Growing up with a narcissistic parent is one of the most horrifying types of childhood:

This is the story of an adult child with a narcissistic mother:

The story of my crazy life as the daughter of a malignant narcissist with Munchausen syndrome continues.

Last week alone, in one day, she called 911 four times. The fire department came three times, the local police department came twice, an ambulance carried her away once. 

UNFUCKINGBELIEVEABLE. 

Seriously.

Oh yeah, she lived.

Her determination for her narcissistic supply is unmitigated in anything I've read. The only other way to gauge her behaviour is by criminal standards, except she isn't held accountable to anyone. She simply repeats as needed, and has never been found out by any doctor, financial institution, or law enforcement entity.

She called 911 as I wasn't feeding her narcissistic supply needs, and she was out of pain pills - it was too early to get them refilled. She had to have a good reason to go to the doctor and get her pills early. What better reason than the handy 911 Emergency Response System? Perfect for her diabolical plan.

I have never seen evil appear so innocuously as in a well-dressed, funny, smart 78-year-old great-grandmother. an active member of her church and community. She hasn't been arrested for over 40 years, beloved by her grandchildren, but loathed by her children.

Yes, her children loathe her. Why, you ask? Doctors. Lots of doctors. When a narcissist has Munchhausen Syndrome, they love the attention of anyone in the medical field: even a dentist or veterinarian if a medical doctor isn't available.

My mother has a host of medical problems that date back to my earliest memories. At age twelve, she'd just emerged from a doctor's appointment in which she'd been told that she was "obese." I was horrified. Asked her if he could say that; she just shrugged and said, "Well, it's true." I was horrified all over again, because it didn't seem to bother her. This theme of "obesity" would become the way to feed her Munchhausen Syndrome.

Little did I know she was also cultivating a growing love of narcotics and would go on to lie, cheat, and steal to feed that addiction.

Trauma-Drama-Mama is what I've taken to calling her. Her doctor keeps her addiction rolling along, slowly but surely ignoring every warning. She was diagnosed with cirrhosis of the liver thanks to the pills - her doctor didn't even slow down. She simply visited a new doctor for her new condition. 

She once lost over one hundred pounds, which we'd thought was thanks to her medically supervised diet. It was the pills. Yes, she'd been referred to another doctor for her special diet. And boy, did she lose weight. She lost so much weight that she developed an "apron stomach" and needed a new doctor for a difficult surgery to have the excess skin removed from her abdomen and upper arms.

Her surgery was difficult for all of us. She reveled in any opportunity to be inappropriate; she chose to show it to whomever would look. It was like a train-wreck - you couldn't look away.

The most amazing part is none of us demanded she stop. We say, well, that's Grandma. We're still saying it today because she still pulls stunts like the four 911 calls. Outrageous.

Now she's old, obese, and stretching out the scar from her old surgery. She is dependent on insulin for her Type II diabetes, which could have avoided - but she wanted it. Badly. That ensures she has to see the doctor often. More than monthly, in her case. She's had surgery on her left foot and, of course, she developed complications, as she does with each surgery. She delights in making problems for herself so the doctor must get more involved than is common for the procedure.

Thank God she didn't have Munchausen by Proxy. There were six of us kids and always a legitimate reason to take us to the doctor. She developed and maintained enough of her own serious medical problems without involving us, except to call us to her bedside.

However, when my father was dying of complications of heart disease, she refused to stay with him the night he died. My mother pitched a fit in the hall of the hospital saying, "I just can't take it anymore!"

The doctor implored her to stay, saying he wouldn't make it through the night, didn't she want to be with him? NO way. What was in it for her? He did the damage to himself after all with alcohol. My dad was long gone; the man restrained in that hospital bed no longer bore any resemblance to my father, her husband of over 55 years.

So incredibly selfish. I am still in shock she left him to die alone.