Beyond the Broken Glass: Living with a narcissistic mother

By Brielle Nolen

Narcissistic personality disorder is a term widely used but highly misunderstood. Narcissism refers to excessive self-love but not of the genuine sort. These individuals have an excessive need for admiration and entitlement, which hide the low self-esteem and worth they feel within themselves and from the world. Their lack of empathy and disregard for others' feelings make them extremely toxic, and their words and actions can have devastating consequences on the people around them.

A raw memoir on the effects of living with a narcissistic mother and how that shaped the development and perceptions of her daughter, Beyond the Broken Glass spans Brielle's life as a young girl filled with self-loathing, struggling to understand and break the abuse cycle; her struggles with an eating disorder, self-harm, and a suicide attempt as a broken teenager; and her difficulties setting boundaries and navigating her own toxic relationships with men in her adult years. She was trying to desperately find the love and acceptance her mother could never give her, until finally she finds her voice and breaks free.

Beyond the Broken Glass offers inspiration and hope to anyone struggling with mental illness, toxic relationships, and narcissistic abuse due to their dysfunctional upbringing and to prove that no matter how bad the circumstances, we always have the power to break the cycle and take back the power to reclaim our lives.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fulton Books, Inc.
• Release date: Dec 14, 2021
• ISBN: 9781638600633

Book preview

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Beyond the Broken Glass

Living with a Narcissistic Mother

A Memoir

Brielle Nolen

Copyright © 2021 Brielle Nolen

All rights reserved

First Edition

Fulton Books, Inc.

Meadville, PA

Published by Fulton Books 2021

ISBN 978-1-63860-062-6 (paperback)

ISBN 978-1-63860-063-3 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

To my father, stepmother, and nana. This book would have not been possible without your unconditional love, support, and belief in me to tell my story.

To my closest friends Sasha, Mike, and Candace. Thank you for being my biggest supporters and the friends in my life who have showed me what a healthy relationship is supposed to look like. I love that you are a part of my journey.

And to all the sons and daughters who have grown up victim to the narcissistic parent or mother. May you find true healing as I have.

Dear Mommy

I’m doing really good

I don’t cry at bedtime anymore, though my new mom said I could

I remember how much you hated tears

You slapped them out of me to make me strong

I think it worked

My hair grew two inches. It’s pretty, just like yours

I’m not allowed to clean the house, only my own room

Isn’t that a funny rule?

You say kids are so much trouble

Getting born they better pay it back

I’m not supposed to take care of the other kids, only me.

I sort of like it

I still get the hole in my stomach when I do something wrong

I have a saying on my mirror

kids make mistakes, It’s OK

I read it everyday

Sometimes I even believe it

I wonder if you ever think of me

Or if you are glad the troublemaker’s gone

I never want to see you again

I love you, mommy

—Linda Vaughn

Introduction

How do you begin? How do you write a book that encapsulates a life that spans decades in a few hundred pages? A book that strips off the very skin beyond your flesh and bears your innermost soul for all to see—the most private thoughts, actions, imperfections, and mistakes made through the years? The answer to that is buried within the question. You do not write a book like that for yourself at all but rather for the benefit of others that they might read the words on the page to learn what narcissistic personality disorder really is, how to set healthy boundaries with toxic narcissistic people, and how to find their own voice and worth when dealing with narcissists that they may have in their own lives. But similar to me, they are unable to put a diagnosis or name on what they are experiencing, making them think they are delusional or crazy or manipulated and gaslighted to believe they are the abuser themselves, silenced into obedience.

Through my own research, personal experience, and many years of therapy, I have learned that there is a real disconnect between the Hollywoodized version of narcissistic personality disorder and what it really is. The term narcissist itself is a very misleading term. One people still associate with a superficial woman who sits hours in front of the mirror applying makeup and admiring her appearance or a chauvinistic male with flexed muscles and endless hordes of beautiful women following in his wake, lavishing him with attention.

In a culture that prizes swipe right hookups over committed relationships, text messages over face-to-face conversation, endless selfies, social media updates, and the latest celebrity gossip, it can be easy to see why the lines of narcissism can get muddled as we live in a very self-centered culture. The actual reality is something far more dangerous and subtle in its nature, therefore making it much more damaging for all the people involved with this person. Beyond the mask of extreme confidence in a person who suffers from NPD is a self-esteem that is extremely low and vulnerable to the slightest criticism. In psychological terms, narcissism does not mean self-love at all, at least not of the genuine sort. Their grandiose behavior and inflated sense of self-importance are nothing but smoke and mirrors, a facade meant to cover up their lack of empathy and self-love not only from others but from themselves.

While it is not entirely known what causes NPD, as with other personality and other mental health disorders, the cause is likely to be multifaceted including early development, environment, genetics, and neurobiology (Mayo Clinic, 2017). Narcissists are often theorized to have suffered from a traumatic event or dysfunctional environmental upbringings that essentially stunted their emotional growth at the age the event occurred. In public, these people may act like the most compassionate, involved, and loving parents and spouses around, with never a harsh word of criticism. But behind their seemingly shining personalities and smiles of hidden secrets is a broken person who cannot genuinely love. Their personality and actions behind closed doors are so opposite of the mask they portray to the community that unless you have lived with them personally in their homes, you would fail to believe that they are not who they say they are. Their loved ones are trapped in silent suffering.

What makes them so dangerous is a combination of their complete lack of empathy for others and their inability to see or acknowledge that they themselves have a problem, choosing instead to play the victim and to criticize others and rationalize their actions through deflection, projection, and gaslighting. Because of this, very few people with true NPD seek treatment. Prevalence rates from community samples have been anywhere from 0.5 to 5 percent of the US population. However, in clinical settings, NPD appears to be much more prevalent from 1 percent to 15 percent of the population (NCBI, 2020). The truth is it is hard to get an accurate rating of the amount of people that have true NPD because many, just like my mother, will never bother to get diagnosed.

It is for this reason that I have decided it was important to write this book, to inform and show people on a firsthand basis through my own personal experience the everlasting damaging effects of narcissism on childhood growth/development, dysfunctional family dynamics, and the struggle victims of narcissistic abuse have to learn how to establish healthy boundaries and relationships with others well into adulthood.

Writing this book was a soul journey that took me back to my most shameful moments as a little girl who knew on an instinctual level that this absence of nurturing was wrong but not understanding why. It is my ultimate hope that in reading the words on these pages that if you yourself are dealing with a narcissistic person in your life that you can use the resources I provide and my own personal experience to realize that you are not alone in your fight. It is never too late to start on your own journey of inner healing. Due to the subject matter of this book, names and places have been changed to protect the privacy of those involved.

Part 1

The Early Years (1994–2003)

(1994–2003)

Narcissistic mothers teach their daughters that love is not unconditional, that it is given only when they behave in accordance with maternal expectations and whims.

—Dr. McBride, Will I Ever Be Good Enough?

Chapter 1

Chapter 1: Crybaby

Slash my arms open. Tear my soul apart.

Watch my bleed out. Listen to my screams.

Hear me once and for all. Your sins can no longer be redeemed.

Feel the pain you’ve made me feel. Watch my soul slowly decay.

Know you are the cause of my distress. There is no more sun in my day.

Take a gun, and point it to my head. You might as well

For on the inside, you have already made me dead.

11/14/07

My first-grade teacher, Mrs. Tomm, stands at the blackboard, chalk in hand.

Brielle, I need you to answer this problem.

I cringe inwardly and glance at the board. I loathe being called on in class. I hate math class. I can never seem to get the answer right, and the kids call me stupid under their breaths. It seems that Mrs. Tomm has some psychic ability to sense this and purposely calls on me more in class for this reason. I glance at my notebook paper. I was trying to follow along, but I just don’t get it. I feel the tears start to form. Already, I start to hear the snickers of the boy who sits next to me in class whom I see nudges his friend in the side with his elbow and points his head in my direction.

Here goes the class crybaby again, he says just above a whisper, loud enough to make sure I can hear.

I wring my hands around my shirt hard under my desk, the tears build more, and I desperately try to blink them back.

Hold it together. Hold it together, I try to repeat in my head.

I sheepishly look up, feel my cheeks flame with embarrassment, and continue to hear more snickers in the classroom.

I don’t know how, I answer and shamefully glance back down.

Mrs. Tomm is one of the most stern teachers in the first grade, and I already know from experience an I don’t know will never fly in her classroom.

How will you ever learn if you don’t try? she states while holding up the chalk. Please come up to the board, and figure out how to solve this.

I keep my head down to walk up the aisle, which feels like an eternity. I feel myself start to shake as I look up at the board. We are starting to work on subtracting double digits. I have barely mastered adding and subtracting single digits. No matter how hard I try, I just cannot seem to understand the numbers. Another way, I am a failure. I look at the problem: 30-18. I start to feel panic raise up inside of me.

What do I do? What do I do?

I draw a complete blank. I can remember absolutely nothing. My hand starts to sweat as I shake and drop the chalk on the floor in my nervousness. There are more snickers in the background as I make myself look like a stupid fool and bend to quickly retrieve it. I cannot keep the tears from starting to silently flow as I state, I just don’t know how. I can feel Mrs. Tomm’s annoyance as she tries to help me start the problem.

We just went over this.

She helps me start the problem. I try to finish it, subtract it wrong. I hear the boy that sits in the front row call out, Why are you so stupid?

The tears flow harder now, and I feel all resolve inside of me snap, and I start crying freely for all to see, loud gasping sobs, unable to stop or hold back. I start to hear multiple groans in the room. They do not have to say anything for me to know what they are thinking, "not again." Mrs. Tomm rolls her eyes, also quite annoyed at my constant crying day in and day out for very miniscule reasons every day in her class, and tries to calm me down.

Travis, it’s not nice to call people names. She glances in my direction and states curtly, Now now, this is no reason to get all upset and cry over. Go back to your desk, and try to calm down.

I sprint back to my desk. I hear the whispered taunts as I walk by, stupid crybaby. I let the tears silently fall for the rest of the class, but I am not called on again.

It is eleven thirty, which means it is now lunchtime at Woodside Elementary. I also dread this time of day. It is the time of the day when all the kids that are friends find the best tables to sit at to talk and laugh together. It is another reason to remind me of how alone and hated I am by everyone. I grasp my Lisa Frank lunch box and walk quickly to a corner table, sitting by a window overlooking the outside hallway. I start to pull out my lunch when I hear the voices, a cackling group of boys approach and sit at the table beside mine. I peer over and see it is the one boy in my class, the one who called out how stupid I was in math class today. I pretend I don’t see them, but already, they are pointing in my direction and laughing at me. I know they did not choose to sit at the table next to me by accident.

Hey! the kid yells over to me.

I continue to try to ignore him.

Hey you!

I apprehensively turn my head and sigh as I reply, What is it?

His friends start giggling behind their hands covering their mouths like they can barely contain their laughter. I cringe inwardly and mentally brace for the verbal onslaught I know is coming. I sheepishly look at him as he says, You are really weird. No one is ever going to love you. You will never have anyone want to marry you because you are nothing but a stupid crybaby.

His friends break out in uncontrolled laughter, pounding the table with their fists, and I feel sick to my stomach. I already know how unlovable I am. Must he and my mother and everyone else have to remind me about it every single minute of every single day?

The tears start flowing again for the second time that day, and I realize in abject horror how right he is, how he basically got inside my mind and verbalized what I have always been afraid to say out loud. While most girls fantasize about their wedding day and their dress and cake and being carried off in the sunset with their adoring husband, try as I might I cannot because I can never see or picture a groom standing there no matter how hard I try to visualize it. I already know without him having to say in words that I am destined to be alone because I am a freak. The boys laugh even harder as I grab my lunch box and throw my other hand over my face in a futile attempt to cover my tears and sprint from the table. I can hear their laughter across the cafeteria and into the hallway. His words still haunt me to this day and have come to the surface years later when I have dealt with my own broken engagement and a failed marriage, a testimony to the truth.

My mom gets off the phone with Mrs. Tomm. I have failed another math test. I hear her sigh and place a hand over her eyes, rubbing them in frustration. Mrs. Tomm has been calling her a lot lately to discuss her concerns with how far behind I am in my age range with math and writing and my lack of emotional regulation in the classroom.

I just don’t understand, Brielle, she states as she slams the phone back on the receiver. We are getting you after-school tutoring and everything. What more could I possibly do? I hear her mumble under her breath. You probably have a learning disability. I really should get you tested.

I feel my heart drop into my stomach like a lead balloon and glance down at my shoes in shame.

Why can’t I just be smart like everyone else? Why is everything so hard for me?

It is a sunny and warm day, and I am standing out in the yard. I found a stick in the yard that feels good in my hand, and I find myself starting to twirl it around in my hands, passing it back and forth for no other reason than it feels good to have something in my hands to rub and move around to help ground me as I pace around the yard back and forth. I start to talk to myself, telling myself make-believe stories of how I am a princess living in a castle, and my real family lost me but was desperately searching for me, waiting for the day they can be reunited with their long lost and beloved daughter. I am wearing a pink frilly dress with rainbow sparkles that shine in the sunlight, and I have a blue unicorn that I ride around on. Everyone is friends with me, and I get to play in the waterfall by the castle with all my friends. My real mommy finds me here, cries in relief about how they were so lost without me, and hugs me tight against her.

In this world, I can pretend that I have no problems and that I am a good girl that people accept and love. My real mommy comes back with me, and we ride back on the unicorn and live happily ever after in the castle.

Brielle.

I continue to think of how pretty it is with a rainbow and clouds that surround my castle shining down on me

Brielle.

Mommy and I ride back to the castle on my unicorn.

Brielle!

I am pulled out of my daydream and talking to find my mother, my real mother, scowling at me from the back door. I notice it has gotten cooler, and the sun has started to set, and that I have goosebumps on my arms, and I start to involuntarily shiver. I have been out here for hours without realizing it, talking to myself and twirling objects in my hand.

I slowly walk to the door and look up to see my mom’s crossed arms over her chest. Her gaze on me is a mix of annoyance and apprehension.

What were you doing out there?

I feel my face get red. I can’t tell her I was making up a story on how my real mommy, a nice mommy, came to rescue me. It will anger her.

Nothing, I state.

I called you for five minutes. Why did you not answer me? she replies impatiently, and I really have no answer for her.

I cannot say why I do my twirling and my storytelling habit. All I know is it is a way for me to use my imagination, to help me escape my current reality. It is the only thing that comforts me and grounds me when everything in the real world is so scary and unpredictable, when I do not know, at any given second, what will or will not set my mother off into a fury. Inside my head, in my dreams, and imagination is the only place I can go where I can truly be what I want to be, to escape and be just like everyone else, someone who is wanted and deserving of love.

My mom cocks her head to the side and stares at me really hard.

Brielle, it is not normal for little girls to twirl objects in their hand and talk to themselves for hours at a time. I have told you this before.

I can feel her disappointment creep in once more. I walk inside with my head bowed down. I upset Mom again and scold myself for not being more careful. She has caught me in my twirling and trancelike states multiple times now. I hear her mutter under her breath.

How my friend Mona ended up with three normal and well-behaved kids that do well in school, and I got stuck with you is beyond me.

I turn my head to the side not wanting her to see and enrage her further. I feel a solitary tear run down my cheek as the nice mommy and my castle with rainbows and all the friends that love me become nothing more than a wisp of memory fading into darkness.

Later that night, I hear my mom talking to my dad in forced whispers. She does this a lot, typically when she is feeling very frustrated and overwhelmed with me. This happens at least a few times a week. I sit at the top of the steps where she cannot see me and rest my chin on my folded knees while wrapping my arms around my legs, and I try to make out the words she tells my father.

I caught her doing it again, my mom whispers.

Caught her doing what? my father responds back.

That twirling thing she does where she grabs random objects in her hand and twirls them around while walking around and talking to herself for hours. She would not respond when I called her like she was in some sort of trance. Quite frankly, this is getting out of hand and is extremely abnormal. She keeps doing it more and more.

I continue to hear snippets of things like constantly behind the curve ball, difficulty socializing appropriately with other kids, demonstrating abnormal behaviors, and constant crying. My vision starts to cloud as the tears come forward again. It is the same thing I have heard her repeat over and over in the last few months in frustration when she thinks I am asleep, every reason on why I am a failure, on why I can never be good enough for her, and on why I am stupid and broken. My tears flow and hit the top of my knees. I feel my nose start to run as I try