When Love Looks Like Narcissism

I was raised not by one, not two, but three narcissistic women.

Women who smiled proudly in public and took credit for my successes… but behind closed doors, never once celebrated with me. Women who told me I was the reason they were abusive. That I was too much, too needy, too broken.

The first was my mom.
The person who was supposed to teach me unconditional love was the first person to teach me I would never be valued for who I was.

Publicly, she was proud of me — how smart I was, how pretty I was, how unique I was. But privately? The only acknowledgement I ever got was for what I could do for her. I became her caretaker, and at times the caretaker of my siblings too. I was a child feeding myself and them, cleaning up after her, making sure the house ran when she couldn’t.

I’ll never forget the first time she called me a fatass. The first time she smacked me across the face. Or the first time she told me I was the reason she couldn’t get sober. None of this ever happened in public, because in front of others she was my savior — the mom who sacrificed everything, who loved me more than anyone.

The reality was I was locked in rooms for days. Left home alone with no food for weeks. Used as a scapegoat when she needed an excuse. “I can’t pay you back, my daughter needs school clothes” — which really meant the money went to her dealer.

Then there was my grandma.
She adopted me when my mom’s addiction made it impossible to parent. She loves to remind me that I “owe her gratitude” because she “saved me” from foster care. But she refused to adopt my sister, closing that adoption and separating us — not to protect, but to spite my mom.

She became my harshest critic. When the depression hit in high school and I stopped going, the school called a meeting. She didn’t live with me, but she had to keep up appearances because she was still receiving money for me after the adoption. Instead of asking me what was wrong, she showed up furious — screaming about how I made her look bad. I’ll never forget her slapping me across the face, yelling, “The hell it doesn’t!” when I said my choices weren’t about her.

She showed up to knock me down further every time I struggled. Yet when I excelled — when I got straight A’s, played volleyball, debated, volunteered, even graduated high school a year early — she didn’t show up to celebrate. She didn’t even come to my graduation. Publicly though? She gifted me a car. She told everyone how saintly she was for adopting me. How I would’ve been a “loser in foster care” just like my mom if not for her.

And then, my stepmom.
To the world, she was kind and generous — sending gifts, spoiling my kids, putting on the performance of a loving parent. But privately, the attention always came back to her. My pain, my life, my milestones — all roads led to her.

Three women. Three masks of the same face: love that looked like control, abuse wrapped in pride, narcissism disguised as sacrifice.

The impact? I grew up believing love couldn’t be trusted. That what people showed me in public wasn’t who they were behind closed doors. That even when someone said I was valued, I should brace myself for the slap, the silence, the sabotage.

Through therapy, I’ve been unlearning that. I’ve met a man who has shown me — consistently, patiently — that love can be safe. That words can match actions. That I can trust.

But even now, my resiliency is tested. His daughter, manipulated by her own narcissistic mother, has mirrored that same dynamic. With him, she’s all smiles and sweetness. With me, she becomes someone else entirely — lying, stirring conflict, making me the villain. She has spun stories, created scenes in our home, and consumed every ounce of attention she can take.

And when it happens, it cuts deep. It pulls me back to those old wounds, to that old whisper: maybe it really is me. Maybe I am the problem.

But here’s what I know now: I am not the problem.

I never was.

I am not the reason my mom used drugs.
I am not the reason my grandma struck me.
I am not the reason my stepmom twisted everything back to herself.

And I am not the reason a hurting little girl lashes out now.

I am a good person. I am worthy of respect, safety, and love — not because of what I can do for someone else, not because of how I perform in public, not because of what story someone else tells about me.

Narcissism has a way of showing up looking like a savior.
But I’ve stopped mistaking control for love.

And every day, I’m choosing to break that cycle — no matter how loudly those old voices try to drag me back in.