Coming to Terms

There were obviously really awful terrible parts of being raised by a narcissistic cult leader. But there were really good ones, and that’s causing a cognitive dissonance I guess? I loved when we would turn out all the lights to read Shakespeare and Poe by candlelight. My grandmother made hot breakfast for me every day of my early childhood, till we didn’t live with her anymore. When I had a nightmare, my grandmother would rock me in her arms in her rocking chair for as long as it took for me to feel better, and she would sing and I felt really really loved and safe. She taught me how to read and write and some sign language and paid me at or above market value for my skills when I worked for her. She wasn’t entirely evil. She wasn’t even entirely a terrible parent, despite all the abuse and fucking with our heads. My mom has a really hard time expressing emotion, and even if my grandmother’s emotions were fakes put on for a performance, they *felt* real. I at least felt loved, and I think that provided some sort of buffer for the horrors I endured. 

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