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Little Lego Dolls aka Kids of Narcissists

Eight years ago, a coworker said something I’ll never forget. “You’re just a Project to your parents,” he told me. “You’re not a Person.”

At the time, I denied his statement six ways from Sunday. But his words stuck with me. Haunted me.

Yesterday, I took a long, long view of my family — the 10,000-foot view. I did this by very quickly perusing the 300 entries on my Timeline of Abuse spreadsheet. Reading it so quickly, between putting cookies in and taking them out of the oven, I suddenly was able to see the Forest and not the trees. Over 300 instances of abuse, insults and downright weirdness culminated in the conviction that he was right!

Narcissistic parents are really weird (and weird is a “nice” word; abusive is more accurate) because, to them, their kids are just Projects. Not People.

Narcissists treat their children as though they built them out of Legos. And you can do anything to a Lego Project.

3 Comments to
Little Lego Dolls aka Kids of Narcissists

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  1. To my Narc Parents and both of my Narc Ex Husbands I was PROPERTY (and they told me so). I wasn’t allowed to cry or be sad or be afraid or smile or laugh or be loved because Property doesn’t have any feelings. I was their property to be used, manipulated, abused how and when they chose because Property doesn’t have any feelings. They hated me. Well they hated me period but talking back to them, having opinions of my own, disagreeing (especially with my NM on how I wanted to dress and wear my hair (I was more conservative and old fashioned than her)) just made them hate me even more. They never saw me as being feeling human.

  2. It’s a good feeling to know I’m not alone. I was never good enough. Not blonde not busty like my mother. Too skinny.Not son to carry on my father’s name. My father was a John Barrymore look alike and never let anyone forget it. Mom a May West look alike never let me forget it. She wanted an abortion, my father wanted a son. Father 40 years older than me. WW 2 broke him. A chronic alcoholic. I became somewhat a nursemaid. Hardly ever allowed to play with others. Enemas were a favorite torture for me by my mother.

  3. They kept moving the cheese lol, perfect. Oh and giving me a reason to cry about? Heard that one a thousand times. Yeah I cried for what should have been if only she wasnt a narc. Then I could have what all my friends had, a loving relationship with a mother who didn’t make them jump through hoops for love that never comes.


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