Why I can't be friends with a narcissistic sibling
“Hate is the complement of fear and narcissists like being feared. It imbues them with an intoxicating sensation of omnipotence.” ― Sam Vaknin, Malignant Self Love: Narcissism Revisited
People - mainly those individuals who are blissfully unaware of my family history - often ask me, "Why can't you get along with your sister? She's your closest relative now that your mom is gone, and she's so nice/generous/loving. Can't you try and be her friend?"
While it is true that my half-sister is my closest family member and, as far as I know, my only living relative in the United States, I have to say that as much as I'd like to be Vicky's friend, I can't. She is a seriously disturbed narcissist who has done me (and our mother) much more emotional harm than she had done good.
She (and her small retinue of vocal supporters) will deny it, of course. Like many narcissists, Vicky has an uncanny talent for cleverly projecting a self-image of being an altruistic and charming person while hiding a malicious and selfish nature. A consummate actress ever since she was a little girl, she can tell the most outrageous lies with a straight face and a strong sense of conviction,
For example, in one of our last long conversations while I was making dinner for Mom, Vicky and me, I asked her why she had not been able to stay in great-aunt Gabriela's house in Bogota after Mom and I moved back to the States in the spring of 1972. (I already knew the reason; Mom had told the story about Vicky's scandalous affair with a married man to several individuals - in my presence - many times. I just wanted to see if she would tell me the truth.)
"Well, Aunt Gabby kicked me out of her house because I took some cheese out of the refrigerator without asking permission," she said.
I had to control myself and not allow my jaw to drop from disbelief. "Really?" I asked. "Aunt Gabby kicked you out and had Mom buy you an airline ticket for such a small offense?"
"Yes," Vicky said.
"Wow. So that's why you had to leave your happy life in Bogota against your will and live in a country that you don't like. Because of a piece of cheese."
Now, either Vicky couldn't see how illogical her story was or she didn't care. "Are you sure that that's all it was?" I pressed, thinking that my skepticism would cause her to tell me the truth.
"Yes. Aunt Gabby was way too strict about such things," she said in a "that's my story and I'm sticking to it" tone.
I gave up. "Okay. It's odd, though, that you had to give up your one shot at living independently because of one small piece of cheese."
After Vicky left that night, I was alone with Mom in her bedroom. It was almost time to give her her nighttime medications, so I decided to ask Mom - again - why Vicky had come to Miami in 1972 and not stayed in Bogota like she had wanted to. (I also sensed that Vicky's story was Grade-A bullshit, but I wanted to see what Mom thought of it.)
Now, Mom's mind was sometimes clouded by the effects of dementia, but that night it was crystal clear. There was a sharpness in her gaze that reflected her clarity of thought, and we could still have meaningful conversations about many topics.
"Oh, come on, Alex, you know the story about Vicky's affair with that married television producer," Mom said. "Why do you ask me about that again?"
"Well, Vicky said that...." I then told her the story about Great-aunt Gabriela and the purloined piece of cheese.
Mom looked at me and laughed with disbelief. "Vicky said that? You didn't fall for it, did you?"
"Of course not, Mom. This is the same person who claimed that she was sexually abused at Coral Park Elementary at age nine and that my Uncle Sixto was mad at me because I 'don't like math.'"
"Your sister," Mom said more seriously, "is a compulsive liar. Don't trust her. When I'm gone, make sure that you change all the locks the minute they take me out of this house. Do you hear me?"
I felt uncomfortable at the thought of Mom's inevitable passing, but I nodded sadly.
“When the healthy pursuit of self-interest and self-realization turns into self-absorption, other people can lose their intrinsic value in our eyes and become mere means to the fulfillment of our needs and desires.” ― P.M. Forni, The Civility Solution: What to Do When People Are Rude
On another occasion, I asked Mom (for the hundredth time, I think) why my half-sister made it a habit to discredit me whenever she has a chance, she shook her head sadly.
"Oh, Alex, she's envious of you. She knows deep down that as much as I tried not to have a 'favorite child,' you are the one I love most. Not because of what her father did to me - although that might be a factor - or because of who your dad was, but because of who you are and how you treat me. She can't stand that, I think."
So, no. I can't be friends with a relative such as my half-sister. She's a liar, a thief, and she calls me her worst enemy. She has caused me more pain than anyone else - for the longest time.
People - mainly those individuals who are blissfully unaware of my family history - often ask me, "Why can't you get along with your sister? She's your closest relative now that your mom is gone, and she's so nice/generous/loving. Can't you try and be her friend?"
While it is true that my half-sister is my closest family member and, as far as I know, my only living relative in the United States, I have to say that as much as I'd like to be Vicky's friend, I can't. She is a seriously disturbed narcissist who has done me (and our mother) much more emotional harm than she had done good.
She (and her small retinue of vocal supporters) will deny it, of course. Like many narcissists, Vicky has an uncanny talent for cleverly projecting a self-image of being an altruistic and charming person while hiding a malicious and selfish nature. A consummate actress ever since she was a little girl, she can tell the most outrageous lies with a straight face and a strong sense of conviction,
For example, in one of our last long conversations while I was making dinner for Mom, Vicky and me, I asked her why she had not been able to stay in great-aunt Gabriela's house in Bogota after Mom and I moved back to the States in the spring of 1972. (I already knew the reason; Mom had told the story about Vicky's scandalous affair with a married man to several individuals - in my presence - many times. I just wanted to see if she would tell me the truth.)
"Well, Aunt Gabby kicked me out of her house because I took some cheese out of the refrigerator without asking permission," she said.
I had to control myself and not allow my jaw to drop from disbelief. "Really?" I asked. "Aunt Gabby kicked you out and had Mom buy you an airline ticket for such a small offense?"
"Yes," Vicky said.
"Wow. So that's why you had to leave your happy life in Bogota against your will and live in a country that you don't like. Because of a piece of cheese."
Now, either Vicky couldn't see how illogical her story was or she didn't care. "Are you sure that that's all it was?" I pressed, thinking that my skepticism would cause her to tell me the truth.
"Yes. Aunt Gabby was way too strict about such things," she said in a "that's my story and I'm sticking to it" tone.
I gave up. "Okay. It's odd, though, that you had to give up your one shot at living independently because of one small piece of cheese."
After Vicky left that night, I was alone with Mom in her bedroom. It was almost time to give her her nighttime medications, so I decided to ask Mom - again - why Vicky had come to Miami in 1972 and not stayed in Bogota like she had wanted to. (I also sensed that Vicky's story was Grade-A bullshit, but I wanted to see what Mom thought of it.)
Now, Mom's mind was sometimes clouded by the effects of dementia, but that night it was crystal clear. There was a sharpness in her gaze that reflected her clarity of thought, and we could still have meaningful conversations about many topics.
"Oh, come on, Alex, you know the story about Vicky's affair with that married television producer," Mom said. "Why do you ask me about that again?"
"Well, Vicky said that...." I then told her the story about Great-aunt Gabriela and the purloined piece of cheese.
Mom looked at me and laughed with disbelief. "Vicky said that? You didn't fall for it, did you?"
"Of course not, Mom. This is the same person who claimed that she was sexually abused at Coral Park Elementary at age nine and that my Uncle Sixto was mad at me because I 'don't like math.'"
"Your sister," Mom said more seriously, "is a compulsive liar. Don't trust her. When I'm gone, make sure that you change all the locks the minute they take me out of this house. Do you hear me?"
I felt uncomfortable at the thought of Mom's inevitable passing, but I nodded sadly.
“When the healthy pursuit of self-interest and self-realization turns into self-absorption, other people can lose their intrinsic value in our eyes and become mere means to the fulfillment of our needs and desires.” ― P.M. Forni, The Civility Solution: What to Do When People Are Rude
On another occasion, I asked Mom (for the hundredth time, I think) why my half-sister made it a habit to discredit me whenever she has a chance, she shook her head sadly.
"Oh, Alex, she's envious of you. She knows deep down that as much as I tried not to have a 'favorite child,' you are the one I love most. Not because of what her father did to me - although that might be a factor - or because of who your dad was, but because of who you are and how you treat me. She can't stand that, I think."
So, no. I can't be friends with a relative such as my half-sister. She's a liar, a thief, and she calls me her worst enemy. She has caused me more pain than anyone else - for the longest time.
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