This Toxic Mother

The Mythomania Project: File 1-7

"Daughters of narcissistict mothers absorb the belief that love is conditional—something earned through endless effort and sacrifice."

Dr. Karyl McBride - Will I Ever Be Good Enough?

Let’s face it: not everyone is meant to be a parent. How can someone embrace motherhood when they haven’t even worked through their own issues? How can they poison their children’s lives so thoroughly?

I grew up with one of those toxic mothers.

On the surface, Annie was the perfect housewife. People saw her as a devoted woman who took great care of her daughters, an excellent cook, and a flawless homemaker. But that polished image was a facade. Behind closed doors, Annie was a completely different person. She had no friends—she despised other women. Honestly, I think she hated everyone. Over time, I realized that her hatred stemmed from one place: she hated herself.

Some Women Shouldn’t Be Mothers... The Facade and the Control

Annie loved to talk about her past. She painted a picture of a pampered childhood, only to lose the spotlight when her sister was born. She spoke of her teenage years in showbiz, claiming she lived a glamorous life before giving it all up to marry my father. “A regular guy,” she said with disdain.

To make up for this failure, Annie decided that we, her daughters, would be her second chance, her revenge. We were supposed to fulfill her broken dreams, no matter the cost.

In our house, one unspoken rule prevailed: we had to be Annie’s confidantes. We were her sounding boards for every complaint, frustration, and regret. She said she sacrificed everything for us to have a perfect future. But that sacrificecame with an overwhelming emotional price.

This toxic mother: A Crushing Burden

Over the years, being Annie’s confidante turned into an unbearable mental load. When she decided to change her life, I had to step in. Financial support, managing her problems, handling her paperwork—I was expected to solve everything, even messes she could’ve easily avoided.

If I ever spoke up about the weight crushing me, she’d throw my debt in my face:

“Want me to tally up how much you’ve cost since you were born?”

To her, it was clear: I owed her. She often reminded me, “I went through hell cooking and raising brats I didn’t need, so it’s only fair you take over.”

I had the motherly role, but without the recognition—just contempt. As the eldest, I was the default scapegoat, the one tasked with fixing her mistakes while carrying my own.

"As a child, I loved her with all my heart, but I couldn't understand why she hated me."

The Weight of Appearances

Annie had her favorites. My two sisters were her future grand dames, her pride and joy. She spared no expense for them, putting them on a pedestal. But me? I was the odd one out, the ugly duckling. I was overweight, and I had no interest in wealth, fame, or the celebrities Annie idolized.

I loved art, literature, and music for their beauty, not for the recognition they could bring.

To Annie, I was a failure. An anomaly. Worse, I was a disgrace. She never missed a chance to remind me: “You’re wheezing like a cow,” she’d say while dressing me, or “You’re fat because you eat too much,” echoing my maternal grandparents’ insults.

Passive-Aggressive Violence

Annie’s cruelty was subtle yet pervasive. She’d ignore me when it suited her, then steal my ideas, my words, and my achievements. At Christmas, she’d pretend to surprise me with gifts but ask me to approve and pay for them myself.

Even my small joys were fair game for her control. She’d predict my future with sadistic pleasure: “You’ll end up fat, stuck with a bunch of kids, and married to a cheating husband.” 

Her cruelty wore the mask of irony or supposed pragmatism.

Surviving the Insurmountable

I grew up in an environment where love was conditional and validation had to be earned—on Annie’s terms. She projected her insecurities and failures onto me, using me as a mirror for her frustrations.

To this day, I wonder if she realizes the harm she caused. But I no longer seek answers. What I know is that I survived her attacks. I’ve found passions that are truly mine, reasons to keep moving forward. I’ve learned that my worth isn’t tied to her gaze—or anyone else’s.