A Love Letter to My Narcissistic Mother
Coming to terms with a life lived unloved by the ghost of a woman who never was.
Please Note: Some names have been changed to protect the anonymity of individuals both living and deceased.
by: E.B. Johnson
The day I found my mother’s psychiatric medication is a day that saved my life. Sneaking into my mother’s bedroom had always been a sin, but it became a capital crime after my father left. Weeks after his car had peeled out of the driveway — gravel ricocheting in its wake — she had slammed the door shut to that doomed room and pointed her finger in my face.
“You’re not to go in there anymore, understood?”
I nodded my child’s head eagerly, but the goalposts were set. I became obsessed with this new forbidden zone; with everything locked behind that impossible door.
Almost a year to the day of my father’s departure, I got my chance. Left home alone by a mother forced to work more than ever before — I found the key in the drawer and crept quietly down the hall. This was in the early days, before the hall was filled with sewage.
I turned the key over in the lock and felt the spring give way. With a quiet pop, the pin burst outward and the knob turned freely in my hand.
