They "broke the mould"

The old saying, "They broke the mould," perfectly describes my adoptive mother. She was one of a kind. While everyone can claim their mother is unique, my mother’s fierce self-preservation pushed her to become a narcissist, with all the traits that accompany it.

She quickly established the rules among her children: the oldest daughter became the scapegoat (for reasons we’ll never know), the golden child was the second son, and the eldest son was left dangling in the wind, much like an "heir and a spare" in a royal lineage. My oldest brother briefly held the unenviable role of "flying monkey," assisting in her manipulations, before ascending to golden child status after the tragic death of her favourite son. And then, there was the little girl they adopted: the lost child.

What Is a Lost Child in a Narcissistic Family Setup?

The lost child is the one who causes the least trouble, flying under the radar. When all the prime roles in the narcissist’s world are taken, the lost child becomes invisible.

The impact of this invisibility can manifest in the following ways:

• Struggling to love or accept yourself. Growing up with a neglectful parent fosters a sense of insignificance, often carried into adulthood.

• Repeating unhealthy relationship patterns. We tend to replicate familiar dynamics, even if they cause pain. Feeling unloved may attract equally neglectful partners.

• Neglecting self-care.Physical and emotional neglect in childhood can translate into poor self-care habits later in life.

• Battling addiction or self-destructive habits. Low self-esteem, anxiety, and depression can lead to seeking solace through destructive means.

• Feeling lost. A profound void and lingering emptiness often haunt the lost child.

  
  

As the lost child in our family, I’ve had to overcome all these challenges, and it’s a constant struggle to maintain and nurture self-love. At 59 years old, I can report progress. Life is far better now than it used to be, partly because I’ve grown too weary of dwelling on the past. Slowly but surely, the fog that clouded my psyche since childhood is lifting.

Bittersweet Truths

The downside of reclaiming myself is confronting bitter truths that take a monumental effort to digest. The upside? Age brings a lessened tendency to stew over them.

Reflecting on my childhood, I vividly recall piecing together fragments of hushed conversations, subtle gestures, and whispers. As an adult, I’ve learned to interpret and make sense of these snippets. Though memory can be deceptive, I trust the instincts that have stayed with me all these years. My inquiring mind has a knack for constructing a story from the faintest details. Once resolved, I let it go—something I couldn’t do when I was younger.

The Adoption Revelation

One significant realisation emerged over time: my adoption was more about preserving a marriage than providing a child with a home. My adoptive mother was a determined force of nature. Like a cyclone, she wreaked havoc until she achieved her goals. This determination shaped our family: my adoptive sister was 19, my adoptive brothers were 17 and 15, and I was the youngest addition—the "glue" for my mother’s mission to secure her husband and breadwinner.

Once I fulfilled my purpose, I became dispensable, at least until circumstances shifted. When my second adoptive brother tragically took his own life when I was seven, my adoptive mother’s depression cast a long shadow. She kept his room as a shrine for over 25 years, even though my eldest brother, now reluctantly thrust into the golden child role, lived in that room too! The transition was hard for him, as he never wanted the crown.

Living in the Shadow

For a time, after the suicide, our house was filled with darkness. My adoptive mother took to her bed, her grief amplified by a bottle of Valium. It was the first true vulnerability I witnessed. There were perhaps one or two times throughout my life with Mum, that I ever saw it. She was the master of self-control and manipulation. Her control over our lives remained unshaken. We had no choice but to endure her melancholy.

One comment from my adoptive mother echoes through my life. She would say—once in childhood, several times as a teenager, and even in adulthood—these words:"You are my dumbest child."

This cruel remark surfaced during arguments when she sought to swiftly defeat me with her sharp tongue. It was only recently that I connected this insult to something the nurses told her when I was adopted:"She might be slow; it was a difficult birth combined with torticollis. (the condition I had at birth and was believed to cause brain damage due to lack of oxygen and in 1964 these myths still abound)

That belief shaped how she saw me—as damaged. Ironically, she labelled my scapegoat sister "crazy" after a car accident left her with head injuries, often mocking her in German: “Verrückte.” Thus, in my mother’s world, my sister was crazy, and I was the stupid one.

Laughing at the Pain

Looking back, I laugh at the absurdity of it all. My adoptive mother’s magnificence in manipulation was undeniable. Tragically, she died unhappy, unable to find true joy or fulfilment. Fittingly, the person she depended on most—her potential third golden boy—turned out to be as manipulative as she was.

Closing Thoughts

Thank heavens for age and the perspective it brings. While the scars remain, so does the growth.