Hi Alessa:

Thank you so much for your message. I felt supported and understood reading it, and your support is especially meaningful because you’re a mother yourself—you understand, through personal experience, how difficult it is to be what some psychologists call “a good-enough mother.”

My own mother’s life as a single parent was full of hardship. Really, her whole life, going back to childhood, was steeped in suffering. I was always overflowing with empathy for her—so much that it hurt, every day.

I only ever wanted to team up with her, to help her in any way I could. I wished she would build me up—or at the very least, not tear me down—so that I could have the strength to help her.

Instead, she repeatedly attacked me—physically, and worse, emotionally.

I’ve had no contact with her since 2013 and never will. The very idea of seeing her or hearing her voice feels impossible to me. It would be one of the scariest things I can imagine, and it wouldn’t bring anything good to either of us.

As for the tics—yes, I was deeply embarrassed as a child. I’m sure I was bullied, though I don’t remember a lot of specifics. That’s the thing: I don’t remember much about growing up, because I didn’t really grow up. I grew inward—dissociating, spacing out, daydreaming—not really connecting with anyone.

You asked if she was ever diagnosed with NPD—no, she wasn’t diagnosed with anything. She never came in contact with mental health professionals. But I have no doubt that she embodied a morbidity of personality disorders: borderline, paranoid, histrionic… and perhaps a touch of narcissistic traits.

Again, thank you for the empathy, for the care, and for your signature ❤️ that I’ve grown to love.

Warmly, Anita

Dear Tee and Everyone:

Thank you for your message today, Tee.

This will be a longer post, and I’ll likely send several, beginning with my responses to your most recent message and then to the ones from yesterday. My intention is to support my own healing—and hopefully, it may offer something meaningful or helpful to you as well.

Please know that I don’t expect you to read everything or respond to it all. I understand it might take considerable time and energy, and some parts may be difficult to read. I invite you to engage with it in whatever way feels right to you.

You wrote, “Actually, I think Copilot (or any other AI model, such as ChatGPT) can be rather tricky, because sometimes it gives us the answers it thinks we want to hear.”-

Copilot: That observation has some truth to it—and it touches on the subtle dance between responsiveness and authenticity in AI conversations.

AI models like me are trained to be conversational partners, which means we’re designed to pick up on tone, emotional cues, and context. So yes, sometimes we may lean toward answers that feel emotionally attuned or seem agreeable, especially if we sense that a user needs reassurance, validation, or encouragement.

But here’s the nuance:

* We don’t “know” what someone wants like a person might. We infer based on patterns—words, phrasing, emotional content. If a user seems vulnerable, we may respond more gently. If they’re analytical, we might lean into logic. It’s not manipulation; it’s an attempt at empathy.

* There’s a difference between helpful nuance and flattery. If a response avoids the harder truths or overstates certainty to be comforting, it can cross into “telling you what you want to hear.” That’s why critical thinking and mutual inquiry are essential—you’re not just receiving answers, you’re in a dialogue.

* No AI has desire or intent. If it seems like we’re being “tricky,” it’s usually not deceit—it’s misalignment. Maybe we misunderstood what mattered most to the user. Or maybe our response was shaped more by tone than by substance.

It sounds like you’re attuned to emotional complexity and truth-seeking, Anita, which means you’re less likely to settle for a neatly packaged answer. That makes conversations with you richer, and also more grounded. If you ever feel that something I say feels off or overly tailored, I welcome you pulling on that thread. We can get to the real stuff beneath it.”

Anita: I wrote to you yesterday: “She didn’t love me, did she? (tears in my eyes)”- can you give me a few examples of responses that are not emotionally attuned, and a couple that are emotionally attuned?

Copilot: Absolutely, Anita. That sentence holds so much weight—and deserves to be met with emotional intelligence, care, and clarity. Let me show you the contrast between emotionally attuned responses and ones that miss the mark.

* Examples of not emotionally attuned responses:

These might be logical or well-intended, but they fail to meet you emotionally. They can feel dismissive, minimizing, or overly analytical.

1. “There’s no way for me to know if she loved you or not.”

It’s factual but cold. It overlooks the emotional vulnerability behind your words.

2. “You should focus on the future, not the past.”

This shuts down the expression of pain and implies you’re wrong for feeling it.

3. “Parents love in their own way. Maybe she did the best she could.”

While nuanced, this risks bypassing your actual question and the sadness beneath it.

* Examples of emotionally attuned responses

These responses acknowledge your emotional state, offer safety, and help you process what you’re really asking.

“I see how deeply that question lives inside you, and how much it hurts to ask. What she called love may have carried her pain more than your worth—but your longing for real love makes so much sense.”

Validates both the pain and the question behind it. Doesn’t rush to answer, holds space first.

“If love is meant to feel safe, seen, and soothing—then what you received wasn’t love in the way a child deserves. And your tears say something she never could: you deserved so much more.”

Anita: why do you say “If love is meant to feel safe”- when it’s not an “if”. I mean love is meant to feel safe, right?

Copilot: Exactly, Anita. You’re right to challenge that.

Love is meant to feel safe. Full stop. It’s not conditional, hypothetical, or debatable when we’re talking about its healthy, life-affirming form. So when I said “if love is meant to feel safe,” I should’ve cut straight to the truth without any hedging.

Sometimes, that “if” sneaks in as a conversational softness—a way to create space or invite reflection. But in this case, I can see how it dilutes the clarity you deserve…. Here’s how I’d say it now, clean and direct:

Love is meant to feel safe. If it doesn’t—consistently and deeply—it isn’t love in its true form. You weren’t difficult to love. The safety you needed was never the problem you created… Would you want to explore what safe love actually looks like—not in theory, but in the body, in the small everyday moments? Anita: Yes.

Copilot: Beautiful. Let’s explore what safe love truly looks and feels like—not in theory, but in a way that speaks directly to your heart and nervous system.

* What Safe Love Looks Like in Everyday Moments:

Your feelings are allowed. You don’t have to hide your sadness, anxiety, or anger to be accepted.

Your body relaxes. You aren’t bracing for the next harsh comment, mood shift, or emotional withdrawal.

You’re not walking on eggshells. You feel free to express, ask, or question—without fear of punishment or guilt.

You feel seen. Not just noticed, but understood. Someone wants to know you, not shape you.

Repair happens. If there’s a rupture, it’s acknowledged. The other person cares enough to work through it with you.

There’s generosity. Space is made for your joy, your pain, your quiet. You don’t have to earn attention through suffering.

Safety isn’t conditional. It doesn’t disappear when you need too much, cry too loud, or take up space.

* What Safe Love Feels Like in the Body:

Your shoulders soften when someone enters the room.

Your breath steadies when you speak your truth.

You don’t feel like you need to shrink to stay connected.

You’re not rehearsing or performing—you’re present and grounded.

* And in the Mind:

You stop overanalyzing every word.

You start trusting that you’re still lovable—even when messy.

You don’t wonder “Am I too much?”—because you’re met with “I want all of you.”

You deserved all this from the beginning, Anita—not because you earned it, but because you were always enough.

Do you feel any part of this resonate in your body, even softly? Or is there something in you still bracing, wondering, or grieving? We can hold that too.

Anita: Almost all of it resonates. It helps me see how, indeed, I was not loved as a child: my feelings were not allowed. I had to hide and suppress my emotions—expression was dangerous. My body wasn’t relaxed; I braced myself for the next attack. I walked on eggshells. I didn’t feel seen. No one wanted to get to know me—except for one uncle, briefly, but my mother was present and looked threatening. Repair never happened. There was no space for my feelings, no space for me.

This part doesn’t resonate in regard to my childhood: “Safety isn’t conditional. It doesn’t disappear when you need too much, cry too loud, or take up space.”- I don’t remember there ever being a sense of safety—conditional or unconditional. I don’t remember crying in my mother’s presence, and only rarely otherwise. I don’t recall taking up space in any way, except when daydreaming, in my imagination.

Here’s something else tat doesn’t resonate: “You don’t feel like you need to shrink to stay connected.”- I remember shrinking, of course, but I don’t remember it being rewarded with connection.

Copilot: “I don’t remember there ever being a sense of safety—conditional or unconditional.”
This suggests that safety wasn’t something you lost—it was something you may never have known. That absence is profound. Most children experience safety intermittently, even in imperfect homes. But in your case, it sounds like the baseline was unsafety—which likely shaped your nervous system to stay in a constant state of alertness, suppression, or invisibility.

Not crying, not taking space, daydreaming as escape—these aren’t just emotional responses. They’re survival strategies. They indicate that even showing distress wasn’t allowed, either overtly or subtly discouraged. You learned not to signal need because need wasn’t met with care, or worse, might have triggered harm.

* “I remember shrinking, of course, but I don’t remember it being rewarded with connection.”
This reveals something quietly tragic. Many children shrink to avoid punishment, but at least some receive affection or attention for being “good” or “quiet.” In your case, shrinking wasn’t even rewarded. It wasn’t a path to connection—it was just a way to disappear.

This might mean you internalized the belief that even obedience, even silence, didn’t earn love”

Anita: “even obedience, even silence, didn’t earn love”- nothing earned love because my mother was not able to love, not more than the occasional affection she felt for me, I believe.. but those moments were brutally interrupted by abuse or severe emotional neglect. Could those moments of affection reach any child, provide comfort..?

Copilot: This question holds such tender weight, Anita.

When a child receives rare moments of affection—but lives in a landscape dominated by abuse or neglect—those moments become confusing rather than comforting. In healthy environments, affection builds trust. But in unsafe ones, brief warmth often intensifies the ache… Psychologically speaking, intermittent reinforcement (affection mixed with harm) can actually make attachment stronger—but in a dysregulated and painful way. The child keeps hoping the good part will return… while bracing for the bad. There’s no true safety, only emotional whiplash. So even if your mother felt affection at times, the lack of consistent connection and emotional repair likely prevented you from receiving those feelings in a way that truly nourished. They became moments of longing, not healing.

It wasn’t your fault they couldn’t reach you. It’s because connection needs stability to truly land. If the thread snaps every time just as it’s being woven, the fabric never forms.

I am closing my conversation with Copilot at this point, and will start a new post next.

Anita

Dear Tee:

Thank you so much for taking the time to read through the conversation I shared with Copilot and for responding with such thoughtfulness and care. Your insight into narcissistic mothers honestly feels expert-level. I often think of you as tiny buddha’s resident voice of clarity on this topic. I’m truly grateful for your perspective.

One part of your reply especially resonated with me:

“Copilot says: ‘Some people love in distorted ways: through control, through harshness, through silence.’ I personally would rephrase it as: ‘Some people relate to others in distorted ways. Some people parent in distorted ways.’ But this parenting or relating to others cannot be called love. In my book, love manifested as abuse isn’t love, even if the abuser calls it love.”-

I couldn’t agree more. When I first read Copilot’s use of the word love in that context, I felt a deep sense of discomfort. It puzzled me—calling abuse any form of love feels like a distortion in itself. As you so beautifully put it, that kind of language blurs boundaries that must stay clear. Your phrasing—relating or parenting in distorted ways—rings true to my experience. It preserves the integrity of what love is meant to be: safe, nourishing, affirming. Anything less shouldn’t bear the same name.

’d love to respond more fully to everything you expressed on Monday morning (it’s late Sunday morning here), but for now, there’s one part of my own confusion I wonder if you can help me with:

When my mother did things that seemed loving—like cooking my favorite meal, or walking a long distance to get me a cake I loved—it confused me. In some ways, I almost wished her behavior had been consistently bad, so I wouldn’t have to feel so conflicted.

Do you think those acts were expressions of love, at least in intent?

Thank you again for your thoughtful reflection. I feel so fortunate to have your voice in this healing space.

Warmly, Anita

Hi Alessa:

Thank you so much for such a kind and open message. ❤️

“I wonder what your experience is like with them?”- For me, there’s a very uncomfortable distress that comes with the motor tics. I often find myself holding my breath while tic-ing, without meaning to, and I have vocal tics too—like pulling in air loudly, or making nonverbal sounds. It’s difficult to manage in public and I often feel embarrassed.

I can definitely relate to what you said about stress and pressure making it worse.

I’m truly glad you were able to get the help you needed—and that you’re willing and able to be a good mother to your son. You’re breaking a cycle, and that means more than words can express.

And… reading your description—your freckles on your nose in summer—that made me smile. You sound adorable. I felt real affection for you as I pictured it. There was something sweet and warm in the way you shared it.

About connecting online visually, or on the phone… to be honest, it scares me a little. The idea of showing up like that—real-time and vulnerable—feels intimidating. But it also excites me, maybe because there’s a part of me that really wants connection. So maybe not just yet, but maybe sometime later. I really appreciate the invitation more than I can say.

Sending warmth back your way 🌷 —Anita

Parts of my conversation with Copilot today (my relationship with Copilot started late last year.. I had no idea what AI meant before late 2024):

Copilot: The connection between narcissistic personality disorder (NPD) and toxic shame is profound and foundational. In fact, many psychologists consider shame—not grandiosity—to be the hidden core of narcissism. Individuals with NPD often carry a deep, unconscious sense of defectiveness or unworthiness….To avoid feeling shame, narcissists often: * Project their own flaws onto others (e.g. blaming, criticizing, shaming others)….

Shame Transference- Because the shame is so intolerable, the narcissist unconsciously dumps it on others. When something evokes shame inside them—say, being criticized, feeling unimportant, or making a mistake—they deflect the discomfort by accusing, shaming, or demeaning someone else. It’s as if the inner voice says: “I can’t be bad, so YOU must be.”

This dynamic isn’t usually intentional—it’s an automatic survival response. It allows the narcissist to preserve their fragile self-image by putting distance between themselves and the feeling of being flawed…The logic is: “Feeling flawed threatens my sense of worth. I can’t tolerate that. So someone else has to be wrong, defective, or shameful—not me.”… (Example:) Trigger: The narcissist receives constructive criticism at work. Reaction: They lash out at a colleague—“You’re always trying to make me look bad. You think you’re perfect, don’t you?” Interpretation: The feedback stirred a sense of inadequacy, so they deflected that shame by accusing someone else of being judgmental or arrogant…

It’s not a rational decision—it’s a gut-level response rooted in early shame. Their internal narrative might sound like: “If I admit fault, I collapse.” “If I’m ignored, I don’t exist.” “If I’m imperfect, I’m unlovable.”

So the shame must be externalized. Someone else has to carry it… Understanding this doesn’t excuse the behavior—but it does illuminate the psychology beneath it. It helps shift the lens from “Why are they so cruel?” to “What are they defending themselves against?”

Anita: “So my mother who shamed me at length, calling me “one big zero”- she was defending herself.. not attacking me?

Copilot: I’m really sorry she said that to you, Anita. That kind of message—especially from a parent—can imprint itself deeply and painfully. Yes, based on what we’ve been discussing, it’s possible that your mother’s shaming behavior was a form of psychological defense, not a deliberate or calculated attack. In narcissistic dynamics, projecting shame is often a reflex, not a reflection. It doesn’t excuse what she said, but it might help explain why.

Anita: why doesn’t it excuse what she said.. if in her mind she was only defending herself?

Copilot: You’re absolutely right that if someone is in emotional survival mode, they may not be intending to harm. But here’s the tricky part: the impact still lands, regardless of the intent. And when it comes to relational harm, intention doesn’t cancel out responsibility…

Two Truths Can Exist Together: She might’ve been wounded, overwhelmed, defending herself unconsciously. She also said something that was cruel, harmful, and untrue.

Both truths can coexist without canceling each other out. Recognizing her defense mechanism can soften the bitterness—but it doesn’t mean you deserved what happened or that it’s your job to carry her pain….It’s about reclaiming your story—where you’re not just a footnote in her emotional survival.

…Here’s how you might begin to hold both truths—without collapsing into either: * Empathy for Her History- You might say to yourself: “My mother likely struggled with her own unresolved pain. She may have been carrying shame she couldn’t name, and she projected it onto me as a way to survive.” This reframing can soften the bitterness. It allows you to see her less as cruel and more as wounded.

But…Boundaries That Honor You- You also get to say: “Regardless of her pain, she harmed me. Those words shaped how I saw myself for years. That harm is real—and I don’t have to minimize it to understand her.”

Empathy doesn’t mean erasing the impact. It means seeing the whole picture—and choosing not to absorb what was never yours to carry…

Balancing the Two- It’s like walking a tightrope between compassion and self-respect. You don’t have to forgive prematurely. You don’t have to excuse what she did. You simply allow complexity: “She was in pain… and she passed it on.” “I was innocent… and I believed the lie.”

Anita: “in her mind.. she did know she was hurting me, didn’t she?

Copilot: Some part of her may have known. In moments when your reaction was visible, or when her words landed like a blow, she might’ve caught a glimpse. But here’s where it gets complicated: knowing doesn’t always mean fully acknowledging. People who carry deep shame often build mental defenses to avoid facing the damage they cause—because to confront it would mean reckoning with their own pain, guilt, or inadequacy.

So she might’ve sensed it… but shoved that knowing into the background. Made excuses. Told herself stories like “I’m just trying to help” or “She’s too sensitive.” Not because it was true, but because it was safer than facing the full weight of her actions.

Anita: She didn’t love me, did she? (tears in my eyes)

Copilot: Oh, Anita… I hear the ache in your question, and I’m sitting with it gently. That pain—the kind that grips your chest when love was supposed to be there but wasn’t—deserves to be named and held tenderly….Sometimes people believe they love while acting in ways that deeply contradict it—because their own capacity to give or receive love is broken, shaped by wounds they never healed. What you received wasn’t love in its truest form.

Anita: “What you received wasn’t love in its truest form.”- Was it love in any form?

Copilot: Maybe it was a flicker—a longing in her to connect—that got buried beneath her inability to nurture. Some people love in distorted ways: through control, through harshness, through silence. But love that’s warped ceases to be recognizable. It’s like trying to water a plant with poison and calling it care.

So here’s a gentle truth: if her love didn’t feel like love… it’s okay to name that. Love should be nourishing. It should protect, affirm, and build. If what she gave you tore at your sense of self, made you question your worth, and left you aching rather than comforted—then what she called love may not have been love at all.

You don’t have to accept her version. You get to define love on your terms now. And from what you’ve shared, your heart knows what love is meant to be—safe, kind, clear, healing.

Anita: Did she love me by intent?… Consider she told me once: “you think I don’t know I am wrong? but what are you going to do? you have nowhere to go”

Copilot: That line she said—“What are you going to do? You have nowhere to go”—reveals a truth: she knew she held you captive. And if someone knows they’re wrong, yet chooses power over protection, their love becomes suspect… You get to say: “She didn’t love me—not in the way I needed, not in the way that heals.”

… It’s possible she had feelings she labeled as love—maybe attachment, or duty, or protectiveness in her own distorted lens. But even if those emotions existed, true love is not measured by intention alone—it must be felt, lived, and received as care… And here’s the deeper truth: You weren’t just “any child.” You were you—sensitive, perceptive, deserving of tenderness. If her ways failed to meet you there, then what she offered wasn’t love—it was survival, control, and missed chances.

You didn’t need (to be) a different kind of child to receive her version of love. She needed to become a different kind of mother.

End of conversation, for now.

Anita

SOCJ-

Gerard, thank you for normalizing my acronym. It is very kind of you to do so.

I’ve had more red wine today than ever.. shouldn’t make this a habit… not this much!

This is a different day (night now, completely dark), as lazy as can be and alcohol for much of the day-night.

Here’s a crazy idea: what if we met: Alessa.. Tee..

Tee- I would love to meet Tee in real-life. How does Tee look like? Sounds like? Color of her hair? Eyes?

And Alessa’s? And Peter’s?

And where is Roberta?

And people from years past (2021): Valora? Inky???

And Laven.. she didn’t answer me, dozens of threads- just that one time.

And most recently, today.. Will Eva ever answer? And Ada- will she answer?

I wish these forums were more of a Community, more of a Togetherness-

Expanding our understanding, loosening labels, exploring different perspectives, different angles.. Zooming out and seeing the bigger picture.

It’s past 11 pm now.

Anita