The Hard Truth Narcissists Learn About Divine Blessings & Karma

When I was eight years old, I woke one morning to find my grandmother sitting at the foot of my bed. 

“Grandma! You’re better!” My grandmother had been in the hospital for months losing her hair, becoming skeletal, and battling cancer. She looked completely transformed: her hair was lush and thick. She even looked youthful. 

She smiled gently at me, “Annie, I want you to always remember that I love you. I’m always here with you, okay? Forever.”

“I love you too!” I said, rubbing my eyes to wake up. 

When I opened them, she’d vanished.

My door was open, so I figured she must be with my parents, but I ran out of my room and my parents were still in bed. “Where’s grandma?” I asked them. 

My mother’s neck SNAPPED as she looked wide-eyed at my dad. 

“What do you mean?” he asked. 

“She was just in my room! She’s all better!” 

My mother’s eyes got wider; then she burst into tears, “Why wouldn’t she have come to me?” she wailed. 

My father groaned with disgust, “She’s dreaming, obviously.”

“No I’m not!”

“Anne, your grandma died last night.”

The words took me out the way a sniper takes out a brain on a battlefield. 

My parents both were afflicted with Antisocial Personality Disorder and narcissism; thus, they had no empathy, and they were incapable of grieving. 

Consequently, they were incapable of comforting an emotionally distraught child. My feelings were afterthoughts and burdens. 

I was a child with budding Borderline Personality Disorder, which I think is best described as lifelong grieving. 

I feel like I am still the emotional processor of the family--grieving, dissecting, and understanding everyone’s shame and trauma just to heal the pains they put inside of me. 

This was one of my first plummets into deep depression; shortly after, I’d have my first suicide attempt, hoping to reunite with one of the only adults to ever seem to care for me: my grandmother. 

One of life’s most pressing questions began to plague me: is there a God?