What actually gets passed down

Trauma can alter the expression of genes. That is epigenetics. Stress, famine, displacement, and chronic fear can leave biochemical markers on DNA packaging that change gene function without changing the genetic code. What parents and grandparents endured not only shapes family habits. It can shape how a nervous system responds to threat, attachment, and safety many decades later. In a landmark study of Holocaust families, researchers documented shifts in methylation of FKBP5, a regulator of the cortisol system, in survivors and in their children who did not live through the original events. Comparable patterns show up in other contexts as well, including families affected by war, genocide, severe discrimination, natural disasters, and refugee flight. The point is simple. When people say trauma runs in a family, it is not just a figure of speech.

Inherited trauma rarely looks like a story

What passes forward is not always a narrative or a flashback. It often looks like a survival strategy that does not match the current environment. A child grows up in a safe home, yet cannot sleep unless every curtain is closed and every door is checked. A teenager treats disagreement like a death sentence, even in a respectful household. An adult keeps pushing away secure partners because the body has learned that calm usually comes before danger. These are not quirks. They are trained reflexes. They stay invisible until someone starts asking the right questions.

You do not inherit a diagnosis. You inherit the coping

CPTSD is not handed down like eye color. Defense patterns are. Silence is. Emotional constriction is. When trauma is not processed, it leaks into parenting through control, through chaos, or through inconsistency that leaves a child sensing danger without language to name it. Children repeat what works, even if it only worked in the old house. They pass it on not because they are broken, but because they were trained by example.

When pain gets ritualized

Trauma does not always announce itself. Sometimes it hides inside rules that are treated as virtues. Do not talk about feelings. Stay productive no matter what. Outsiders cannot be trusted. Keep the family’s business inside the house. Loyalty above all. The same mechanism hides domestic violence that nobody names. It hides animal abuse that neighbors avoid reporting. It hides generational child abuse that gets rebranded as strict parenting. In some families, stints in jail become a rite of passage rather than a warning sign. From the inside, these patterns sound like culture or tradition. Trace them backward and you usually find war, forced moves, addiction, shame, betrayal, or plain neglect. When trauma is not processed, it gets ritualized. It is repackaged as rules, reinforced as identity, and handed down as survival even when the danger is long gone. Dysfunction is often inherited pain on autopilot.

Breaking a pattern requires recognition, not avoidance

Moving on without naming the pattern does not change the pattern. It extends it. Real change starts with accurate labels. Name what happened in the family line, even if it was not your direct experience. Notice the default settings that make no sense in your current life. Choose deliberate counter-moves. Rest when the old rule says grind. Set a boundary where the old rule says keep secrets. Speak where the old rule says stay quiet. This is demanding work because you are not only adjusting your mood. You are rerouting generations of survival programming. That is heavy labor, not a slogan. It is also where the leverage sits. You are not obligated to carry the pain forward because it was handed to you. The future of the pattern is not fixed.

Final thoughts

If you feel like you were born carrying grief that did not start with you, or fear that does not match your lived history, you are not defective. You may be the first one who chose to hold up the mirror. You get to decide what continues and what ends.

References

Yehuda R, Daskalakis NP, et al. Holocaust exposure induced intergenerational effects on FKBP5 methylation. Biological Psychiatry. 2016;80(5):372-380.
Dias BG, Ressler KJ. Parental olfactory experience influences behavior and neural structure in subsequent generations. Nature Neuroscience. 2014;17(1):89-96.
Serpeloni F, Radtke KM, et al. Does prenatal stress shape postnatal resilience? Epigenetics and behavior in war-exposed Syrian refugees. Translational Psychiatry. 2017;7(7):e1185.

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Guest Post Disclaimer: Any and all information shared in this guest blog post is intended for educational and informational purposes only. Nothing in this blog post, nor any content on CPTSDfoundation.org, is a supplement for or supersedes the relationship and direction of your medical or mental health providers. Thoughts, ideas, or opinions expressed by the writer of this guest blog post do not necessarily reflect those of CPTSD Foundation. For more information, see our Privacy Policy and Full Disclaimer.

Dr. Mozelle Martin

Dr. Mozelle Martin is a retired trauma therapist and former Clinical Director of a trauma center, with extensive experience in forensic psychology, criminology, and applied ethics. A survivor of childhood and young adulthood trauma, Dr. Martin has dedicated decades to understanding the psychological and ethical complexities of trauma, crime, and accountability. Her career began as a volunteer in a women’s domestic violence shelter, then as a SA hospital advocate, later becoming a Crisis Therapist working alongside law enforcement on the streets of Phoenix. She went on to earn an AS in Psychology, a BS in Forensic Psychology, an MA in Criminology, and a PhD in Applied Ethics, ultimately working extensively in forensic mental health—providing psychological assessments, intervention, and rehabilitative support with inmates and in the community. A published author and lifelong student of life, she continues to explore the relationship and crossovers of forensic science, mental health, and ethical accountability in both historical and modern contexts.

www.InkProfiler.com

I twirled around, causing the skirt of my best Sunday dress to flair out in a way that delighted my four-year-old sensibilities. It was 1966, and my black patent leather Mary Jane’s made a wonderful clacking sound on the creaky oak floors of the sanctuary. The problem was I was supposed to be sitting in my seat. My father scowled at me from the pulpit. Mrs. Wagoner, a wonderful, kindly old widow, had been tasked with watching me that Sunday morning, but try as she might, she couldn’t convince me to sit down. For some reason I cannot remember, my mother was not in attendance at the service that day. 

I did not want to sit in the hard pews and listen to another one of my father’s long, boring sermons. I wanted to twirl and watch the pleated columns of my skirt float around me like the ballerinas I so admired. Mrs. Wagoner finally enticed me back into the pew with a stick of fragrant fun stripe chewing gum.

After the service, I stood on the stoop of the church in abject shame as, one by one, the congregation filed by, waiting to shake my father’s hand. “Good sermon,” a man said as he looked at me in pity. “Your little girl has a lot of spirit.” The man gave me a weak smile, but I only stared at the ground and tried to disappear behind my father’s black suit. 

As soon as the service had ended, my father had made a beeline straight for me. His familiar look of rage communicated just how much trouble I was in. Grabbing me by the arm, he gritted his teeth and growled into my ear, “You’re getting a whipping when we get home.”

I knew I deserved it. I was bad through and through to the core of my being. I was the most wicked girl that had ever lived. Why did I constantly cause so much trouble everywhere I went? I looked over at my older brother by eighteen months. He was perfect. Able to sit for interminable amounts of time without moving a muscle or saying a word, I could not understand why I could not be like him. Why was it so hard for me to get through the Sunday morning service? Not only had I failed to sit still, I had committed the unpardonable sin. I had made my father look bad, and I had done it in front of the people he most wanted to impress—the church congregation. 

One by one, the congregants filed by until it was poor Mrs. Wagoner’s turn. She tried to defend me as she placed her white-gloved hand into my father’s. “She’s just a little girl,” the old lady clucked. Reaching over, she gently touched my hair. “Don’t be too hard on her.”

Mrs. Wagoner could not imagine what awaited me when we got home. No one in the congregation could. I would get a beating within an inch of my life. I don’t remember ever moving during a church service again after that day. 

To outsiders, we were the perfect family—my father, gregarious and socially adept, covered for my mother’s awkward introversion. Pillars of the community, my father was a bi-vocational pastor and a successful businessman. My mother, an elementary school teacher and avid homemaker, was famous throughout the community for her amazing rose garden and specialty Christmas cakes. But underneath the surface, a boiling rage ran through our household. My father was a monster, and my brother and I were terrified of him. Beatings were dispensed at the slightest infraction. No emotion, expression, or individuality was allowed. He and he alone ruled the household, and he did so literally as an iron-fisted tyrant. 

My mother was just as dangerous. Perhaps more so. Unstable, you never knew what might set her off. Filled with unexpressed anger from my father’s dominance, she took her frustrations out on her children. In addition to physical abuse, my mother perpetrated the most damaging abuse of all. Warped from her own sexual abuse, she, in turn, abused us. Even your body was not your own in our household. She played endless mind games where emotional torture and threats were her favorite tools. Constantly fearing for our lives, my brother and I lived in the shadows, sneaking from room to room, hoping our parents would not notice our existence. Staying out of the way was the only way to survive. The trouble was that I couldn’t figure out how to do that. My brother, however, was stellar at it. No matter how much he tried to protect me, I somehow managed to be in the way. He would look at me with compassion while I took another beating or sidle up to me in sympathy as my mother, fists balled,  screamed at me for some small mistake. 

The abuse seems so clear as I describe it now, but I emerged from that home at the age of eighteen, still thinking we were not only perfect, we were better than other people. My father was the authority on all things. His opinion held special importance because he had more insight than anyone else. My mother couldn’t understand why everyone wasn’t as wonderful as she was and why the accolades she deserved had never come her way. My home might as well have been called a mind-control cult because that’s exactly what it was. It wasn’t until much later, when the wheels came off that I began to see the truth, and that truth would come to me in stages as my mind and emotions were able to handle it.

Middle-Knowledge

Dealing with childhood trauma takes time. When your mind is shattered and your emotions a wasteland, there is a place that trauma survivors live called middle-knowledge.(footnote 1, Grief Counseling and Grief Therapy by William Wordan, pg 44). Middle knowledge means knowing and not knowing at the same time. Underneath the surface, I knew that my parent’s behavior was off, but I put that knowledge away. To fully embrace the truth was too great a threat to my existence. My father and mother and the constructed reality they ran held complete control over my thoughts and actions. To step outside of that system would be to call down the most disastrous consequences possible. Dread and fear are powerful ways to control other people, and my father and mother wielded those tools with exact precision. 

Underneath all these power plays lay the worst threat of all. The threat to withdraw love. Abandonment hung over everything my parents did. If I refused total compliance, I would be shunned, cut off, and thrown out with the dogs. Love was never unconditional, and the carrot of acceptance was like a disappearing vapor that I could never quite grasp. 

My abusers used a two-pronged approach. Do everything you can to undermine the self-confidence of your victim while at the same time convincing them they cannot live without the abuser’s control. 

I lived over half my life before I began to make significant strides toward healing. My twenties, thirties, and forties were spent in survival mode. By the time the suffering was so severe I was forced to address it, I had lost over five decades. So much time had passed. My children were raised, my career path chosen, all the major decisions of life had been made, and I had stumbled through it all with trauma undermining my every thought and decision. It was too late! Too late to be a better parent! Too late to be an encouraging partner! Too late to follow my dreams! Too late to be happy and too late to heal! Or was it?

We took my mother out to eat on one of my last visits with her. She was at the beginning of twenty years of institutionalization that would define the last years of her life. For ten years before that, I had tried to deal with her mental illness expressed through panic, rages, control, manipulation, blame, and coercion. Nothing I did made any difference. She was completely lost. Her life had fallen apart after my father left and divorced her, and though she lived in a beautiful home, she could not manage her money or her life. Inch by inch, the darkness completely took over. The torment of knowing her in the present was just as destructive as her abuse had been in childhood.

My husband, my two college-age sons, and I sat together with my mother in a booth at the restaurant. She had aged a hundred years since I’d last seen her. The wild-eyed hunted look that used to come and go had taken up permanent residence. My children looked at her in fear. She was so odd. Later, on the drive home, my oldest son commented. “That was the closest to meeting Gollum I have ever been in real life.” And indeed, that’s what she had become. A wizened, withered shell of a person existing but not living. I cried all the way home.

The eternal flame of hope that somehow, some way, my family of origin might return to that idyllic perfection I had been brain-washed to believe in finally began to die. My mother was never going to get better. Things were never going to return to the secure delusion I so longed for. She was never going to comprehend the destruction she had wrought in my life, and worst of all, I was never going to be released from the prison of trauma that so pervaded everything because both my parents were still participating in it and in fact would keep participating in it until the day they died.

I felt condemned to repeat the dysfunctional patterns forever. Terrified I would destroy the lives of my children and haunt their adulthood as she had mine, I began to consider what to do. I felt lost, just as lost as my mother had been. I couldn’t control my emotions or anxiety any better than she had. Terror ran my life, and I knew it had already had a major impact on my children. But I wasn’t dead…not yet. My mother had resigned from life. I, at least, was still in the game.

It is never too late to heal from trauma. In fact, it is imperative that you take up arms and heed the call to do so no matter what life stage you are in. You have been given a mission, and you alone are the only one who can fulfill it. Within your grasp is the ability to break the transfer of trauma from one generation to the next. Your choices have a profound influence on the world. Perhaps you think your little life doesn’t matter. I can assure you it does. You have the chance to be a blessing or a curse. To leave behind anger and hatred and give the gift of peace and kindness. It is a gigantic task and one that can feel overwhelming. Where in the world do you begin? You begin where you are. Whether you are eighteen or eighty, if you take one small step toward healing, you will be starting at exactly the right place.

Rebekah Brown

Rebekah Brown, a native of the south, now resides in the Great American West. Surviving a complicated and abusive family system makes her unique writing style insightful as well as uplifting. Rebekah is the proud mother of two and grandmother of four.

My mother is a deeply dysfunctional and angry person, and she dumped all
her life’s frustrations on her unwanted daughter’s shoulders. From her
frustration at being a single mother to her struggles with money to having to
work jobs she hated due to her debilitating insomnia, my mom felt that life had
somehow shortchanged her.

When I was growing up, my mom often told me all she wanted was a life of
leisure, enough time to ride her beloved horses, go shopping, and do
whatever pleased her. Unfortunately, a series of bad decisions and four
failed marriages never brought my mom the life she felt she so richly deserved. My mom took absolutely no responsibility for her own actions,
instead making herself a victim of life’s circumstances. And let me tell you,
she was furious at all that life had thrown at her, and she spewed that
anger far and wide.

I am a highly sensitive person and always have been. It has taken me years to
learn how to work with my sensitivity in a healthy manner, but I had no idea
how to do that when I was growing up. Like every child, my developing
brain was like a sponge. I had no way to make sense of the terrifying and
humiliating things that happened to me at home other than to make it all my
fault. My traumatized mind reasoned that somehow, some way, somewhere,
the blame for all of the abuse I suffered rested squarely on my shoulders.
But that is the lie of child abuse, and I bought into it, hook, line, and sinker.

By the time I was nine years old, I had learned to hate myself.
That toxic shame that I first experienced at the tender age of five years old
and the years of abuse I suffered as a child invaded every part of my life
and created a myriad of toxic feelings in me: depression, anxiety,
loneliness, guilt, and humiliation. I felt if someone really took the time to get
to know me, all of my filthy secrets would be exposed. When I looked
inward, I could see a cauldron of black moldering waste furiously
bubbling and boiling with toxic shame and humiliation.

Every time I felt depressed, I felt ashamed, as if somehow the depression
was my fault. That made me even more depressed. Every time I felt
anxious, I felt ashamed, and that brought more depression. The same with
loneliness. Same with the guilt. It was a never-ending cycle.

Since early childhood, I have suffered from insomnia and severe migraines.
The few times I made the mistake of complaining to my mom about the
head pain when I was a child, I was met with, “Oh, for God’s sake, quit
feeling sorry for yourself!” And guess what? Any time I had a sleepless
night or a migraine, which was a daily occurrence, that brought more
shame and depression. Throughout my life, I have learned to put a brave
smile on my face and power through the pain no matter how bad I felt.
Through years of counseling and revisiting my childhood, I am slowly
coming to terms with my past. One of the biggest things that is helping me
heal is the realization that from the moment my mother found out she was
pregnant with me, I had a target on my back. After I was born, it didn’t take long for me to become a scapegoat for my mother’s anger, a receptacle for
the years of pent-up anger and frustration she had accumulated in life. No
matter who would have been born to my mother, they would have suffered
the same fate that I did. I never stood a chance.

And now, when shame rears its ugly head, I can catch it before it
gains momentum and gently release it instead of shaming and beating
myself up like I did for years. I no longer take the abuse, and that has released an immense amount of grief.

Photo by Yuris Alhumaydy on Unsplash

Guest Post Disclaimer: Any and all information shared in this guest blog post is intended for educational and informational purposes only. Nothing in this blog post, nor any content on CPTSDfoundation.org, is a supplement for or supersedes the relationship and direction of your medical or mental health providers. Thoughts, ideas, or opinions expressed by the writer of this guest blog post do not necessarily reflect those of CPTSD Foundation. For more information, see our Privacy Policy and Full Disclaimer.

Morrene Hauser

Morrene Hauser currently lives in Central Ohio. For a little over 30 years she ran and operated her own business as a court reporter. Upon retirement Morrene started writing about the many wonderful animals she had while growing up and the powerful impact they have had on her life.  Morrene also writes about mental health.

Photo by Guillaume de Germain on Unsplash

Guest Post Disclaimer: Any and all information shared in this guest blog post is intended for educational and informational purposes only. Nothing in this blog post, nor any content on CPTSDfoundation.org, is a supplement for or supersedes the relationship and direction of your medical or mental health providers. Thoughts, ideas, or opinions expressed by the writer of this guest blog post do not necessarily reflect those of CPTSD Foundation. For more information, see our Privacy Policy and Full Disclaimer.

Gabrielle Lynch

A Focus on Need

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You’re Not Alone

The GRACE Model

• Tracing the Family Dynamic
• The Necessity of Self-Care
• Exploring Narcissistic Abuse
• Gaslighting
• Trauma-Bonding
• The Loss of a Living Child

Paul Michael Marinello

Paul Michael Marinello serves as Chief Staff Writer and Blog Manager for CPTSD Foundation. Previous to this role he managed North American Corporate Communications at MSL, a top ten public relations firm where he also served on the board for Diversity & Inclusion for a staff of 80,000. Paul Michael grew up in New York and attended SUNY Farmingdale before starting a ten-year career at Columbia University. He also served as Secretary and Records Management Officer for the Millwood Fire District, appointed annually by an elected board of fire commissioners from 2008 – 2017.

Generations of negative family patterns and relational wounds are our legacies

In healing from relational trauma or resulting Complex PTSD – a type of PTSD thought to arise as a result of extended or repeated trauma – we often forget or dismiss what it is we’ve been up against. And for some of us, it’s what we’ve been up against our entire lives.

Generations of negative family patterns and relational wounds are our legacies. Sometimes we forget – or were never really aware of – our generations and generations of “burden loading”: burdens handed down to us, carried, compounded, and left unmitigated through our family lines – burdens like abuse, neglect, abandonment, or loss. These are wounds created through our families, communities, societies, and/or cultural and historical norms.

When we forget that we carry these generational burdens, we may, at our core, believe all of the compounded shame, inadequacy, and powerlessness we feel is because we, alone, have “failed” to make our lives different. Our individualistic society reinforces this notion.

On a personal level, our sense of those perceived failings may include feeling horrified when we slip and sound or act “just like my mother/father.” Or they show up when we have a hard time taking a compliment or acknowledging our gifts because we’re loaded with secret shame. And, often we compare ourselves to others – or worse, we compare ourselves to an ideal self that will always elude us.

We tend to rev up and then double down on our familiar strategies for control

So, we believe that to feel safe and sane and able to survive, we must go on a mission to get those “failings” under control. We get into perfectionism, consumerism, workaholism, or addictions – which makes perfect sense because the non-conscious belief goes something like, “If I’m just smart enough, fast enough, rich enough, or numbed out enough, I will never have to feel ‘that’ again. No more of that vulnerability, that loneliness, that not belonging. I will get that handled!” We tend to rev up and then double down on our familiar strategies for control.

When we’re in this revved-up space, I argue that it’s good to consider pausing – and maybe pausing a beat longer – to consider starting a gratitude practice. Here, I would offer a little different type of gratitude practice. It’s a gratitude-for-myself practice. You may start this practice by getting curious about how you might:

• Begin to find gratitude for what you have summoned in yourself to overcome, survive, and thrive. Get really specific. Look at the whole of your life. Write it down. What have you had to manage? What have you had to overcome? What have you done that’s been growth-producing, took courage, required a risk, or demanded perseverance?
• Acknowledge and honor what you now see written in front of you. Add to it. Share it with a trusted other. Seriously, celebrate it.
• Allow yourself grace for your mistakes and shortcomings. Expect less of yourself. Slow down, just for a day. Strain less and see how things can maybe still work out.
• Identify ways – against all odds – you’ve broken patterns from previous generations. Ask what your shame is actually to bear and what belongs elsewhere. What is truly your responsibility now? How have you successfully answered it? Really appreciate that you are just one person trying to make a difference in a chain of unaddressed pain.
• With your children, acknowledge how you’ve worked to “do it differently” with them to break the generational transmission. Consider what you’ve done in your larger family or community to bring healing. By even being willing to be aware, you’re doing your part for those who follow.

One of my clients said at the end of a session, her eyes open in surprise, “I didn’t realize how much I’ve been handling all my life. I’m not depressed; I’m legitimately sad and tired, and I’m sort of proud of what I’ve done in spite of all of it.” Despite a life full of loss and trauma, she found this understated appreciation for the grit and gifts and sea changes she has had to summon to create a life for herself. That self-gratitude is part of where healing compassion starts, both for oneself and for others.  You may claim it for yourself.

Copyright 2024 Jennifer Lock Oman

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Guest Post Disclaimer: Any and all information shared in this guest blog post is intended for educational and informational purposes only. Nothing in this blog post, nor any content on CPTSDfoundation.org, is a supplement for or supersedes the relationship and direction of your medical or mental health providers. Thoughts, ideas, or opinions expressed by the writer of this guest blog post do not necessarily reflect those of CPTSD Foundation. For more information, see our Privacy Policy and Full Disclaimer.

Jennifer Lock Oman

Jennifer Lock Oman, LISW, BCD, is a psychotherapist with over 35 years of professional experience. Her passion has been the study of human emotions, and their centrality in motivation, connection, and change.  Currently, her interests also include the study of Complex PTSD and the clinical application of the Internal Family Systems (IFS) model of therapy to healing relational trauma.

Perception is king in a small town. If the family appeared normal in the public eye, all was well, regardless of what happened behind closed doors. It’s how my parents operated. Our well-kept home hid the fact that the first eighteen years of my life were a fear-inducing, tension-filled existence.

The sound of Sunday football games on TV still elicits a sick feeling in my stomach

The home was a place where I pretended not to exist. I couldn’t express any natural childlike tendencies, such as joy or exuberance. I would huddle in front of our big box of a TV just so I could hear it. The TV volume was to be kept low unless my parents were watching football. The sound of Sunday football games on TV still elicits a sick feeling in my stomach.

My father once choked me for leaving blue toothpaste spit in the sink. Punishment consisted of smacks to the head. My head was smacked into the walls many times. My hair conveniently hid any bruises or swelling. If he were drunk, he would choke me. My mother did intervene at those times. I don’t know if he would have been able to stop himself. When women are killed in domestic abuse scenarios, it doesn’t surprise me at all. I think it’s just the inevitable progression of those situations.

Growing up, I stayed out of our house as much as possible

I was outgoing (away from home) and very chatty. Growing up, I stayed out of our house as much as possible. Overnights with friends, sports, and after-school activities filled my days. Once I could drive, I spent every holiday with friends or boyfriends. And my parents never said a word. Never once did they ask for my presence at Christmas or Thanksgiving celebrations.

After all this abuse, I begged my mother to leave him, but she never did. She told me he was the love of her life. The man who threatened and belittled her was the love of her life. She didn’t leave him for hitting us, but when he embarrassed her in front of our neighbors, it was a different story.

The last straw for my mother occurred when she came home after work one day to find my drunk father passed out in the front seat of his car.  I watched it unfold in our front room at the bay window.

His car was parked at an angle midway up the driveway. My dad’s legs hung out of the driver’s side door.  Fast food napkins fluttered across our green, recently trimmed front lawn. A white and red box from the fast-food chain Kentucky Fried Chicken lay near his feet. Birds had been pecking at it before my mother pulled up. Our neighbors to the left and across the street from our house stood in their yards motionless and silent.  I was seventeen.

My mother parked her car and hurried over to him.  I opened the front door and walked down the driveway. She screeched at him to get up as I walked by. He had been out there for hours, but I hadn’t done a thing about it. It would be like telling me to poke a venomous snake. She could deal with him.

She kicked him out of the house after this and filed for divorce. My father took his own life a few years later. Relief was my primary emotion at his passing.

So where did this leave me? It led me to a lifelong journey of figuring out how to love and heal myself to stop the cycle of abuse. Lots of counseling and various therapies have helped me tremendously. I had some bumps along the way, but everyone does.

I am, a well-adjusted adult who can talk about their past without crying. I’m happily married, and I’ve raised three wonderful children. My childhood still makes me angry at times, but I’ve largely forgiven both of my parents. Forgiveness happens one thin layer at a time in my experience. I write about my past so others know there is a way forward, you have to choose it.

Photo by Saskia van Manen on Unsplash

Guest Post Disclaimer: Any and all information shared in this guest blog post is intended for educational and informational purposes only. Nothing in this blog post, nor any content on CPTSDfoundation.org, is a supplement for or supersedes the relationship and direction of your medical or mental health providers. Thoughts, ideas, or opinions expressed by the writer of this guest blog post do not necessarily reflect those of CPTSD Foundation. For more information, see our Privacy Policy and Full Disclaimer.

LeeAnn Werner

LeeAnn Werner is an author and speaker regarding dysfunctional families. Her books, The Illusion of a Girl and The Illusion of a Boy are young adult thrillers based on her own childhood where she struggled to survive her violent alcoholic father. She hopes her story inspires others to move beyond their dysfunctional families and stop the cycle of abuse. You can check out her webpage and blog at www.illusionofagirl.com.

But what happens when one parent is a narcissist who is adept at gaslighting and manipulation? This article will focus on parental alienation and narcissism.

Parental Alienation

As you may remember from my last post, parental alienation is doing or saying things by one parent to their children against the other, damaging their relationship with the alienated parent.

The damaging parent might cause their children to fear, reject, or even hate the targeted parent as they are painted a picture that is ugly and full of lies.

There are many ways to manipulate children into despising their other parent, including isolating them away from the victim parent, undermining the other parent’s authority, asking their children for information that is negative against the other parent, and emotionally manipulating the children. By far, the most damaging thing done to children is to deny the targeted parent access to them.

Often, the offending parent displays narcissism while pitting the children and their other parent against each other to control and manipulate all involved.

Narcissists and Their Behavior in Divorce

The words narcissist and narcissism are improperly used in our society today to describe someone who doesn’t want to go along with plans or to classify someone in other ultimately silly ways. However, narcissism is nothing to laugh about as it is a severe condition where the narcissist manipulates and bullies people to do what they want.

Another way to describe narcissism is that it is extreme self-involvement by a person to a degree that makes them ignore the needs of those around them. Narcissists understand their behavior but refuse to change.

Narcissism is a trait, but sometimes, it is included as part of a more considerable personality disorder called narcissistic personality disorder on a spectrum. There are some common traits of narcissists, including the following.

A sense of entitlement. Narcissists believe that they are superior to others and deserve special treatment. They also think others should obey their wishes and that the general rules of society don’t apply to them.

When a narcissist faces a divorce, they feel they no longer have control over their ex-spouse, so they exert pressure on them by using the children as weapons, attempting to convince them their other parent is bad.

Manipulating. Narcissists use manipulation and controlling behavior. They draw in their victims by first trying to please and impress you, but soon, their needs will come first. Narcissists try to keep their victims close to maintain control, and they will exploit others to gain something they want.

Divorce means that their ex-spouse has escaped their manipulative grasp, and they think they should be punished. To exert control over their ex, narcissists will use their children as pawns to frustrate and harm them. Narcissists are supreme manipulators and will not stop alienating the other parent, tearing their children apart.

Lack of empathy for others. Narcissists are unwilling or unable to empathize with other people, choosing instead to ignore their wants, needs, and feelings. Their lack of empathy makes narcissists not take responsibility for their actions.

Children of narcissists, especially in a divorce situation, find the controlling parent using them to get back at the other parent and ignoring the fact that their children need love and understanding during such a tough time.

Narcissists believe they are wholly justified in destroying their ex and their children and do not take responsibility for their behaviors.

Tools Narcissistic Parents Use

Unfortunately for children, having a narcissistic parent in a divorce situation harms them and is a form of child abuse. The offending narcissistic parent may utilize a variety of tools to harm their ex using their children.

Triangulation is a standard manipulative tool that occurs when the offending parent vents to the children, causing them to bear the weight of the conflict, and sometimes uses the children to spy on the other parent. Being constantly told nasty things about the other parent and spying on them sets the children up for abandonment and attachment problems.

Another tool a narcissistic parent may employ includes gaslighting, where the offending parent distorts and denies reality while also making the children feel the need to defend the other parent. When the children do try to defend the other parent, the narcissistic parent will manipulate them back into their fold. The conflict the children feel is overwhelming.

There are as many tools that a narcissistic parent will use as there are children whose growth is stunted by their behavior.

Ending Our Time Together

To recap, narcissistic parental alienation happens when a parent with narcissistic traits maliciously alienates their children from their other parent. The offending parent accomplishes parental alienation by attacking the other parent’s character in front of their children.

Unfortunately, the vicious behavior by the narcissistic parent often leads to the children disliking and rejecting the other parent who is innocent of the things the offending parent said.

The available evidence suggests that parental alienation occurs in very tense separations and divorces, particularly if there is a bitter child custody battle. Unfortunately for the children, the offending parent uses cruel and callous words and behaviors, harming not only their intended target, the other parent but also the children.

Clearly, children who are raised where there is parental alienation often form mental health problems such as depression, anxiety disorders, and other serious conditions. Their physical health may also be affected as they may turn to food for comfort and gain significant amounts of weight, or conversely, refuse to eat and become anorexic. These conditions are only the tip of the iceberg for the number of physical and mental problems children in this situation face.

No matter how the situation unfolds, parental alienation is a severe and illegal form of child abuse that significantly harms the children involved.

Pride

CPTSD Foundation wishes to invite you to our Pride Program, which is offered weekly on Circle. In Pride, we discuss important topics related to complex trauma and how it has affected our lives. The program is led by a fantastic person who understands the issues facing the LGBTQIA+ community.

Come as you are, take what you like, and leave the rest.

The program is offered every Thursday at 7 pm Eastern time through the Circle app. If you are interested, you can find information here. If you are interested, don’t hesitate to contact the support team of CPTSD Foundation and sign up.

We look forward to seeing you there.

Trauma-Informed Partner Support

Since CPTSD Foundation began, we’ve understood the critical role that supportive partners play in the life of a trauma survivor. Spouses, partners, caregivers, siblings, and anyone who is directly involved in the daily life of an adult survivor of complex trauma.

This program provides that safe place of encouragement, support, information, and validation that supportive partners and helpers need. You are safe here, among others who understand the challenges of helping a survivor navigate daily life.

Learn more about this unique program that focuses on encouraging and equipping you, the supportive partner, as you help care for the survivor in your life and yourself.

Shirley Davis

My name is Shirley Davis and I am a freelance writer with over 40-years- experience writing short stories and poetry. Living as I do among the corn and bean fields of Illinois (USA), working from home using the Internet has become the best way to communicate with the world. My interests are wide and varied. I love any kind of science and read several research papers per week to satisfy my curiosity. I have earned an Associate Degree in Psychology and enjoy writing books on the subjects that most interest me.

www.learnaboutdid.com