Out of the FOG

I was wondering if some of you might share the earliest memory of your PD parent "acting out." Hopefully this isn't too triggering, and if it's too painful to share, I understand.

I suspect most of us were far too young to know what a PD was or even to truly understand how dysfunctional their behavior was, but I suspect we all had early moments of thinking, "Something about this doesn't seem quite right."

For me, it was early on in the first grade. I'd confided to my next door neighbor/best friend that I had a crush on a boy in our class. When we got home from school, the first thing she did was blab to my uBPD mom about it.  :doh:

It already suggests a lot to me that I'd had no intention of sharing this information with my mother. I must have sensed it was not a safe conversation to have with her. And I don't think that's a normal instinct for a 6-year-old.

Then came the reaction. I'd expect most parents would be sort of amused by this kind of thing, but would ultimately write it off as puppy love. "Oh, how cute. Your first crush. Do you want a snack?"

Instead, she started grilling me, hands on hips, full eye contact, mouth set in a hard line.

What's his name?
Who is he?
How do you know him?
How well do you know him?
Is he smart?
Does he get good grades?
Who does he hang out with?

I remember being completely befuddled by the interrogation. I wanted to say, "I just think he's cute! It's not like I'm going to marry him!" But of course I knew I couldn't say that.

Because my mom wasn't really like the other moms. She was just a little too concerned with every teensy detail of my life.

So that's my story. Kind of silly, but very telling, now that I'm Out of the FOG. What's yours?

Hi Cat - your story makes me want to go back in time and give Little Cat a hug or a cookie or something.  :grouphug:

I'm not sure either of my parents quite rose (or rather sank) to the level of PD, but they were without question emotionally immature.

Here was my moment: I was 7, and the weekday there were Brownie meetings after school also happened to be the weekday they sold ice cream bars in the afternoon at school. The price of an ice cream bar was EXACTLY the same as my weekly Brownie dues. I'm sure you know where this is going - 7 year old me spent my Brownie dues on ice cream bars more than once. Finally my conscience (or my Brownie leader  :-[) caught up with me, I had no idea how to make it right, and I confessed to my Mom. Her response: "well, I should HOPE you never did anything like THAT!!!!!!!!!!!"  :dramaqueen: Mic drop. End of discussion. That was the moment I realized that any problems I had with school, friends, life, I was going to have to sort out myself.

Years later I told a therapist I felt like I hadn't done a very good job of raising myself, and she asked "well, how old were you at the time?"  :stars: Oh.

I always knew there was something wrong with both unBPD Didi and unNPD Ray.

One of my earliest memories is of me, standing up in my crib, and unBPD Didi in the doorway, just *staring* at me.   :blink:

She wouldn't come in, she wouldn't smile, she didn't try to hug me - she just STARED, with her arms folded, like she was scrutinizing me and focusing on every single flaw - then walked away, leaving me in my crib, confused.   :'(

The next thing I remember was all the DRAMA and the *rages* - Didi  worked sporadically (when she was a SAHM, she hated being there, and would go back to work, and when she had a job, she pined for being a SAHM) - and I never knew WHAT was going to set her off.   :wacko:

I could look at her funny, and suddenly, she's trying to beat the hell out of me, screaming and calling me names, stating she's going to KILL me, and when I was a hysterical mess, cowering on the floor, a switch would flip inside her head and she'd claim she was going to kill herself - and I'd wind up consoling HER and begging her not to do it, with *both* of us crying hysterically, and me making more and more outrageous claims:  I'd make Ray be nice!  I'd make her boss be nice!  I'd make the neighbors be nice; mommy, don't KILL yourself!  :stars:

Satisfied, the switch would flip again, she'd put me back in my crib, shut off the light, close the door  - and leave me to wonder WHAT was going to happen next - and when Ray was due home.  :aaauuugh:

(Would it surprise anybody that I struggle with insomnia and have a VERY exaggerated startle reflex, which can be rather embarrassing?  My dentist keeps thinking I'm in pain, and I have to remind him, "I hate stuff coming at my face.  It makes me very nervous and jumpy.")

Later, unNPD Ray would get home, drag me out of the crib (I was in that crib until I was *five*), flip me over his knee and start screaming that I was a BAD GIRL and I was killing my mother - while spanking me with a wooden spoon.  :'(

Didi was the one who'd sicced Ray on me, and would stand and watch, smirking - and later got to play "savior" in telling Ray she thought I'd had enough.   :roll:

I'd be put back into my crib - still crying - given a dixie cup of water, and the next morning, it was like nothing ever happened - until the next time it did.   :sharkbait:

I remember this stuff happening regularly as early as when I was a  toddler - and it didn't really stop until I was maybe 8 or 9 - only because I could outrun Didi and was very good at hiding.  :ninja:

I knew even before kindergarten I couldn't trust them, I couldn't tell them anything, and I had to learn tasks on my own, because they had NO interest in teaching me, often scoffing, "That's what schools are for!"

I also learned to not tell them anything unless I wanted to be mocked relentlessly - oooh, she's got a crush on David Cassidy.  He's her BOYFRIEND.  Hey, WI - your BOYFRIEND is on TV!

How freaking humiliating.  :-[

I remember unNPD Ray as being Didi's smiling, dopey lapdog - and attack dog, when needed.  When he wasn't in a rage, he was generally good-natured (and short-tempered), but when I was around five, something changed and he became surly, grumpy, grouchy, nasty -   like he'd been replaced by somebody else.  :???:

I never liked Ray before that - and I certainly didn't like him after.

A couple of years ago, the doctor at the memory care unit diagnosed Ray as *psychotic* - and based on what I told them, said Ray may have been that way his entire adult life.   :blink:

I wonder if that personality transplant was the start of a psychotic break, that only kept getting worse, as time went on. 

It doesn't give him a pass - but it explains a LOT about my childhood, and what it was like growing up in that house - one was borderline psychotic, and the other really WAS psychotic!  :aaauuugh:

:hug:

I remember the rages and being so scared and sitting behind my door and being able to keep it closed by keeping my legs straight and pressing against the opposite wall. My mother saying open the door or I will kill you and thinking if I do you will kill me. I was about 8or 9. Who does that shit

Up until I was about 7 years old, I remember my M going into a rage over who knows what, grab whatever toy I had in my hand or nearby, and stomping it to death. And if it was too big to stomp, she'd throw it down the stairs. I specifically remember an Easy-Bake Oven (one of the big, brittle plastic ones from the early 70s) that got thrown down the stairs.

I learned to play really quietly, in my room. I had a huge paper doll collection, and it occurred to me just now that may have been my subconscious seeking out un-stompable toys.

When I got a little older, I would use babysitting money to buy whatever trendy clothes everyone else was wearing (oh my god the clothes I had to wear as a kid!) I had a really pretty blue top I was so proud of. Bought it myself in Junior High and wore it once before M "accidentally" poured bleach on it. Completely destroyed it. No remorse on her part because "it was an accccccidennnnnnt!", and certainly no offer to buy me a replacement.

About 10 years ago, M threw away a board game that I used to play with my Dad. When I'm back at their house (VERY rarely anymore), we used to get it out and play a few rounds. This was a fairly obscure game that's no longer made or sold - not really valuable, just sentimental and unreplaceable.  (And she wasn't clearing out space, they have everything they've ever owned stashed away in that house.)

It was during a later visit that I learned this game had been thrown away and I asked my Dad about it. His answer was sad and hilarious at the same time. He said in a very confidential voice "Mom can be mean." No Kidding!

And then he got a "lightbulb moment" look and asked "Mom wasn't mean to you kids was she?" I was not Out of the FOG yet, so I didn't know how to even begin to answer that. I think about bringing that subject up with him again now, but I know it wouldn't change anything anyway.

I don't remember a lot of my childhood, but two things come to mind.  When I was just months old, dad worked at night. Every night he worked, I'd have a respiratory episode and when he got home they'd take me for treatment. Nmom always said I had "bad lungs," but I didn't. I think even that little baby knew she wasn't safe and was unwanted and could not breathe. (My lungs are very strong — I nearly majored in voice, undergrad.)

When I was five, I lost my favorite uncle, Nmom's brother, in a car wreck. (Think Mr Rogers hot-rodding. He was *that* cool.) Anyway, I loved him dearly and would stare at his photo asking him to come back. My life (and Nmom's) would have been vastly improved with him around. I also remember around this time praying not to feel numb. What little kid even knows the word numb, much less the desolation of living there?  There's a reason I have few tangible memories, it seems, and I do not seek to retrieve them.

Thanks for asking. Reminiscing validates and gives grace to the self. ❤️

These stories are so heartbreaking. Thank you all for sharing.

I think all of our inner children could use a hug and a cookie, like SmartyCat suggested.

A large part of my childhood is blank.  What I do remember is uNPDM checking on me while in the crib at maybe 1.5-2 years old.  I must've been making some noise or something for it to happen.  Otherwise, she'd let me cry it out for however long it took for me to stop cuz by then I knew she didn't like me.  Anything I needed or wanted at that age was met with a resentful action (a hug can be extremely resentful, coming from her).  Other than that, I was "in trouble" multiple times daily.  Grown people chasing a 3-4 year old around the house with the child terrified out of her mind, finding "safety" in an 8" space between the fridge & stove, pulling her finger frantically in an attempt to self-soothe while the parents either tried to coax me out (I refused, knowing what would come next), or be forcefully yanked out by either feet or hands to be beaten with a wooden spoon.

That was basically my childhood until I was 12 or so.  They stopped the beatings then, but my father would throw me over his shoulder & carry me to my room at times.  My greatest wish was to "not be a bad girl" all the time.  (Yes, I'd internalized the "bad girl" narrative.  I was wracked with self-blame for DECADES.)  I was the scapegoat; the kid who shattered my mother's fantasies of having a doll to dress up & to do as she said because I came out with my own personality & needs--& I just needed to be held when I was sick with colic!--& she wasn't prepared for that.  After that, nothing I could do was right, except to get good grades in school, which I did, because "If I get straight As, they'll SEE I'm good!"  Spoiler alert:  That didn't happen, lol.

I'm NC with my mother.  LC with my father.  NC with my father's side of the family, & about the same on my mother's side, as they're so toxic the roots of the proverbial tree are rotting.

1. Made my own lunch in 1st grade. My mother looked at and said the sandwich was cut sloppily. Refused for me to take it to school because others would think she made it!
2. Demanded I take dance lessons... though I hated going for 5 years. She said, I would be "left sotting on the bench" if I didn't. Again, about her.
3. Discovered her just staring at at me from across the table. She then stated, "Well, at least you have  white teeth." As if that was all I had going for me.
4. In high school, she wanted me to date a certain boy. I only liked him as a friend. When I said this... she stated that I "must be a lesbian to not want to date him!"
5. If I was having a conversation with one of her friends... she would suddenly become very loud and state whatever I had said was stupid or direct the conversation to herself.
This is all very telling. Sadly, it took me a very long time to figure her out.

It's heartbreaking to read about the level of fear and pain inflicted by PD parents - I'm so sorry these experiences happened to all of you.

My earliest memories aren't traumatic, but it's telling how vividly I recall them, despite how relatively mundane they are.  I have very early memories, and one, from maybe 3 years old, is when my Nmother would be in a "woe is me" kind of mood.  She'd be sulking, sighing, and so on.  I would ask what was wrong, and she'd say, "Just circumstances  :violin:  This was my first Big Word - Circumstances.  I remember trying to imagine what Circumstances looked like, and all I could come up with was an image maybe like stamps, lol!  Postage stamps?! I was left feeling confused and anxious, not sure what to do...  And I remember the next time(s) it would happen, asking my mother, "Is it Circumstances???"  :(

My passive aggressive EnFather — again, relatively mundane early memory:  I was 3-4, and he was zipping up my jacket for me.  He zipped too quickly and caught my chin in the zipper  :aaauuugh:.  I immediately caught myself and held back a "YEEOOOWWWW!!!!!" And instead, just held my breath until he realized and unzipped (not more than half a second).  And even though he noticed quickly and took care of it, there was no accompanying "I'm sorry!  Are you ok?  ((kiss kiss))". Just a perfunctory UNZIP and then onward to the next chore, I guess.  I KNEW that if I reacted, it would set him off into a tailspin of anger, sullenness, and self hatred, that I would then be responsible for handling, and I had no idea how to deal with that.  So I knew almost instinctively to stifle my own response in order to avoid his inevitable blowup.  I have several other examples of this — unintentional moments where I normally would react in the moment (Father stepping on my foot as a 4 year old and not knowing it, etc.), but held it in.  It just wasn't safe emotionally.

I have more violent and ragey examples from the age of 5 onwards, but these are the very early memories...

I don't know how old I was, just that it must have been elementary school. I was homeschooled growing up so there was really no escaping the dysfunction. I remember it being the middle of the school day, and I had a blank expression on my face while my uBPDM was teaching, when all of a sudden she starts lecturing me about my bad attitude. How I needed an "attitude check" and I was being disrespectful to her. She asked if I wanted a spanking, of course not! This lecture went on for hours, until I was reduced to tears because I knew she wouldn't let me do anything fun until school was done and school ended up not being done until after dinner. After threatening on and off to spank me, she finally did. She had an old leather dress belt reserved for my butt. Then made me hug her and said it hurt her worse to spank me than it did to be spanked. And the icing on the cake? She made a comment to the effect of while she was training to be a teacher she learned it was necessary to break the child's will but not their spirit.

First, I was crying because I was beyond pissed. She consumed my entire day with her nonsense, I went to bed having not had any opportunity that day to blow off steam. Finished my homework, went to bed. She freaking followed me. The lecture continued with her sitting on the edge of my bed in the dark still talking AT me while all I wanted to do was sleep. She was determined to make me feel bad, awful, how dare I have a blank expression that she assigned a meaning to!

In hindsight, it's seriously screwed up and I wonder sometimes how I made it out of that house.

I remember from a very early age the rages and shouting from behind closed doors - first arguments with my father and then my older sister. These went on for ages with my UnBPDm becoming more and more enraged and loud. I was terrified. As a result of these, I did exactly as I was told and mainly kept out of her way as much as I could. I spent days away on my bike and doing any after school activity that was going.

Later on I noticed how she would be sickly sweet in front of other people and have this smiley persona, which disappeared as soon as she left other people. Her mood could change instantly. I also noticed her lies. She would tell barefaced lies without any guilt whatsoever. Even as a child I found this shocking.

Anything I said - an innocuous comment regarding a school friend or event - could set off her rage and I never knew why. She was so jealous of people with money and social standing and is still today a massive snob. i worked out never to compliment a friend's house or mother!!!!

Like many others here, I knew instinctively that she could not be trusted with certain sensitive information - parties I wanted to be invited to, worries about my appearance or skill at making things or netball. She would go round the table at mealtimes relishing her role as bully in chief to all of us and if she had a juicy titbit so much the better. When I started earning a bit of money with Saturday jobs, and buying my own clothes, she liked nothing better than tell me how they didn't suit me and that I looked "common".

If I bought a present for my younger golden child sister, who didn't like it, my unBPDm would tell me to buy her another present. This was with money from my paltry weekend earnings. I knew she was unhinged and very jealous of me. I knew she didn't love me. I'm glad I realised early on. I have never liked the woman.

Thanks, Karen. I can totally relate to the sick sweet mask and jealousy. I remember my mother just raging about a few of her "friends"....then treating them so sweetly. I do recall her raging "at" a close friend. Then she wondered why the lady stopped all contact with her! My mother kept calling and calling the lady leaving messages for the lady to return her calls. Finally, the lady left a message stating, " I will not be spoken to like that." My mom continued to say she didn't think she was harsh with her.... bizaar!

Thank you for the memory jog!   :)

Didi was often *ghosted* by coworkers, back before there was a word for it (the 50's -  the 80's). 

Her favorite people would change branches, get different jobs, quit and go into a different line of work, or MOVE - and not tell her.  When she'd try contacting them, she'd be told they weren't home, they weren't at the branch she was told they'd transferred to, or there just wasn't any contact information available (probably at the person's request).   :blink:

The ones who weren't home - they'd *never* be home when she called, and eventually, they'd be put on her shit list.

I remember one husband telling her to stop calling - so Didi told me he was an abusive a-hole, even though we'd been to their house numerous times and he was nothing but nice.   :roll:

By the time I was five, it had happened at LEAST a dozen times, and as Didi raged and cried, and called her former friends all kinds of unsavory names, I started to have the thought that it really WAS her, no matter how many times she protested she was such a WONDERFUL friend, and didn't understand how people could DO this to her.   :dramaqueen: :violin:

The older I got, the longer the list became.  People whose names were spoken often - and often with praise - were suddenly omitted and never spoken of again. 

Now here's a REALLY weird thing:  upstairs was one of those 5-foot long TV/stereo combo consoles that were big in the 60's and early 70's.   By the time I was old enough to go upstairs, it had quite a few wrapped Christmas presents on it, and once I learned to read, I realized some of those names were familiar.   :???:

Once somebody ghosted Didi, she'd buy them a Christmas present, wrap it, and stick it on that console, like it was a PUNISHMENT.  Ha-ha!  You'll never get MY gift - but I WILL, one day, when I unwrap them all and display them!  SO THERE!   :banana:

By the time I moved out, there was NO room on top of the console, and the gifts were piled 2 or 3 deep!   :aaauuugh:

When I saw that room again, 30-odd years later, there were no more gifts - just more hoarded-up stuff.   :roll:

I didn't see any evidence of gifting herself - I remembered some of the things she bought, and none of them were sitting out.

I think she probably threw them all in the trash, as a way to get the *ultimate* revenge on people who'd probably forgotten her eons ago!   :elephant: :banaaana: :Monsta:

:hug:

The rages are one of my early memories. Cornering me and screaming at me for half an hour, just a constant tirade of everything that was wrong with me.

I also remember many times, sitting and playing or coloring, and she'd yank me up by my arm and start in on me. She didn't believe in spanking, so she'd pinch me, or would squeeze the back of my neck.

One time I remember her grabbing me by the throat and pushing me against the wall, and saying, " Do not test me, little girl."

All of these were elementary school years or earlier. Good times.

My memories of childhood and early teenage years are very patchy, and sequence is hard, so I don't know that I can say what's the earliest.

I do know that my earliest memory, full stop, is of being locked in my room, lights off and door closed, too short to reach the light switch, pleading and crying and screaming to my mother to open the door but also knowing that if she DID open that door, I was in big trouble.

I remember being slapped in the face. I remember her coming into my room drunk, effusively affectionate, and then turning on a dime to rage at me when I instinctively pulled away from her. I remember her standing in the kitchen with a kitchen knife at her throat, telling me that she was going to kill herself on the spot and that this is what I obviously wanted, while I begged her not to. I remember her fights with my dad and then with her boyfriends escalating to screaming and sometimes physical violence. I remember the phone ringing in the middle of any and all of these episodes and her answering in a perfectly normal tone of voice.

All of these things happened again and again, and I can't say what happened first. And I had nothing to compare it to, so I thought this was just how people behaved.

This thread is bringing up more memories, though. The ghosting was definitely a thing, and it continued well into my adulthood-- she would make friends with someone quickly, become very close, and then one of two things would happen: either they'd stop coming around and never be mentioned again, or she would tell me that they were having some sort of mental health or midlife crisis and had stopped answering anyone's calls, and she was so worried about them but would respect their need for space. This happened again and again, too.

It's funny that overall my memory of my childhood is pretty poor - I don't remember that much.  But the BPD moments are clear and vivid. 

My earliest strong memory is of BPD mom driving my brother and I to a weekend vacation.  She was a bad & insecure driver.  My dad did most of the driving & all of the long distance driving, but for some reason he was not with us on this trip - possibly he met us there later.  Mom got lost on a set of freeway interchanges & began to rage and cry and pound the steering wheel in frustration as she got on and off the various freeways & tried to find the right way.  I was about 5 or 6 and concluded that the only reason she could be this upset was that we were in immediate danger of death.  I sat frozen and petrified in the back seat, just waiting for whatever horrible event was about to occur.

My brother also remembers this vividly - I didn't even get the full sentence out asking him if he remembered  it before his eyes got big & he just said an emphatic "YES!"

Ironically, I live near that area now & get to relive it a little everytime I drive by.

One of the reasons I think UBPDmom might have some NPD traits is that she's actually very adept at making friends. Her ability to "act normal" for others is very, very good. She loves to play hostess, loves to invite people to stay at her house. And I assume people enjoy it because they keep coming back.

Of course, what they don't see is how she is the few days before a party or visit, when she's cleaning the house in an absolute fury. Slamming cabinet doors and raging about what a pigsty the place is and how she's the only one that ever does anything around here. Or the moments in the kitchen, when she's just prepared a huge feast and is muttering and swearing under her breath about how no one appreciates everything she does, etc., etc. (She also happens to be the kind of hostess that absolutely refuses to let you help in the kitchen... harder to play the martyr when other people have helped out, I guess.)

I have noticed that most of her friends have dependent traits. They tend to be quiet, introverted, sometimes even a bit reclusive. I think my mom ends up being almost a mother figure to them. (Which she loves.) The few friends she has that are more "strong-willed" have PD traits themselves, so there's usually on-again, off-again nature to their friendship. But ultimately, they keep coming back. I suspect they love the drama.

This was first grade. I was a very precocious child in many ways. My Nparents were very proud of my being "smart" and directly coached me to lord it over the other kids. Naturally, I had few friends. At recess one day some other kids were taunting me that they knew my favorite word: "WRONG!" That exact retort was on the tip of my tongue and I choked it back, and burst into tears. A teacher came over and I told her what had happened and what I was about to say but didn't. She said something like, "Well, that wasn't very nice of them but now you know people don't like to be spoken to like that... You know I've noticed you can be a know-it-all."

"But I'm just saying what my daddy told me to say! He says everybody's going to hate me my whole life because I'm smarter than them so I may as well get used to it."

"Of course he didn't mean that..."  :blink: I don't remember what she actually said but it was some kind of rug-sweeping. But I remember how disturbed she was. I stopped taking social advice from my uNPD uASPD uOCPD father after that moment. But I still suffered horribly at school.

My earliest memory of clear PD behavior is of when other mothers at dance lessons or school would ask uNM "Are you AnneH's mom?" She would answer "No" and wait for them to look confused, and then explain: "I am not AnneH's mom. AnneH is MY DAUGHTER," followed by a lesson about how you can't let yourself be defined by your children. Of course, at that age (I would guess around 6) I had no awareness of PDs; i was just weary of uNM always making a mountain out of a molehill and always making everything about herself.
We are also (non-observant) members of a minority religion. I have always been aware that most people celebrate Christmas, so when cashiers at the supermarket or other people we didn't know would wish us a merry Christmas, I would always say "Thank you; you too." But unM would always step in  to teach whoever it was a lesson about respecting other people's religions and NOT assuming that everyone celebrates Christmas (I would also get reprimanded for not doing the same).

Well by that logic AnneH you are no longer HER daughter. You can't let yourself be defined by your parents.:bigwink:

That's really strange. I notice she didn't have a problem defining you as in relation to her.  :stars:

I was about four years-old, playing in my bedroom and I wanted to make sure uPD M was still there. My room was upstairs and I think she was downstairs. So I called her and nothing happened. Then I called her again and nothing. So I started crying and calling "mommy" over and over. She finally came in and screamed at me. I don't think I ever called for her again.

With my dad (not a pd, just sometimes a real jerk), I was learning to ride a bike (so 6 or 7? I don't know how old you learn to ride two wheels). I had bad anxiety (go figure) and he got so mad at me for being anxious. He started yelling at me and told me if I didn't knock it off he would throw my bike in the ditch and it would be garbage. So now I'm anxious about being anxious because I'm afraid how others will react.

Cat , Are you my sister?? Ha Ha

Quote from: Cat of the Canals on August 04, 2019, 02:50:22 PM

Of course, what they don't see is how she is the few days before a party or visit, when she's cleaning the house in an absolute fury. Slamming cabinet doors and raging about what a pigsty the place is and how she's the only one that ever does anything around here. Or the moments in the kitchen, when she's just prepared a huge feast and is muttering and swearing under her breath about how no one appreciates everything she does, etc., etc. (She also happens to be the kind of hostess that absolutely refuses to let you help in the kitchen... harder to play the martyr when other people have helped out, I guess.)

My mom to a T. Except she was a uBPD hermit and hated socialising.So she did do Xmas and Easter at home  and only close family invited. The days running up to Xmas and afterwards were a nightmare. She had no friends.

Im surprised at how so much is remembered.  Woman Interrupted described being in the crib and her just staring at her. I think this is a big BPD trait. They are disassociating in the presence of their child. Not interacting with them. Im amazed she could remember this incident. My memories are missing. But i strongly suspect she did this a lot. When older she used to watch me through a crack in the door. She hated the room doors shut.

But to answer the question, i do remember her coming in from work moaning and cussing under her breath. I was about 8 or 9. Then she exploded about how hot it was and why werent the windows open. The next day it was another sunny day , so i thought id open the windows before she came home. 

You know whats coming. The next day she came in the room and exploded about why are the windows all open. I tried to explain, that yesterday she said, but you know the rest............... :stars:

Quote from: Hazy111 on August 05, 2019, 10:55:29 AM
Cat , Are you my sister?? Ha Ha

;D The sad thing is, I thought this was normal. I didn't know that other people don't worry so much about what their house looks like, because they know their friends and family aren't there to judge. They are there to spend time with you. It's supposed to be fun! Exciting! Something you're looking forward to.

I didn't realize anything was odd about it until my dad commented to me a few years ago that she was turning into her own mother. I said, "Grandma did that?" He nodded so emphatically I think he got whiplash. When my mom talks about her mom, it's about what a PERFECT mother she was. Perfect, perfect, perfect. No one is allowed to badmouth Grandma. She recently put a cousin on her "shitlist" because cousin mentioned that Grandma didn't get along with cousin's father. Which was true, BTW. I've heard the story enough times to know. But "how dare she throw shade at Grandma!" (An exact quote.)

Anyway, I rarely invited people over to my house as a child and I NEVER do it now. And now I know why I have so much anxiety about guests in my home. It triggers all that old drama and confusion and fear.

WomanInterrupted,

We're Didi and Ray your bio parents?

Oh wow... Duck, you just reminded me (I'm adopted) my uBPDM used to say I was lucky to have been adopted into a stable, happy home because so many kids end up being raised by crazy people, and my bio M was an irresponsible mess. My uBPDM was schooling me to think I was lucky to live with her. Ugh.  :blink:

Our mother started to rage when we hit our teenage years.

I do remember one time when we were trying to get to a hockey game on a weekend.  Typically, our mother had forbidden us to go due to some small slight wo we ignored her (at that point it was the only rational thing to do).

She caught us trying to leave with our gear, and she attacked us with a ski pole.  She ended up hitting my brother in the mouth with the pole, and taking out one of his teeth.    Of course afterwards, she was apologetic and said it was an accident.  Even told the dentist that (I know now that she did this so that he would not report it).  But the reality was that what she did was serious physical abuse.  She just did not have the parenting skills necessary to deal with teenage children. 

Didi and Ray adopted me when I was 2 months old, and yes, I got the same damned spiel - I was SO lucky to be adopted by them, and not some lunatics who wanted to abuse or hurt children.

How's THAT for irony?   :phoot:

They'd also say things like, "SO MANY parents threaten to take their kids to Father Joe's, but we'd NEVER do that!" (That's the name of the local orphanage.)

Funnily enough, *nobody I knew* was ever threatened to be dropped off at Father Joe's.  It was only *me* that got to hear the passive-aggressive threat about BEHAVE - or else they'd take me back and what, exactly?  Demand a replacement?  Get a refund?   :wacko:

Or, "Oh, I heard so-and-so's mother threaten to leave her at Father Joe's, because she's being such a bad little girl, but we'd NEVER do that."

Or, "So-and-so told me she threatened to take her child to Father Joe's because he wouldn't clean his room and that boy begged and pleaded as he cleaned  it up, but we'd NEVER do that."

Or, "Naughty children wind up at Father Joe's..."

Or, "I'm surprised half the parents in this neighborhood don't drop their kids off at Father Joe's, because they're so HORRIBLE and SUCH a bad influence on you!"

There were dozens of variants, but it was always the same meaning:  they could get rid of me, any time they wanted.  :disappear:

The longer I lived there, the more I wished they would!   :evil2:

It was only when I was an adult that I figured out the *real* reason they adopted me:  they wanted an Old-Age Golden Parachute Plan, and expected me to provide it.  :aaauuugh:

Thankfully, I found myself here and they would up meeting my *boundaries* instead.   8-)

:hug:

So do we call it false advertising or brainwashing? :stars:

I was also homeschooled, which while homeschooling can absolutely be done right, my uBPDM did not do it right. *facepalm* This is somewhere in the running for earliest memory. She used to threaten to send me to public school, saying some variation on "If you can't behave here at home, would you rather go to public school? With all the mean kids and bad teachers? Where school shootings happen?" Heaven help me... How do you say that to your 8/9 year old kid?

I honestly believe I was always second-best in M's eyes. Second-best to a miscarriage she had years earlier. But, if she couldn't have her own kids, she'd take somebody else's and give them a "good" home where they were expected to take care of her in her old age.

Quote from: WomanInterrupted on August 05, 2019, 04:08:18 PM
They'd also say things like, "SO MANY parents threaten to take their kids to Father Joe's, but we'd NEVER do that!" (That's the name of the local orphanage.)

Wow you totally jogged a memory for me. My M used to threaten to leave us by the side of the road so the police could pick us up and find another family. Some family who would "put up with us".

Another variation was she would leave us out on trash day for the garbage men to take away.

Andeza and WI, I'm so sorry you had to deal with this horrible nonsense!

I think raising people to take care of you in old age is one of the most selfish and evil things I can think of. You are already playing God by bringing them into this world or playing with their lives. Then, you are basically raising them to be your slave.

I have no kids and one of the reasons is my determination not to suck the life out of another human like a vampire. I've been trying to remember lately that not all parents are awful, but it's hard to hold that in my mind! Sometimes I wonder what percentage are good. I have no idea!

My PD parent is an OCPD dad, so my earliest memories involve uncontrolled rage.

Earliest memory might be sitting in a high chair or on a tall kitchen stool eating while my dad raged through the kitchen with a golden retriever under his arm like a woman would carry a clutch purse. What strikes me about this is 1) remembering how strong he was as a young man and 2) how calm I felt with this maelstrom happening around me because I thought it was normal and was too young to understand how afraid I should be.

I also remember my mom crying on her bed. Another candidate for earliest might be sitting on the kitchen counter while my dad screamed about how the glasses were put away in the cupboard. He had some stupid theory about the "right" way to put them away. Pure nonsense. He asked me to confirm to my mom that he was right and she was wrong. Again, I remember being calm. I did not know yet why I should be afraid or why this wasn't normal.

(I eventually figured out I should be afraid, and I am being treated for PTSD today.)

I struggle to remember my earliest memory, but this is probably one of the earliest.

I was friends with neighbour's kid and she often came over to play and vice versa. One day my mum gave her a favourite toy of mine to borrow, except my mum didn't ask me or tell she was lending it to my friend - she just gave it to her. Naturally being around... 5 years old I think, I was a bit upset that my friend was taking one of my favourite toys as she went to leave. We had a childish squabble in front of her dad, who was picking her up. The dad then told my mum about it, and next thing I know she comes in in a screaming rage... I don't even remember what she said, but it was probably something about me embarrassing her. I just remember the sheer terror I felt as she was screaming at me, then she spent the rest of the evening ignoring me.

:(

Quote from: Duck on August 05, 2019, 10:49:07 PM
Another candidate for earliest might be sitting on the kitchen counter while my dad screamed about how the glasses were put away in the cupboard. He had some stupid theory about the "right" way to put them away. Pure nonsense.

Oof. I've been trying to pinpoint my dad's issues, as I tend to downplay them compared to uBPD mom, but they are definitely there. I've been thinking all along that he just has major fleas from his childhood, but this sounds too much like him. When I was about thirteen and had started doing laundry on my own, he once rudely told me that I was "allowed" to do everyone else's laundry, but not his, because he didn't want me messing up his clothes.  :stars:

Like a lot of other commenters on this thread, I can't remember much of my childhood. I've read this is very common in people who've had shit childhoods. Not hard to understand why the brain would try to shut this stuff out is it?
I feel so sorry for the little innocent children we were.

My childhood seems like a depreasing blur of unhappiness, confusion, recrimination, threats and unrealistic expectations. However, some things stand out: me standing alone in the garden at about age 4, saying to over and over to myself  that I have to try and be a nicer girl, and then presumably my mother would like me. I wasn't sure how I could achieve this as even then I perceived it was a no win situation.

As for my father, he barely spoke more than 10 words to me throughout my childhood so I just recall his sullen distance, really. Neither of them showed affection.

I was frequently accused of being selfish by my mother, that 'we just don't know where we've gone wrong with you' and that I'd 'ruined' her life. This was if I dared to have displeased her. I was supposed be able to read her mind (yes, she actually often said that I 'should just know' what she was thinking) and preempt her emotional needs. To this day, I'm ridiculously sensitive to the emotional 'temperature' of a room.

My younger GC bro was pampered and complimented. He could do no wrong. If I did the same things, I would suffer slaps, threats to be picked up by the police and global blame for whatever other random crap was happening at the time.

I always felt that other parents actually liked and interacted with their kids a lot more than mine did. I've tried to rectify the parenting by being more loving with my own kids but now I constantly wonder if I'm good enough. What compounded it all was that parents and kids didn't seem to like me much either. I think it was a self-fulfilling prophecy.  Bad parenting can do a real number on you.

dog lady ditto. I wept at your message. The lack of memory is called disassociation. Great swathes of nothingness, likewise.

Although i was the "GC" .  I was supposedly "spoilt,"  well compared to the Bad Child sis  i was, as in the case of material possessions. BUT THERE IS NO LOVE OR AFFECTION FOR EITHER CHILD WITH PD PARENTS.

When " BC " left home, i took on both roles.

I can read  the emotional temperature of any room. One of my talents.

When I was seven years old I used to love to let my nails grow and paint them with whatever nail polish mom had in the house. My older sister was the golden child but she bit her nails and could never grow them long and used to make fun of mine all the time. One day she took one of my barbie dolls away from me and as I lunged toward her to get it back, I scratched her arm. She was taller and bigger that me, but she looked at the red marks on her arm and went screaming to our dad holding her arm out and telling him that I had hurt her with "my nails". Our dad said he had enough of "my nails" and grabbed me by the arm, sat me on the couch, and clipped my nails short. I was crying and screaming because I felt he was being unfairly angry and he over powered me. The neighbors heard my screams and came over to see if I was alright. My parents just said I was screaming because dad cut my nails. In reality, no, I was screaming because I had been treated unfairly. Nobody ever said my sister was wrong for stealing one of my toys. Nobody ever said our dad was over-reacting. Nobody ever said my identity at such a young age was wrapped around my ability to paint my own nails and he had taken that from me. I never forgot that event, and now I know my Golden Child sister was able to work our parents to her advantage against me even at a young age. Even up to a few years ago, my parents still made fun of me for being so upset that dad cut my nails. It was like suffering that same abuse all over again. Some things never go away, but they are the same things that will set us on a course to a better life.

My earliest memory of my mother's PD behavior was her dropping me off at preschool for the first time. I panicked and had a 3-year-old meltdown. She just went stone faced and walked away without saying anything.

My earliest memory of unNPD dad was him accusing me of intentionally doing something wrong when I had been clumsy and accidentally broke something. I was probably aged 3 or 4.

My earliest memory probably has to be when I was 3 and my uBPM forced my siblings and I to stand outside and watch a tornado coming toward the house. We were mocked for being "cry babies" because we wanted to be inside.

I also remember being five or six and walking in on my uBPM just wailing on my brother with one of my father's belts. I told her then that I would call the police if she didn't stop (what this tells me is that this must not have been the first time). She burst into tears and told me that I was right, that she was an awful mother, and that she might as well go kill herself. I don't remember what happened after that.

My nBP father told me that after my brother was born and she stayed home while my dad went to work, he would come home to find the house a total disaster and her on the couch watching her soap operas. She literally did nothing all day. I have no idea what she did to my brother during that period, but I can only imagine.

I don't remember my age, but I always thought it was normal to expect a thrashing for my bad behavior or under-performance with a belt or a low hanging branch cut from a tree with a pocketknife. Or whatever was handy at the moment. I just learned to zone out and internalize, finding ways to escape in my thoughts to shut it out. I stared at things a lot as a kid..

But I remember when I was 17, and got caught skipping school for the majority of the first 9 weeks and smoking pot, when my pdm was driving she was so mad at me, she screamed ''I'm going to run us off into the trees and kill us both!' And swerved the car towards the treeline. That's when I first thought that there was something seriously mentally wrong with her. And I decided to move out as soon as I possibly could.

So I waited until I was 18 and off I went. (I did manage to pass high school, btw)  :tongue2:

She said I that couldn't move out, and it was extremely distressing to her, I could see.. and I said 'Yes I can, it's already done.. I have an apartment." And I left.

Looking back, and now seeing the absolute hateful people that my parents are, I see that day as the turning point in my life where I began my escape from the cage of abuse.

My very earliest memory that I would consider PD behavior was when I was just 3 honestly. I spilled some milk on the floor, and my mother just flipped into this state of such anger. No one hit me or did anything like that, but I could just see the intensity of anger on her face.

Then, I would say a couple years later, they started in with the mind games on some level. Making a big deal out things and causing me to feel like something was wrong with me, and over time, they began to create this narrative where I had this "condition" which meant that their hovercrafting over me was somehow basically saving me from myself.

Then, as I was a bit older the threats started coming. Maybe 8 or so, still very little. It was never a frequent thing, but they said some things like "you need us but we don't need you". And began to make me feel like as time goes on, they will ultimately discard me if I don't live my life in ways they accept. And they were quite judgmental.

As I moved into adulthood (e.g. starting in my late teens) was when the real conflict began. Which led to them attacking my personal choices. And the dynamic with them becoming increasingly conflictual. Lately, it hasn't been as bad, but I have seen firsthand just how cold, callous, vicious, and cruel they can be. And I honestly have no idea what to expect.

My first memory (more like a memory of a memory) is of opening the door in the family slow-moving car and falling out or nearly falling out.
uNBPDm used to say she knew I was an extrovert because as a young child I walked up to strangers in the grocery store and asked if I could go home with them.

Neither of those are PD behavior. I think the first time I knew something was definitely wrong with HER was when I was in 6th grade and she was angry I went on the phone when I wasn't supposed to and she slapped my head so hard that the phone flew out of my hands. I remember the mortification of facing that friend the next day on the bus, as she had heard the interaction.

My BIL recently told us his first memory of it: he was maybe 4 or 5 years old, planning his birthday party. He wanted his stuffed animals and his football to come to the party as guests. He remembers his big sister (my DW) being sweet, playing along, asking what they would all do and how might they dress. But his mom got upset, said it was clear that he didn't think she had any idea how to plan a party, and so maybe she just wouldn't be involved. And she stormed off.

This is a woman whose feelings were deeply injured because a 5 year old had silly party ideas and didn't agree with her. She felt under attack and inadequate. Fast forward 35 years and she was utterly inconsolable and had to strike us out of here life only because her uncle made an end-of-life decision with which she diagreed, but about which we supported him.

I also remember F making us go down our long driveway after dark to get the newspaper.  He'd wait somewhere in the dark and jump out to scare us. Every time it was terrifying but we had to obey.

I was afraid of heights and I remember him holding me out over the open stairwell and laughing uproariously.

I don't remember a lot about my childhood. Many of my mom's NPD like behaviors weren't as noticeable then or I normalized them to such an extent I'm still working on which was 'normal' and which weren't. But one that sticks out was one day she just flat up told me she was jealous of me because Dad loved me more. I don't remember how old I was pre-teen or barely teen I think.
Nothing followed it as I remember. She just walked away. (While she does do some engulfing, she's usually more about ignoring, so that's what she did here) And I was left stunned trying to figure out what that was about. :o

As a parent now, I can't imagine sharing that, much less thinking that. My DH loves the kids to pieces and I wouldn't have it any other way. Now I realize it wasn't really love that she noticed, for her love was supply. And unlike love she viewed supply as a finite resource and Dad was giving it to me.

Fortuna,

Have you read "Understanding the Borderline Mother" ?  Your mother being jealous of you (daughter) is classic " Queen behavior"

You dont remember a lot of your childhood, sounds suspiciously like disassociation. It was explained to me by my T when i couldnt remember.

Quote from: Hazy111 on August 31, 2019, 11:04:26 AM
Fortuna,

Have you read "Understanding the Borderline Mother" ?  Your mother being jealous of you (daughter) is classic " Queen behavior"

You dont remember a lot of your childhood, sounds suspiciously like disassociation. It was explained to me by my T when i couldnt remember.

My mother is undiagnosed, most likely NPD. She doesn't hit too many of the Borderline traits that don't overlap with NPD. It could be 'queen behavior' but I think it's more about her not being the center of attention. But I may have to give that a read now.

With the lack of childhood memories it's possible. At this point I don't dwell too much on that. My mom does enough from when I was an adult to deal with, I don't need to add stuff I don't remember yet. I figure it'll come out when I can handle it if there's anything I need to deal with.

I remember that after her rages she would come to my room, seemingly to comfort me but I dont remember any kind of apology, instead it would be something like 'I'm not really a monster am i' then I would feel bad because I hated her for raging at me, but her saying that made me feel guilty for feeling badly towards her, she made all about her feelings even then when I was about 3/4
I remember lots of 'I'll make you wish you'd never been born' later on in teenage years casually mentioning in front of the neighbours  that I was a mistake, an unwanted pregnancy

I also have a lot of missing childhood memories, but I'd have to say the first sign of my mother's NPD came when I was about four.

Nmother pressured me to learn how to read before I started kindergarten, really pushed me hard. She kept saying if I could read I'd be the smartest girl in class and everyone would think she was the best mother. I spent every day working on my reading. One day I was finally proficient enough to read a children's book on my own. After I finished the book I went running to tell my mother about my accomplishment. Instead of being proud of me, she just waved her arms, said "whatever," and walked away.

For the rest of my life every single one of my accomplishments was trivialized or dismissed.

Kathy, I think you just dislodged one of my earliest memories. I was homeschooled, I was doing speed drills and I was proud of myself because I consistently got all the answers well before time was up and got them all right. One day uBPDM starts going on about how she still expects to see improvement from me about the speed drills for the rest of the school year. I was flabbergasted and asked how am I supposed to do that? I get them all right and beat the timer. She said I would just have to figure it out and that there is always room for improvement... I think I started crying in frustration at the time. In my head, at the age of six or seven, I scoffed at her for being ridiculous and expecting improvement on perfection. Sheesh, I was a cocky little kid.

Needless to say she was disappointed at the lack of improvement even though I continued to do exceptionally well. "Room for improvement" became one of the phrases that I learned to hate.

QuoteNeedless to say she was disappointed at the lack of improvement even though I continued to do exceptionally well.

Andeza, that describes most of my childhood with regard to learning. Nmother demanded that I be an over-achiever, but when I did excel at something she was always disappointed in me.

There was another episode I remember around the first grade which was the first time I witnessed full-on narcissistic rage. My teacher went around the class one day and asked everyone what we wanted to be when we grew up. All the girls were into horses (as most little girls are) and answered that they wanted to be a horse groomer or some silly thing that a first-grader would say. I just gave the same answer that my friends did.  When I got home NM raged at me for not answering that I was going to be a surgeon. She said I had disgraced her by naming a career that a stupid uneducated person would have. She came completely unhinged over this; screamed, threw things, the whole bit. I was around six years old at the time and didn't even know what a surgeon was.

****this might trigger some people so trigger warning****






I grew up with a low level background feeling of "somethings off" which I never questioned until I hit my 20s. It was just the way things were.

But the first memory I have where I KNEW something was wrong with my uPDmom was the winter before I started kindergarten at 4 1/2 years old.

I was playing by myself with my "My little pony toy" under the large dining room table (it came with the house when we moved in). I thought I was playing quietly.

All of a sudden, I'm yanked out from under the table with my mom's hands squeezing around my throat. She was screaming inches from my face that she was on the phone and I was too loud. I was bawling but couldn't make any noise. I kept trying to say "I'm sorry mom! I'm sorry!" but she was squeezing too tightly, I Couldn't swallow, couldn't breathe, was barely making a whisper.
The knobby part of my little throat kept slipping out from under her thumbs, so she tried harder to crush it. Then she let go and I scrambled back under the table trying not to make any noises while I cried, completely terrified. She left the room and then I quietly but quickly ran to my room to hide in my closet hoping my mom wouldn't come looking for me.

The next thing I remember it's spring, just before we move away from there.

For me, the bizarre thing about this memory is, I never forgot it. I just accepted it as it was. From this moment on, I knew this was always under the surface of my mom's face. That if I angered her, even unintentionally, I could be in real danger. When I think about this memory, it feels like her hands are crushing my throat again.

Even now, if I cry hard enough (strongly emotional), it feels like I'm choking, I gasp because it becomes hard to breathe, and I can't talk, I just mouth things in silence and I try to hide right there behind my hair and knees. I try not to cry like this in front of others because it's triggered panic in them. I don't know if this type of crying is common but I always linked it back to this memory.

And on top of all that, nobody believed me. My uPDmom and my sister had already been telling everyone we met, how I caused trouble and made up stories.

D.Dan, that is such a heartbreaking story. You must have been so terrified, and it makes me sad to hear how this still lives in your body now, when you cry. I am so sorry. :hug:

I really didn't realize it until about, oh, a few months ago(!) that my mom was seriously mentally ill my (and probably her) entire life. The first memory I have of being parentized (is that the right term?), I was six. I played with my grandparents' neighbors kids a lot (mom left me to live there for a year while she looked for a new husband after divorcing my dad), and my mom was angry with one of them for some reason I can't remember. (He was 8). She told me how he was badly behaved, and his mom didn't make him act right. Of course, the next time he made ME angry, my six year old self repeated this to him. I can't remember how it got back to her, but I have a clear memory of my mother three inches from my face, screaming at me in the church parking lot, "I TOLD YOU NOT TO REPEAT THAT! I CAN'T TRUST YOU WITH ANYTHING! WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU? IT'S YOUR FAULT THEY'RE MAD AT ME!"
At the time, I thought I had completely messed up, and done something horribly wrong. Upon retrospect, DPDm was the one who was doing horribly wrong. Aaaahhhh, memories lol 🤪

QuoteAnd on top of all that, nobody believed me. My uPDmom and my sister had already been telling everyone we met, how I caused trouble and made up stories.

I'm so sorry, D.Dan. For me, this was always the worst part of it. Worse than being abused at a such a young age was not being believed, having others think I was crazy, and being made to feel crazy myself.

I don't think M or D were PD but I do think they both had mental health related issues.  My earliest memory my parents were at a party and my Dad was really drunk and refusing to go home. It blew up into a huge fight between D and M in front of everyone.  That was pretty typical of their marriage allot of screaming and cursing over D's drinking and not wanting to be home. 

M also had a huge temper as well as an issue with magical thinking and would often talk about having experiences with aliens and ghosts.   :stars:

Reading through these reminds of things I have forgotten. I just remember being frightened of my mother.

We moved just before I was 4 and I remember a few things from the old house. Running around the living room I ended up stepping into a hot cup of tea and being yelled at for spelling the tea. Flash forward to my mother being in my first flat. I walk over to the window to close the curtains and she says harshly, 'mind my tea' which was on the floor. It was my home, I would be the one cleaning it up if it got spilt! Her tea was more important than my burnt feet.

I could also read before I went to school but then she complained that once I could read I did not like to be read to, unlike my sister before me.

She apparently admitted to being jealous of my relationship with my father to someone.

I do remember being bribed not to wet the bed in the old house too. I had a tantrum and got the sweet anyway when I did wet the bed once, I remember that. She couldn't stick to that boundary.

Gromit,

Apologies if you are aware, but your mother being jealous of your relationship with your father is classic Borderline Queen behavior, as she must be the recipient of all attention within the household.   

The one that has stuck with me most was my uBPm regularly telling me that I was making Jesus sad by not treating her better. "How do you think Jesus feels now that you have hurt my feelings?" And I would cry and apologize. It was an awful use of religion to manipulate me. But, for all that, I worked through and claimed my faith for myself, though I sometimes still here her voice asking me that question.

My earliest memory period is of my parents fighting verbally and physically.

My mom would rage on a regular basis. As soon as I learned to walk, I was walking on egg shells. When she raged she would yell just an inch or two from my face. Her face would turn bright red and she would be spitting while she yelled. She would also hit, slap or kick (these "spankings" didn't stop at a "normal" age either. They kept going until I was 19 and threatened to press charges).

As a small child at the time, I of course thought it was my fault because I was somehow bad. I only realized things were not ok, and PDs were real a few years ago. Since then I have recognized so many behaviors that can be attributed to her PD, but the rages are the earliest memories.

I was three and my room was a mess. My mother locked me up in it and just said to clean it up. I was completely overwhelmed with where to start or how to do it. I finally found my Barbie case and figured out I could put my Barbie stuff away. At some point she came back in and of course I had made very little progress. She grabbed the one thing I had done, the Barbie case, and started shaking it around the room so that everything fell out, screaming Clean this up! Clean this up!

My earliest memory was when I was about 2 years old. I don't remember much else until I got older.

But at about 2 years old, i wanted to help my mom mop the kitchen floor. She NEVER ever taught me anything about keeping house or cooking, (i was banned from the kitchen as a teenager, when I tried to help in the kitchen before she got home from work .

Anyway, at about 2 years old, everybody was gone somewhere.  Just me and my.mom .she was mopping the kitchen floor and I  wanted to help.  2 years old.

She got mad about something and got the broom and started chasing me around the kitchen swinging it at me. I literally thought she was going to kill me. I  ran around the kirchen until she caught me. I just hunkered down in the corner.

Looked over my shoulder, finally, and there she was , with that broom. Never saying a word. Looked totally psycho.

But someone came in during  this, and she stopped and acted like nothing happened.  And I was too young to tell anyone.

QuoteNeedless to say she was disappointed at the lack of improvement even though I continued to do exceptionally well. "Room for improvement" became one of the phrases that I learned to hate.

It's an all purpose stick to beat someone with.

Clarasophia and UsedUp stories perfectly describe the temporary insanity experienced by the Borderline mother (Borderline meaning crossing from sanity to insanity)  so well described by Christine Lawson in her brilliant book "Understanding the Borderline Mother"

A two year old ! is threatened for trying to help their mother and a three year old ! is threatened for not helping her.

:bighug:

I was about 4 and my brother threw my only friend, a large blue stuffed dog, under the house.
He lifted up an entryway inside the house and thew the dog under.
I don't remember the throwing very well but I remember asking him to get the dog (he said no, of course)
and then went to my Mom and she told me no.
I was pretty broken up at the time and didn't understand why a little dust was better to avoid than your heartbroken and crying child.
I understand now, that my feelings were never a concern for her, at four or fourty.