The Unexpected Gift of Being Raised by a Narcissist.

When I was a young child, I used to daydream that I had been kidnapped at birth. I'd imagine that somewhere out there in the world, my real mom was looking for me  -  wanting to find me.

Waiting to love me.

I have a vivid memory of searching through my Mom's dresser drawers when I was 8 or 9. I'd watched her put my little sister's birth certificate in there, so I was sure mine was there, too. I wanted to find mine and prove she wasn't really my mom. I wanted to shake the paper in her face and tell her I knew the truth. I wanted to demand that she return me to the mom who loved me. The one who wanted me.

But I didn't get my wish.

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My mom had six kids with five different fathers. Five girls first, and then finally, the boy she actually wanted. I was the second born. My older sister was bestowed the glory of being the golden child after being left behind to be raised by her dad. The rest of us were the scapegoats. We were all in the way, unwanted and never good enough. I shielded my younger sisters from the wrath of our mom as much as I could. But eventually, I had to get away.

When I was 16, I met an older guy who treated me just like my mom - with obvious disdain and feigned pity towards me. I was lucky he loved me, he said. And I believed him. His family lived in Texas so as soon as I turned 18, off I went - as far away as I could get from my childhood. I was married a week after turning 19 and had my first son not long after I turned 20.

I had a difficult first pregnancy. At 15 weeks I was told the pregnancy could be life-threatening so the doctors encouraged me to consider an abortion. I told those doctors to go to hell.

I had placenta previa, my water broke at 18 weeks (but the membranes miraculously resealed), I had a partial abruption of the placenta and my body was in a constant state of preterm labor thanks to a large blood clot that had formed as a result of the placenta previa. I spent 11 weeks in the hospital on complete bed rest.

During that time, I accepted a call from my estranged mom. My (then) husband would leave me by myself in the hospital for weeks at a time and without friends or family anywhere nearby, I was hungry for connection with anyone. During the call, my mom sobbed into the phone and told me she was so sad I was having a boy.

She said she had prayed I'd have a girl so I would finally understand how awful it was to raise me.

The shock of her words nearly sent me into full-blown labor. My doctor gave me everything she could to slow my contractions down that day. I was instructed not to speak to her again, and then just a week later, my son was born 9 weeks early, weighing 2lbs 11oz.

I was immediately head over heels in love with him.

My second son was born 7 years later, my daughter 2.5 years after that.

I thought having children would finally help me better understand my mom but nothing could be farther from the truth.

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My oldest son is now 22, my middle son is 14 and my daughter is 12.

Where my mom was cold and distant, I am warm and connected.

Where my mom was angry and unkind, I am patient and loving.

Where my mom was jealous and invasive, I encourage my kids to be proud of who they are and exude independence.

When they are going through difficult life lessons, I listen to their feelings. I assure them it's okay to feel whatever they are feeling and I sit with them in their pain. I remind them they are loved.

I celebrate their wins and tell them often how proud I am of them.

We laugh and laugh and have inside jokes for days.

I lend an ear when they need advice.

And every day. EVERY DAY. I thank them for allowing me the opportunity to be the mom I always wanted but never had.

To say my three children are the loves of my life is an understatement. Every time I think of how much I love them, I think might my heart might burst.

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Two out of three of my younger sisters are now mothers and are incredible with their kids. My youngest sister is terrified she'll become just like our mom and still refuses to have children.

My older sister, on the other hand, is just like my mom. It makes my stomach turn to watch her dismantling my nieces. She wasn't even raised with us. She was raised with her father and surrounded by a family who loved and adored her while we suffered the anger of our mom and the merry-go-round of men she married.

I'll never understand how she morphed into our mom, but she did. And I hate that the generational curse will continue on through her while the rest of us have done our damndest to bring it to an end.

I often wonder, though, what kind of mom would I be had I not been raised by a narcissist?

Would I be like my older sister? Impatient and disconnected? Would I be selfish and self-serving? Would I be jealous and obsessive? I really can't say for sure. However, I've decided this is the silver lining to being raised by a monster.

My narcissistic mother taught me what it feels like to be unwanted and unloved and I vowed I'd never let my own children feel the same.

As a result, I'm not a perfect mom, however, I'm a pretty fantastic one. And I have three amazing children to prove it.