Elizabeth Keedy

In my last post—which was more of a newsletter, really—I mentioned about the big shift I’ve been going through. That shift and all previous shifts have related to the complex trauma I’m recovering from, trauma that resulted from the subject in this post: The Narcissist and the Empath—Blessing or Curse?

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As part of my soul growth and learning how to be more open and trust that the world won’t attack me (which you’ll understand why I feel that way after you’ve read this post), I’m sharing my personal experience, including how Ive grown and what I’ve gained from this difficult dynamic. In my case, the narcissist was my mum, and I’m the empath daughter. (I’ll also sneak in one or two images of my lovely oracle cards!)

I’m sure there’ll be at least one or two of you who know firsthand the behavioural patterns of a mother with NPD (narcissistic personality disorder). Of course, there are varying degrees of narcissism, with some ticking all the boxes and others less so. But no matter what type of narcissist, they each have the potential to cause long term trauma.

Having a narcissist for a mother is a difficult path to walk, especially if the trauma leads to challenges with future connections: trust issues, being intimate, or asking for help and support. So if you’re on the receiving end of narcissistic abuse, please feel free to leave a comment and share your thoughts and experiences. And please know that you’re not alone.

The Narcissist and the Empath: Me and my Mum

In the next few years her health deteriorated rapidly. I took her to frequent doctors and hospital appointments; we had days out, and I spoke to her almost every day, offering her support like the kind, compassionate daughter I thought I was supposed to be. Being an empath has many blessings, but it can also be a curse. I felt my mum’s grief as she tried to come to terms with my dad’s absence, and that made me want to help her all the more.

The Final Act

All that time spent with my mum took its toll on me, until eventually, a few days before Christmas in 2016, I received a harsh wake-up call. During the previous months, my mum had repeatedly asked me if I’d had a happy childhood—she must have known, deep down. The memories she clung to were very different to mine—she proclaimed we were all very happy and life had been wonderful. I did an excellent job evading the question until one day she kept pushing for an answer—narcissists can be relentless. And that was it. I had to tell her the truth. And the truth was:: no, I wasn’t happy, and for most of the time, I was depressed and suicidal. Not an easy childhood.

I’m sure you can imagine how shocked she was, and how she went into denial, professing to be the Best Mother Ever! Just as a narcissist would do. The following few days I reached breaking point. I’d been her carer for 6 months and was completely exhausted. I trembled with stress and anxiety, and was sinking deeper into depression. And then it happened: I had a nervous breakdown.

That was the wake-up call I needed. I had no choice but to face the truth and finally do what I I wish I’d had the courage to do years ago: I decided to go no-contact. Until then, I’d always opted for the I’ve-got-to-try-and-make-this-work attitude. I mean, she’s my mum. She’s family. And family is everything, isn’t it? Except for those of us with a narcissistic parent.

So a few days later, on Christmas Day 2016, I visited her with my brother—a final goodbye. I didn’t stay long, and as I left, I told her I needed space to sort myself out. She didn’t take it well, obviously. What narcissist would be happy when their main supply of energy has suddenly been cut off? Deep down, I knew I didn’t want to see her again, not ever. Coming to terms with that was hard, but not as difficult as letting go of the guilt. Or, accepting that she’ll never change.

No Contact

As the new year of 2017 arrived, I felt broken into a million pieces. 2017, without a doubt, was the most difficult year of my life—and there’ve been plenty to choose from. Not only was I suffering the emotional fallout, or the FOG effect (fear, obligation, guilt), of cutting off my own mother, but I suffered from physical health problems. 47 years of trauma, shutting off my emotions and constant negative thinking has a seriously bad effect on the physical body.

Another downside to having a relationship with a narcissist is the dependency and co-dependency. Over the 47 years of spending time with my mum, she’d woven herself into my own life so deeply and covertly. I had no idea of the impact that would have on me. And even despite her behaviour, I struggled to face each day without her. I’m sure those of you who have experienced something similar can relate.

The Blessings?

Writing the book was cathartic, helping me release a lot of the upset, disappointment, betrayal, anger, grief, guilt, fear, and so on, out of my energy. Regardless of how many copies of the book I sell, it was and is a major achievement that I’ll always be glad I did.

Long story short, cos I don’t want to whine on about the miserable life I’ve had, everything is turning around for me now. And the one thing that’s fuelled my recovery more than anything else is to remind myself that when an empath and a narcissist come together, it isn’t random. It’s for a big reason. If I hadn’t had this experience with my mum, I wouldn’t be an ounce of the person I’ve become today. And I’ve reached a point where I can see my best qualities—which took some doing.

I’ve learnt so many soul lessons and transformed into a person I never thought I could be. I still struggle with over-giving and not being open enough to receive the bounteous abundance available, but I’ve mostly become the opposite of who I used to be, and that’s a good thing. But one thing’s for sure, I couldn’t have got here if I wasn’t for my mum.

Part of me feels compassion for her—that’ll be my empathic nature—and some days I even feel as though I’ve forgiven her. But some days I don’t. Some days, I still feel like the hurt and angry child, with hate and rage bubbling under the surface. But the times when I feel that way happen less and less, which means I’m healing from it all.

I don’t know if I’ll fully heal before I leave this life. 47 years of trauma is a lot to work through, on top of other traumas and all the challenges that this world brings. And if I don’t fully heal, I’m okay with that. I don’t intend on returning to this realm in the current timeline anyway, so whatever I don’t heal here and now, will be washed away in the beautiful white light shower that we all stand under when our soul leaves our physical body after it dies.

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Even though my relationship with my mum has dominated my life, and although we’re no longer in touch, the legacy of her impact will always be with me. I’ve tried to run away from it numerous times, but it follows me around because it’s a part of me. So my parting words for you beautiful souls who have suffered in a similar difficult relationship, the best thing you can do is to forgive yourself for taking part in it, for staying too long, for never speaking up when you wanted to, for saying too much when you wanted to stay quiet, for having your buttons pushed and reacting, and most of all, for carrying around all those revolting feelings and emotions that the narcissist is so good at creating.

It isn’t your fault, none of it, but it isn’t their fault either. A narcissist isn’t born that way—they develop NPD due to their own unresolved trauma. No-one is to blame or shame. So do whatever you can to let go and find peace with it all, and that will probably be one of the hardest but most liberating choices you’ll ever make.

Thank you reading. Please don’t be shy. Get in touch and share your story, too. 🤗