents. Yet, it irks me to my core how he is so… clueless.  When my husband and I tried to get engaged, my mother worked overtime and trying to ensure it never happened to the that she took off her mask and showed him a whiff of her narcissist self.  Twenty some years later, he still says, “I can’t believe it, your mother’s eyes were popping out of her head.”  Uh huh I thought to myself over and over again.  No shit Sherlock multiply that look by a million plus times. Absolutely clueless.

It’s also not fair that I expect an average everyday person to understand such an unnatural thing; a mother who hunts and preys her own children.  It is disturbing and insane.  He cannot understand it. He understand bits ad pieces and then he forgets again bc it’s so unnatural.  So, it’s better that he is clueless, it means that he’s normal. My daughters need a normal parent who expects normal interactions with his parents and people. How else can I continue to raise normal happy young adults?

So it’s not fair that I expect him or anyone else who has not experienced evil mothers to understand where I came from and how I feel.




One of the hardest parts of having a narcissistic mother is explaining to loved ones what she actually did to me and my sisters. It’s incredibly difficult to do this because her actions were often done when no witnesses were around and they were insidious and cunningly calculated. But I think that’s what writing about my painful experiences with my mother is all about; learning to explain to people who love or even like their mothers, what it felt like and still feels like to have a despicable mother is so damn hard.  So, after thinking for sometime, I thought it feels like mud.  Let me explain.

I was a cute little girl. I’m not trying to be arrogant, but I was. I had long ,wavy, dark hair with almond brown eyes and perfectly arched eyebrows. I had a sweet smile.  My eyes twinkled with my spunky spirit hinting who I could grow up to be one day. I loved playing all day long and socializing with the kids in my neighborhood.  I got a lot of attention from older cousins who would spoil me and buy me candy and endure playing Connect Four and Battle Ship with me for hours at a time. My older Jenna, at times, resented all the attention I got. Even more so, my mother stewed at the attention and compliments I received. “She’s such a pretty little girl,” people would smile to my mom.  My mom would nod with a forced smile planted on her face. When the people turned away, her smile quickly disappeared and she’d narrow her eyes and glare at me. Oh no, I thought to myself here it comes; I was exhausted by her daily fits of pure rage.  Now I’m going to get it. And this is what I call mud.  The belittling, rage, foul language, demonizing language, put downs, shaming, mocking, insulting…. aka… mud.

“So, you think you’re so great, do you?!” she’d hiss at me as she ushered me into the house closing the door behind her. Mud.

“Oh, you’re so precious, aren’t you!” she thundered closing in on me. Mud.

She whirled around and got in my face, “Dana is such a cutie,” she’d vehemently mimicked people. Mud.

“Ha ha,” she’d continue throwing her head back. “If they only new what a devil you are!” She spat looking at me with that manic look in her bulging big brown eyes.

I prayed again to be invisible to disappear. No one was there to help me. My sisters huddled silent and wide eye in a corner relieved that they were not the target of the hour. No adult. No one.

So, I can explain growing and still having a narcissistic mother as having a mom you bathed me in mud.  Other moms, placed their little kids in the tub and scrubbed them clean with bubbles multiplying in the water and popping.  You can smell the cleanliness in the air fill the small bathroom. My mother, threw mud on me. Face first, then chest, then my pretty hair and on and on; until, I wasn’t really recognizable to myself or others.  That mud was her distorting my sense of self; squeezing the joy out of my heart and my eyes. The mud was also how she taught me that I was a worthless nothing unworthy of those friendships that I cherished and yearned for.  Mud.

I Know…

I’ve become so accustomed to the quiet that noise feels painful.  I learned that I sure am an introvert and I fully embrace this.  I can enjoy company or social interaction more knowing that I can reclaim my peaceful household again. It seems like I cannot get  enough of the quiet. Strange because my sister, Jenna, is the same. She speaks quietly and keeps the lights on in her home dim. Even her kids are quiet.

I know that my sister Jenna and I will never fully recover. I know that our wiring will always be a bit off. Almost everything my mother said was a lie. She lied about her sisters making problems with her, she lied to my father  and she lied to my sisters and I.  All along, it was her that was creating cycle of never ending problems. I know she broke Jenna’s heart. Jenna isolates herself from anyone whose not her husband and kids. She has great difficulty trusting me in the slightest way.

I was looking at family photos with my younger daughter yesterday when I came across a photo of my mom and me five years ago.  My joyful mood came to a screeching halt. My mother had a hard, cold and cruel look on her face. Her nostrils are flared out and she has that maniac look in her eyes. I shuddered and closed my eyes. I just want to forget I thought. It upsets me how she still has an effect on me. All happiness evaporates at the sight and thought of her. Anytime I see her picture, I revert back to being a child and then to a distraught suicidal teenager, then to a frightened young lady who tried so hard to stay small when around so she wouldn’t feel the need to lash out in rage at me. So, I hit the delete button and watched her be placed in the trash can. There  I thought, that’s where you belong.