The Veil

My mother was a vivid dreamer and a master storyteller.

Her stories from her childhood, teenage years, and early adulthood used to captivate me. She had a way of pulling you into her story, making you feel as though you lived that experience alongside her.

As a child, I would sit on her lap as she brushed my wet hair, and she would tell me a story. Whether it be rooted in a nightmare I had or a troubling experience I had at school, my mother had a way of soothing every terror, every heartache, and every sorrow with her enthralling stories.

I felt that with each story that was told, I was getting close to her.

I was gathering delicate pieces of her life, and placing them together to understand my mother to the fullest extent.

By the time I was eleven, I knew my mother like no other.

I knew why there was a scar on her knee. I knew why she loved the water. I knew why she believed in second chances.

I knew everything except that she was a narcissist, and many of her stories were rooted in fabrication.

By the time I was twelve, I knew nothing about my mother.

I knew that the scar on her knee was from a biking accident. I didn’t know what it was actually from.

I knew that she loved the water because it reminded her of growing up on the water. I didn’t know why she actually loved it.

I knew she believed in second chances because my father showed her they were real. I didn’t know the actual reason.

I came to understand that my mother’s stories were rooted in fictional tales she told to captivate those who listened, delicately stringing a web of stories that had no connection to one another for the purpose of intriguing the ears that listened.

With every story I reiterated from my mother, I was looked upon as a liar.

Where one story involved a family member of mine, the family member would meet the story told from my lips with confusion.

Where one story involved a conversation I had with my mother, my mother would meet the story told from my lips with confusion.

I specifically remember one instance where a bad case of lice was going around my primary school. I sat on my mother’s lap as she brushed my wet hair covered in Tea Tree Oil, and she told me how I was not able to have sleepovers with my friends until she checked them for lice.

It was an innocent statement. One I, being eight, agreed with and had no reason to doubt.

When I returned to school, I told my friends who invited me for a sleepover that I was unable to go until my mother checked them for lice. A simple reiteration of what my mother had told me only days before.

Being eight, I had no reason to lie. Not about lice, at least.

When the words from my mother’s lips circled back to the parents of my friends, they asked her about it.

Being thirty five, she had no reason to lie. Yet when it came to lice, she did.

With the lice statement I reiterated from my mother, I was looked upon as a liar.

And punished like a liar.

My mother used her storytelling ability as a weapon. She would tell the same story multiple times, changing small sections of her story to fit the narrative she was trying to convey. She would often forget which narrative she once told, which would result in her being so firmly rooted in the narrative she was telling in that moment that it would spark outrage and anger from her when her narrative was questioned.

It made everyone look like a liar. It made everyone question the truth behind her story.

Yet those who lent an ear to her stories and questioned its truth, found an escape from my mother and her narratives as they departed our home. They would cast her stories aside as they resumed their lives, and become free from my mother’s suffocating grasp.

I, on the other hand, was left in the house with my mother and her stories.

Constantly doubting her intentions. Constantly questioning her truth. Constantly suspicious of her genuineness.

Growing up in an environment where every step, every breath, every syllable, every tone, was questioned, curated a sense of false reality as a child. I grew to become skeptical of the truth, despite it being told from the lips that were not my mother’s.

I didn’t believe when my friends told me they went to Europe for the summer. Despite seeing pictures of it posted on social media.

I didn’t believe when my teachers told me I did well on an English essay. Despite seeing the marks in my report card.

I didn’t believe I was good enough. Despite outer voices telling me I was.

My life, and everything I believed to know, soon turned into a hall of mirrors each reflecting a different version of the truth. And as I grew older and began to become more aware of the falsities that surrounded each aspect of my life, I was forced to face the mirrors and navigate the labyrinth of deception and self-absorption to discover the true nature of reality.

It can be liberating to discover the truth after years of doubting its integrity. However, it can also be emotionally challenging.

Navigating the complex landscape of narcissism's emotional turmoil presents a multitude of challenges on the path to self-discovery. As you unravel the intricate web of manipulation and deception, you simultaneously embark on the journey of rekindling trust in your own perceptions.

You're in the process of mending the fractured parts of yourself that once viewed the world through a distorted lens, now guiding them to perceive it with absolute clarity.

As you embark on your healing journey, it's crucial to recognize that the inner voice urging you to perceive the truth as you once did doesn't belong to you—it's the inner voice of the narcissist.

The voice that speaks the truth, offering a challenging but essential perspective on reality, belongs to you. It’s the harmonious blend of the child you once were and the person you've grown into today, telling you what you need to hear — not what you want to hear.

In the moments when accepting this truth from your inner child feels challenging, remember that your inner child isn't here to hurt you with the reality. But rather, heal you with it.

To this day, years after I severed contact with my mother (and many therapy sessions later), I often still hush my inner child when she presents me with the truth. I still often lean into the words of my mother, whispering deceit into my ears. I still question the nature of reality, and whether it is to be trusted at all.

But that doesn’t mean I am not healing. That doesn’t mean I am broken beyond repair. That doesn’t mean I will be stuck in the emotional turmoil of a narcissist’s grasp forever. And neither are you.

Freedom in the truth can be found. All it takes is putting your once fractured trust, in it.

Broken pieces, and all.

All my love, always,

Julia Reesor