My Mother

My mother was an interesting combination of being a narcissist, an enabler of a narcissist, and a scapegoat of a narcissist.

The narcissist was my father. Meaning that I was raised by a pair of narcissists.

But today, I wish to focus on my father's treatment of my mother, his wife.

I witnessed it all. The more money my father attained and the higher his social status rose, the more narcissistic and authoritarian he became.

And he married my mother partly because of her elevated academic pedigree. Not only did she graduate EARLY from Erasmus Hall High School in Brooklyn (a big deal), she had her undergraduate degree from Barnard College and her master's degree from Wellesley by 1950. That made her a desirable mate for a future physician society-wise.

But unexpected consequences: she could not only match wits with my father, but my mother often could win arguments with him. That's not what makes a narcissist happy. So, there were consistent powerplays in my household.

My mother wanted to work outside the house. My father forbid it. And my mother wasn't a "happy housewife". Or a mother. She did it because, despite having a maid as a constant in our house, it was overwhelming, especially to my father's satisfaction.

I believe the straw that broke the camel's back for my mother was my father interfered with her few but close friendships she had with other disaffected and educated women. He used a bad business deal with his close friend to sever ties with him. Unfortunately, that friend was married to my mother's close friend. And the women were forbidden to socialize with each other. Sort of like Fred Flintstone telling his wife, Wilma, that she could no longer be friends with Betty Rubble. That kind of stupid. Another instance decades later: my mother was friends with a divorced woman who was a close golf buddy. The friend was outspoken, bawdy, and loved a good strong drink. My father couldn't stand her. And again, the friend was banished from my mother's life, leaving her lonely and frustrated.

My point of this essay was the authoritarian control my father yielded over my mother. And no wonder my father went after me when I exercised even a modicum of independence, even as a child. He couldn't let me get away with something he denied to my mother.

Back to my mother's friends. My father couldn't abide with women who were encouraging my mother to get out under my father's thumb. They had to go.

And in my case, I couldn't turn to my mother when my father turned his ire on me.

Postscript: the first friend of my mother cared a lot about me. She could see my father's excessive interest in controlling me. I was 12 when I no longer was associated with her. In 2001, she passed away. I went alone to her church service. (My mother didn't even go.) Afterwards, her neighbor took me aside and confided that my would-be mentor spent years after the break, inquiring about me and my siblings to see if we "were alright". Because of my father. This still brings tears to my eyes. I'm certain my mother suffered more than I did.

Some (not all) men dedicate their marriages to destroying the women they married.