Living with a Narcissist: The Balloon, the Bloodied Tissue, and the Breastfeeding Struggle

6th of December, 2024.

Parenting while living with a narcissist is like trying to build a sandcastle during a storm—just when you think you’ve made progress, another wave crashes in. Yesterday was one of those relentless days.

Morning: The Bloodied Tissue

The day started with exhaustion hanging over me like a heavy fog. My three-year-old had spent the night before yesterday sick with a stomach virus. I’d been up cleaning, soothing, and holding her hair back as she vomited. By next day and this morning, I was running on fumes, but I stayed home with her for the second day while my husband took our 1 and a half year old to nursery.

While tidying up, I spotted a tissue covered in blood on the counter. My stomach lurched. Who was bleeding? Had I missed something critical? I snapped a photo and sent it to my husband, asking if he knew what it was.

His response was calling me on the phone, not for reassurance but for fury.

“How can you send me such a disgusting photo? You’re an idiot!” he screamed over the phone as I stood in the bathroom, scrubbing vomit out of my daughter’s hair. His voice thundered through the speakerphone, my hands full with caring for our child.

That’s how it goes, doesn’t it? The narcissist’s reaction isn’t about the issue at hand; it’s about control, and hiding from their own feelings. As I replayed his anger later, I realized something: his rage was likely rooted in fear. Maybe seeing the photo triggered a panic he didn’t want to acknowledge. It turns out, he had no idea where the tissue came from either. We’ve all been struggling with the flu, so perhaps one of the kids took it out of the trash. But instead of discussing it calmly, his fear twisted into rage and was directed at me.

Afternoon: The Balloon

By the afternoon, my daughter was feeling better, and we ventured to the mall for a change of scenery. It was a lovely escape from the chaos of the morning. We played in the children’s area, shared lunch, and browsed the shops. When she spotted a Santa balloon in one store, her eyes lit up.

I bought it, knowing it would bring joy to both her and her brother. As we talked about sharing it with his brother, she proudly declared, “It’s for me, Peter, Mom, and Dad.” My heart swelled with pride at her generosity.

When we returned home, she had fallen asleep in the car. I gently carried her inside, leaving the balloon and some of the bags for my husband to bring in when he arrived with our son. But it didn’t take long before his anger erupted again.

“How could you buy only one balloon you idiot? Now there will be a conflict!”

I stood there, stunned. The conflict was already here, I thought to myself.

My daughter had been so proud of her plan to share the balloon, yet he couldn’t see her budding generosity. Instead, he focused on the potential for conflict between the children, turning his fear of imagined problems into an attack on me.

It’s exhausting, isn’t it? To live in a home where every decision is scrutinized, every moment of joy threatened by criticism.

Evening: The Breastfeeding Struggle

By the evening, I faced another challenge. I’ve been working on pulling back from breastfeeding my 18-month-old during the day, trying to transition him to other ways of comfort. It’s a difficult process, and while he sometimes takes it well, other times it’s met with resistance. Yesterday was one of those harder days.

He kicked and screamed at me, desperate for the comfort he wanted. I would have caved, but I knew that giving in after such behavior would send the wrong message. I had no choice but to stay firm, trying to comfort him in other ways and hoping he would get distracted.

As I struggled to console him, my husband glared at me as though he wanted to kill me. His silent judgment felt like a dagger. Then, in the middle of the tantrum, he grabbed our son and stormed off, yelling about what a horrible mother I was, spiced with "idiot whore". Moments later, he handed our son a pacifier—a tool we had both agreed not to use.

I felt crushed. Not only was my authority undermined, but his actions sent a clear message: I was the problem, not the solution. It’s a pattern I’ve come to recognize, one where his need to control overrides any respect for partnership or consistency.

I tried once again to assert my disagreement and ask him to stop the verbal abuse, but as always, it only made him more worked up. Over time, I’ve realized that arguing back doesn’t help, and silence feels like complicity. So, for my children’s sake, I’ve decided to take a different approach.

Now, whenever it happens, I simply say, “Please stop the verbal abuse,” and I repeat it calmly as many times as necessary. I want my children to understand what verbal abuse is, to know that we don’t ignore it or justify it, and to see that it’s something we name and address.

I don’t know if this is the very best thing I can do in such a situation, but it’s what I’m stuck with for now. In this complicated, painful reality, it feels like the only way I can show them that boundaries exist—even when they aren’t respected.

Finding Light in the Darkness

But as I reflect on the day, I also see moments of strength. I stayed calm with my daughter, I held my ground with my son, even when it was unbearably hard. And I reminded myself that while my husband’s anger tries to drown me, it doesn’t define me.

For those of you living in relationships like mine, I hope this resonates. You’re not alone in the chaos, the criticism, or the constant battles to protect your children while keeping yourself intact.

Some days, survival feels like the only win. But even on those days, there’s light—whether it’s in your child’s smile, their small act of generosity, or your own quiet resilience.

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