“I DON’T TRUST YOU!”

And just like that, four little syllables nearly knocked me flat.

If my hair were longer, I feel sure it would have blown back at the force of these words from my mother-in-law. Never had I had such hate hurled in my direction, and my sensitive heart immediately crumpled. As my mind digested the bomb thrown in my direction, my body suddenly became wracked with sobs.

It had already been a harrowing morning. My husband had gone to an appointment, leaving me alone with my in-laws. My father-in-law had settled into his recliner, where he spent most of his days on hospice. My mother-in-law—I’ll call her Evelyn—was sleeping in. I used the time to continue my cleaning and organization of the house. With Mobo to keep me company, I emptied a kitchen cupboard, wiped it out, and began neatly replacing the items I’d removed, moving some to more appropriate spaces.

Mobo and his littermate, Curly, had been in the house for a decade by this time. The pups, both male, had developed an intense dislike for each other even as puppies, and had to be separated at all times. If one had the run of the house, the other had to be confined to a bedroom. Because Curly slept with Evelyn, whenever Evelyn got up, she first checked to make sure Mobo was in “his” bedroom (my brother-in-law’s room) before allowing Curly into the hallway.

Only on this day, she didn’t. Whether she had other things on her mind, or perhaps wasn’t fully awake, Evelyn opened her bedroom door wide. At the sound of the door opening, Mobo rushed down the hall just as Curly emerged from the bedroom, and the canine brothers lunged at each other, teeth gnashing, fur flying, in a fight to the death. Evelyn screamed and went back into her bedroom, slamming the door shut, and leaving me alone to break up the dogfight.

Dad yelled at the dogs from the living room, and would certainly have intervened had he been able to rise from his chair unassisted. I grabbed a plastic pitcher and stuck it under the kitchen faucet, willing the water to run faster. It sloshed out as I ran back down the hall and dumped whatever water remained onto the two dog faces trying to rip each other apart. The shock was enough to separate them for a moment, and I grabbed Mobo’s collar and hauled him back into his bedroom and closed the door.

Whew! My heart had not pounded that hard in a long time, and my entire body shook with adrenaline. Without a word, I opened Evelyn’s door just wide enough to let Curly in, then reassured Dad everything was okay before getting the mop to clean up the mess. That task done, I went to Dad’s empty bedroom and collapsed on the bed, allowing the adrenaline to release through my tears. How often do we absorb others’ shame as if it were our own failing?

Once my body returned to a semi-normal state, I went to check on Mobo. He was bleeding from his right ear, his left flank, and his jowls, but thankfully, nothing appeared to require stitches. I cleaned him up with a wet cloth, trusting that Evelyn had done the same for Curly. I was not about to approach her bedroom door, still seething that she had opened her door without thinking, and then left me alone to deal with the consequences.

After checking on Dad once more, I retreated again to the bedroom, to the silence, not yet mentally able to go back to cleaning. I was still sitting quietly on the bed when I heard Evelyn’s door open and close again. She mumbled to herself as she fumbled with the doorknob on the room across the hall. “I have to check on Mobo.”

“I already took care of him, Mom,” I called from my spot on the bed.

That’s when her head whipped in my direction, and with eyes that seemed to flash red, she unleashed her fury. “I DON’T TRUST YOU!”

I am sure the Lord knew what He was doing when He made me a “highly sensitive person,” but in this instance, I longed for some thicker skin. It was the first of many attacks from my mother-in-law, and every one of them left me wanting to find a safe place to hide and curl into a fetal position. I know that HSPs have many strengths—deep empathy, compassion, integrity—but Evelyn made me prefer armor plating!

At this point in our journey, my husband and I did not know his mother was a narcissist, or really even what a narcissist is. Only that she was often hard to get along with, and likely had some sort of mental illness. It is only in retrospect, and after much counsel and study, that I can say with confidence that my mother-in-law was never actually mad at me.

“Their lashing out is unprocessed stuff, which is why even a mild critique or crisis can set off shame about their vulnerability or imperfection being on full display. These ego injuries then set off their rage and blame shifting, which allow them to reduce tension, maintain their grandiose facade, and feel safe” (Durvasula, 2024). Oh, how I wish I had understood this at the time!

Evelyn was ashamed that she had forgotten to check on Mobo’s whereabouts before letting Curly out of her bedroom. Her negligence resulted in a bloody battle, which could have had disastrous consequences. I became the target of her anger, not because I had done anything wrong, but simply because I was there. Had I not been there, Dad, even confined to his chair because of a stroke, would have been her target. It was never about me.

Does that make it okay? Absolutely not. I don’t offer this explanation to condone her behavior. Her words wounded me deeply and left me with psychological scars. But I can accept that there was nothing I could or should have done differently. It was never about me. And for the rest of my life, these scars will bear witness to the healing I have received from my heavenly Father, who “heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds” (Psalm 147:3). I’m learning now to separate the lies from the truth, and to find my identity in Christ rather than in the hurtful words of others. I still have work to do! But I am getting a little better at processing my emotions by quickly bringing them into the light of truth.

If you are now dealing with a narcissist, or still have wounds from previous encounters, it is my heartfelt prayer that you accept it is not about you. Repeat after me: “It’s. Not. Me!” Say it a thousand times if you must. You did nothing to deserve the darts thrown at you, and there is nothing you could have done to stop them. Let that truth, gently applied by a loving Father, be a balm of healing for your wounds.

Do you need to talk? Comment, email me, or reach out through social media. I am here for you.

Sawubona. I see you.

Works cited:

Durvasula, Ramani, It’s Not You: Identifying and Healing from Narcissistic People, New York, Penguin Random House, 2024, pp. 11-12.