The Silent Absence

My childhood was defined not by what was present, but by what was missing. My mother’s inverted narcissism loomed large, shaping the emotional tone of our household with her relentless need to be needed. My father, on the other hand, was a quieter presence—a man who had once lived on the edge of reality during episodes of schizophrenia, but who had since retreated into the emotional void of a schizoid existence.

I have only fragmented memories of his schizophrenic episodes. They were storms—sudden and chaotic, moments when he seemed gripped by a world I couldn’t see or understand. But those moments didn’t define him. They were temporary disruptions in a life that eventually settled into a kind of stillness. When the storms passed, he withdrew, and what remained was a man who seemed to exist just beyond reach, as though he had chosen to retreat from the world rather than risk being swept away again.

His schizoid nature shaped him into a figure of quiet detachment. He was there, physically present, but emotionally absent. Conversations with him felt like throwing pebbles into a bottomless well; the effort was there, but the connection never came. He rarely showed anger or joy, and his words, when he chose to speak, often felt like they were meant for someone else—or no one at all.

I didn’t resent him for it, not exactly. It was simply who he was, and as a child, I adapted. I stopped expecting the warmth or guidance I might have sought from another father. Instead, I filled the gaps myself, creating a narrative of who he was based on his silences and the occasional, fleeting moments when he would emerge from his emotional retreat.

My mother, on the other hand, was anything but silent. She lived for the appearance of selflessness, the martyrdom of being the caretaker and the emotional glue holding everything together. But her care was a weapon as much as a gift. She gave and gave, but each act of giving came with an unspoken demand for acknowledgment, for validation. If I succeeded, she beamed with pride, as if my accomplishments were her own. If I failed—or worse, if I ignored her sacrifices—her love turned cold, her approval withheld like a punishment.

Between them, I learned two critical lessons: that love was conditional and that people could disappear even while standing right in front of you. My father taught me that emotions were dangerous, something to be avoided or suppressed, while my mother taught me that worth was something you had to earn, over and over again.

These dynamics left their mark. I became a performer, crafting a version of myself that could win my mother’s approval while avoiding the vulnerability my father seemed to fear. My mask of confidence and self-assurance grew from their contradictions—a response to a world where love was either overwhelming or absent, but never just freely given.

Even now, I find myself grappling with the legacy of their influence. My father’s silence echoes in my own discomfort with intimacy, while my mother’s relentless need for validation lives on in my drive for external recognition. Together, they created the perfect storm—a childhood that shaped not just who I am, but the mask I wear to hide who I fear I might be.