It's September 12, a Wednesday, and yesterday was the one yearanniversary of my cousin Marc's passing.

Marc was diagnosed with a cancer known as melanoma. Skincancer sounds so benign—a bad mole, a little skin tag that won'theal, something for tanning bed abusers and sun worshippers,though Marc did neither of those things. Yet this unassumingcancer causes almost fifty thousand deaths a year in the UnitedStates alone. I had to watch helplessly as my vital, young, strongcousin went through eighteen months of hell. Three times thecancer went into his brain, and he fought back until the last time,when it took his life.

I grew up with my cousin Marc; we went through high schooltogether in the same class and graduated with each other, alongwith another cousin of ours. We actually didn't know one anothergrowing up, which says a lot about my family. I came homecomplaining about him and it was then I was told he was mycousin. From that point on, he treated me like family. I wasalways fond of Marc. It was nice to call him "Cuz" and feel partof a something like a family. My own family, which consisted ofmy father, mother, and a brother who was two years older thanme, had more than its share of dysfunction. My father's side ofthe family lived in the area, but he and his siblings were always atodds; feuds and grudges were to the only way they communicatedwith one another. So when Marc and I got to know each otherwell in high school, I was proud that I could tell people we wererelated and that I felt like part of a family, since I rarely got tofeel that.

Marc and I lost touch after high school, as typically happenswhen adult lives take over. In 2010, we reconnected through anInternet social media site, and I found out he was battling cancer.I immediately offered any help and support I could give.

It was like something outside myself propelled me to reconnectwith Marc during this time. I came to his side to be of help andcomfort to him, and it turned out it was he who helped andcomforted me instead. That horrible diagnosis of cancer gave mesomething so precious: the gift of unconditional love from a familymember. Something I never had or thought I would ever know. Ivisited him throughout his illness, and we had deep conversationsand spoke of so many things. He had this tremendous capacity tolisten without judgment, to love without stipulations, and to justsimply care. He accepted me; he didn't care about anything thathad gone on in my life. He knew me for me and loved me all themore for that. These were some of the most precious moments inmy life, experiencing this connection with another human being.Marc helped me deal with the humiliation of finding out aboutmy husband's affair and the utter devastation that followed.

A week before he died, he said, "Come, crawl up on the bedwith me." He was so frail, trying to make room for me in bed. Ilaid my head on his pillow next to him and he wrapped his armsabout me. He held me tight, caressed my hair, and told me," Ilove you so much; you mean so much to me. I will always lookout for you." I fought back the tears as I took in this gift. I felt soloved and accepted.

Two days before he died, we were out on the patio of hishospice room enjoying the sunshine when he shooed everyoneoff the patio in order to tell me, "You know what? I love you,and I am so glad that we are close as we used to be. It sucks thatI had to have cancer for that to happen, but I'm glad I got youback in my life." Again, I found myself fighting back the tears asI accepted his gift.

My heart was breaking; Marc was going to die and leaveme. Instead he was focused on making me understand he wasleaving me behind with the most precious gift he could, to knowunconditional love. It was very healing to understand that heloved me no matter what. For the first time in my life, I wasenough. I didn't have to do anything. I could just be and be enough.

I am not sure I knew at the time how profound an impact myrelationship with Marc would have, watching him deteriorate andfight for his life while he lovingly encouraged and championedthe people around him. His illness allowed me to see life and itsmany aspects. I reflected on my own life. I saw that there wasnothing that had been done that couldn't be undone, and I didn'thave to accept that my life was written in stone and couldn't bechanged. It isn't an entitlement to expect to have loving, faithfulsupport from a spouse. It wasn't wrong to believe my parentsshould be good people with my best interest at heart without anymanipulations behind it, yet I had been surrounded by this typeof thinking my whole life. I was forever in the wrong with myspouse, who was now jealous that I was spending so much timewith my dying cousin. When I found out about the affair, he toldme he did it because of all I was doing for my cousin who wasdying of cancer. My parents or my brother (who I had not spokento in a couple years out of self-preservation) talked badly about meall over town. I had been placed under a reward and punishmentsystem when it came to family for my entire life and it continuedon in my marriage. After all, I had been consistently trained thatlove contained threats and came with conditions.

"Mommy, Mommy, it's dark in here." I cried. What laybefore me was a long set of steps leading down toan old limestone basement, more a cavern than a basement andwithout lights that sheltered bats on occasion.

"Let the boogey man get you!" my mother hissed back, and Iheard her footsteps walk away.

I remember I saw light under the closed door; I reached myfingers into this crack trying to stay connected to the light's brightwarmth and not be enveloped into the darkness to which I hadbeen sentenced. I recall vividly how utterly terrified I was, sobbingand begging, "Mommy, please! Mommy, please! Let me out!"

I have thought about this memory many times and realize itis a metaphor for my life.

It's one of my first memories, and I am a small child. Atoddler, really. I didn't know what I had done to deserve thistreatment. I mean, I knew I had done something. My brother,who was a couple of years older, had taught me a dirty word andtold me to tell it to our mother. I didn't know what it meant,but our mother's response was to give me several spankings thatlifted me off the ground and then lock me in an unlit basementand walk away.

It seems like an irrational response to any rational person, butwhen it came to my mother, rational was rarely her choice. Shewas a vacillating conundrum to me my entire childhood. Most ofthe time, I was treated with disdainful distance and used as herhousehold slave, but then out of nowhere she would do somethingthat I considered supportive. I would experience this glimmer ofhope only to have her slam the door closed on me again.

I know now, as an adult who has gone through a lot of therapydue to my childhood abuse, that targeted child abuse from anarcissistic mother is nothing new. Simple research can showhundreds of cases, books, and wholes web sites devoted to adultsurvivors. However, when I was a child and my narcissistic motherwas my primary caretaker, I certainly felt alone in it, that I wasthe only one going through it, and grappled with why I was nevergood enough no matter how hard I tried.

I have known for a long time my mother was a narcissist.Narcissistic personality disorder is when a person has an overblownsense of one's importance and a preoccupation with oneself.Narcissists see the world as their stage where they are the puppetmasters in a mental play they construct in their heads. Narcissismin mothers is typical for the disorder because mothers see theirchildren as extensions of themselves. Typical behaviors includereacting to criticism with rage, shame, or humiliation; takingadvantage of other people to achieve their own goals; excessivefeelings of self-importance; exaggerated achievements and talents;fantasies of power, success, beauty, intelligence, or idealized love;constant need for admiration and attention; disregard for thefeelings of others and little empathy; and excessive self-interest inpursuit of self-centered goals.

Narcissism may be the name for a personality disorder, asickness of the mind, but my mother's abuse toward me wasalways a choice. There are many stories where my mother wouldhaul off and beat me enough to leave marks only to come to mecrying and apologizing later. My youngest ages were my mostconfusing time. Being at the mercy of my mother for care andprotection coupled with her actions toward me made me feel likeI couldn't face the world with confidence because I was constantlydoubting myself, my reality, and my world. I often thought ofmyself as the family dog that everybody kicked. I also saw myselfas Cinderella and somewhere deep in me, like her, I knew I wasworth more than the treatment I was getting.

Sometimes the abuse took odd forms, like when my motherdyed my hair blonde as a child. I was born with head full of blackhair; it all fell out when I was a baby as it typically does withinfants. It grew back a strawberry blonde, but by my kindergartenyear it was white blonde, which I was led to believe was a familytrait. I didn't find out until I was thirty-two years old that it wasn'treal blonde; my mother had been bleaching my hair. Now whodoes that to their child at that age because they want a blondechild? My narcissistic mother is who. She was adding yet anotherfacet into her world of insanity and what it is to grow up there. Itseems benign; it was just hair color, but it speaks volumes abouthow she invasively she governed my life. Both my emotional andphysical perceptions of myself were not mine to own from a veryyoung age. I was to be used, manipulated for her to get moreattention, admiration, or whatever she was seeking. How muchof my reality was actually real, not some conjured delusion fromthe mind of my mother?

How could I ever hope to know my true self?

When I was born, my parents seemed to be happy about it andwanted me. I was, obviously cared for by what I see in the photos.I was told stories about myself as child, like how my name cameabout. My dad wanted to name me Jennifer, but my mom knewabout a Jennifer across the street that she didn't like, so I clearlywould not be named Jennifer. My brother was not thrilled at myarrival, and I heard the stories many times about how he rejectedme, climbed in my crib, and peed on me or bit me every chancehe could. My mother had such affection for my brother that shenever disciplined him over any of it; instead, I was the child tobe blamed, and that goes back to as far as I can remember. Mybrother had me convinced I was adopted, as he would proudlypoint out there were so many more pictures of him than therewere of me as a baby. It wasn't long before I wished for that tobe true.

In pictures it is apparent that my mother dressed me up,and I felt I was Daddy's girl to some degree, if only for a littlewhile. My dad gave me pet names like "Shorty," "Short Stuff,"and "Short Cake," but I never heard the words "I love you"from his mouth. During my early childhood, I was his constantsidekick. Even for the affectionate nicknames, my relationshipwith my father was very black and white. It was so consistent thatI can't say it was something formed in reaction to my mother'smanipulative personality as much as it was his own hard, no-nonsensepersonality. Hugging and cuddling wasn't somethingthat I got much of or saw between them.

There was a love disconnect in my family. We existed witheach other under one roof. My parents were not affectionatewith one another. I recall trying to make my father hold mymother's hand because it was something I never saw them do. Ihave never seen them kiss, even a quick peck of hello or good-bye,let alone hug.

My father certainly delivered the punishment in our house.He had a carriage whip, a hard, long whip with about a foot-longloose piece of leather, and both my brother and I were whippedwith that. I recall many times scooting across the floor on my rearto get away from him and that whip while trying to protect myrear. One day my brother and I broke it while my dad was at workso we would never get whipped with it again. His second choiceof beating was with a slivery piece of wood that we called "lats."He would beat us until it broke. Depending on how angry he was,he would continue with his hand. Needless to say, my brotherusually got the brunt of it, which further caused my mother toreject me. She would snarl "golden child!" at me under her breath.Mom would also tell me that her doctor wanted her to abort mewhenever she wanted to remind me how little importance I held.It was because of her that I was here and I should be so gratefulfor the opportunity she gave me at life. She would also remind methat because she gave me life, it was also my fault that she sufferedphysically to bring me into this world and I was the reason forher physical ailments. Never mind that she smoked a pack ofcigarettes a day since she was eighteen and had a love for Cheetosand Pepsi, which seemed to be her daily diet.

My mother resented that my father was tougher on mybrother; she felt he got tougher punishments than I did. I don'tremember this particular incident because I was so young at thetime, but I remember the story because my mother believed I wasthe reason that it happened. She resented me and my father forit, and it was brought up repeatedly through the years. It was astory of my father beating my brother with the hook end of a beltand the hooks stuck into his flesh. My mother felt I was somehowbehind my brother getting disciplined like that. I simply don'tremember what led up to my brother being punished or why soseverely. I just remember being sad for my brother and thinkinghow scared he must have felt.

This was the emotional groundwork that was laid out for me,the tools I was being given by my parents. I was a small childtrying to decipher the hot and cold natures of both my parentsand learn to function in this family dynamic.

Those were not the darkest moments of my childhood, thosewere yet to come. Something significantly changed when I sufferedsexual abuse when I was six years old by an adult relative.

I was approximately six years old and like many children wasgoing to my grandparents for them to babysit me. My grandmotherhad remarried and though technically he was a step-grandparent,to me he was simply Grandpa.

I had been going to my grandparents' house to be baby sat forsome time. One day my grandpa and I were in a back bedroom oftheir house. I was sitting next to him when he began touching me.I stayed still; I didn't know what this was or what he was doing. Iknew something wrong was happening. I also knew that I was tolisten to adults and do what they say without back talking them.He continued on to violate me and take my innocence.

That was the moment my soul changed. There are so manyrepercussions as to how this affected me, but one of the hardestparts about being sexually abused as a child is my ability to definemy sexuality from my personality with my age group as I maturedwas stolen. To be a kid with other kids. To be the me I was bornto be. I had a working knowledge of sex now, which other kidsmy age didn't have. My first innocent kiss, which I would havewith a boy my age many years later, was accompanied with a flashof sexual abuse memory and a sinking feeling that the kiss waswrong. The right to be innocent is a horrible thing to steal froma child.

This rippled over into how I carried myself as a child. I gainedweight. I have pictures that show the difference in me in oneyear. I don't look like the same child. I was petrified to attendsex education class and would feign illness. My mom knew I wasscared and would keep me home and make me clean the houseand be her personal servant and then make fun of me in front ofmy dad and brother. The effects of this one incident continuedfor years, carried by my abused soul into my adulthood. As anadult, I was entitled to have healthy sexual desires and explore likeeveryone else, but all of it was overshadowed by the abuse.