Growing up with a narcissistic parent, you make do. You try to follow the rules, deal with the lack of boundaries, cry a lot – even though your told not to, become a scapegoat when you are the oldest (often but not always), get yelled at, compared to, and told things like “Why can’t you be more like…” When I looked back at my “diary” in a little pink book from this middle school time period, I never said a word about physical abuse or emotional abuse and certainly nothing about narcissism. How did I know? I complained about not being allowed to do something or what a day I had had or whether I was going to my friends house to hang out. You would never know from the outside looking in and you would not know from the inside looking out. You are a kid with no psychological training.

In the photo above, my friend and I were in middle school, or on our way there. I can’t recall. If it weren’t for her (and many healthy adult role models), I wouldn’t have become the person I am today. We were only a few months apart and I idolized her. Unfortunately, my parent was also comparing me to her the entire time. She couldn’t do anything wrong in my eyes though, and while my parent thought she was perfect and I wasn’t, I knew what her truth was and I protected her truth. I never told on her, even when I got pregnant at 17 and she had had sex long before I did – in fact she introduced me to over the counter birth control, I never said anything about this.

My friend would always make me laugh about my parent. She made jokes about them and we had these secret laughs about things we knew nothing about. We called each other on the phone everyday after school (I lived in the country and she in the city) and watched “Guiding Light” (Soap Opera) while talking on the phone. These were the years when Kevin Bacon was on there and didn’t have plastic surgery. We spent about an hour on the phone and every day I would get in trouble because our home phone was busy and my parent always used this time to check in from work. Why, I don’t know because they knew we talked on the phone every day. Not that I ruled the house, but looking back, it seems strange.

My pal lived as an only child with a single father. She had her father’s lady friend who took on the role of surrogate mother (her mother was not in the picture). My pal had what I would say was a privileged life. She was raised in an intellectual household and then taught me these things. She was taken to the art museum, movies, shopping and able to pick out her own clothes, her own music, I had to choose the pop heroes of the day. I didn’t mind picking Donny Osmond because I loved his music of course, but she introduced me to foreign music – Jean Michel Jarre, which I thought was so cool. Her father (and my step/adopt) were Hungarian and they travelled to the old country more often than we did. I loved her intellectual life and wanted to be smart and brilliant and well-read like she was.

My own household wasn’t quite as smart. There were four kids and a step child who visited on some weekends. Alone as the eldest (except when my stepbrother was visiting), I didn’t have a real sense of who I was. I wanted to be my friend, as it seemed more interesting and my parent was fixated on them, so it seemed like this was the ideal way to be. According to my parent, I was not very bright, was supposed to get married and have kids and stay near the family. I was supposed to do a woman’s job like being a secretary or teacher or some type of stereotypical job. At some point I did branch out and want to get into fashion. That was when I got pregnant, so it had to wait until about five more years when I attended FIDM, in Los Angeles, as a divorced woman.

Since my friend went to a city parochial school and I went to a country school, I was very much in the “nerd” group. I hung out with other very vulnerable young girls. We weren’t cheerleaders – though I tried – not confident enough. We weren’t the “hoods,” who gained attention with other rebels. We weren’t the smart ones who people turned to for help in their studies or who were in groups. We weren’t in the band, though we had a friend who was. Just each other, a few of us. One girl was in a religion who had to wear dresses and no make-up. One girl had genetic muscular dystrophy, though she had not been diagnosed yet, other family members had been. The rest of us were just shy and quiet. None of us spoke about our families (naturally we had no idea the psychological extent of whatever we went through) to any great deal other than typical teenage angst. But, when we were let off our buses, we congregated by the door of the entry, in a little circle, waiting for first period bell to ring. I have always wondered what my life would have been like if I went to school with my best friend. I am sure I would have followed her around like a puppy dog!

Going to school was respite from all that went on in my home. I got away from it all. The problem is that when I was in school, I dissociated so much that I didn’t understand what was going on half the time in class. I did my best to get good grades, whereas my city friend was straight A’s. What frustrated me so much was that there were be periods of spaciness, I would have no idea how long and then I would be at the tail end of a teacher’s talk and get so upset with myself that I didn’t understand what they were talking about. I remember hating to take tests because I wasn’t really good at taking notes. I didn’t understand yet (until later in college) how to organize what I was and wasn’t hearing. Much of the time I was looking out the window – while dissociating. Since I had an average grade, there was no rush from teachers to get help for me. They probably had no idea what was going on anyway. Unless your a bad student or a behavioral kid, they didn’t really pay attention.

I liked boys in high school but never really understood the concept of dating. I know now from school reunions that the good guys didn’t understand this either. I was dependent on someone liking me and being an arrogant enough person to pay attention and think they could have what they wanted. Having no clue about boundaries or what I wanted in a relationship, I just went along. I didn’t even know what love was, I just somehow went along with this person because they were called my boyfriend.

My parent taught me about relationships by saying I couldn’t have sex or they would disown me and I had better not get pregnant. There was no talk about what men are like or how to be in a relationship with them. No discussion about what to expect and how to make sure you respected your body. Just yelling and screaming about how I should or shouldn’t. Naturally, I absorbed the boyfriend’s wishes as he validated the concerns of parental angst and it seemed like he was on my side.

When you live this lifestyle, it is rather difficult to end up anywhere successful right away. It takes years of growing, separating and differentiating from the narcissistic parent, at some point being educated on what you went through and beginning to understand what happened. Putting all the pieces together and forgiving them and yourself and determining who you are.

Next week, I am celebrating my 63rd birthday with my pal in the photo above. While we have lived in other states since we were 17 years old, whenever we get together it is like we have never been apart. It is an amazing friendship that no longer has the daily one hour talks, no longer even has communication at all, except when I am going for a visit. She has been married, now twice and I have not been since I was 19. I am going with my boyfriend to visit and he will be the first one she has met since the first. I have held onto this relationship and put the work into it as she is the only semblance I have of what I went through growing up. She was there all of those first 17 years, when I really needed her. It doesn’t even matter that I have done all the work, because I have gotten something out of this. What matters is that we are friends, that I can depend on her to be there when I need her and we get together and it is as if nothing has been lost or forgotten.