How to Keep Narcissistic Parents From Controlling Your Life

Some people are completely drained by narcissistic loved ones: while some try to maintain contact and others break off ties entirely, many find themselves stuck somewhere in the middle — torn between anxiety and a desire to help, yet utterly fed up, exhausted and bored by the endless demands for attention and unpaid labor. There is, however, a way to keep tabs on relatives who have abandoned their own responsibilities and will consume all your time and energy; to protect yourself you need a robust plan — one that only a narcissistic child might readily recognise. Today’s letter comes from a woman I’ll call Steve, who writes, “Dear Anna, I’m writing to ask for advice on setting firm boundaries with a very difficult family member. I’ve grabbed my fairy-pen and will circle the points I want to come back to, but first let’s review what’s been happening in Steve’s life.”

She provides some background: both her parents came from abusive, alcoholic households and neither ever worked through their traumas. It was no surprise they separated when she was very young. Her mother raised her and she only saw her father every few months; he remarried shortly after the divorce and was not really present during her childhood. His way of coping with trauma was to become highly intellectual — he was clever and well-educated, but emotionally unstable and unable to keep a job. By the time she was nine he had stopped working entirely and lived off his new wife so he could devote himself to being a “great thinker.”

Her relationship with her mother was mostly conflictual; her mother was the queen of unchecked inappropriate behaviour, much of it sexual in nature. By her mid-twenties she had mostly cut ties with her. At that point she made the decision to reach out to her father again — which, in retrospect, was a huge mistake. A trigger warning: this message contains references to violent behaviour, so if that’s difficult for you, consider yourself warned. Honestly, this family — what a story. Here’s what happened to me: I lived with a man who struggled with drugs and alcohol; when I left him I was broke and in debt to my father, or more precisely to his wife, since she had no independent income. She rescued me and even helped with a down payment on a house, so I felt the stepmother deserved some compensation; after all, she had a right to it. My father wasn’t holding up his end of the arrangement — in exchange for financial help I had agreed to assist him in self-publishing his book online. The book was essentially a wild scientific theory with no real evidence behind it, which was, frankly, a bit mad. Still, I helped him publish it online: I designed the cover, created the illustrations and so on — a deal with the devil, you might say. But before long one book turned into five or

Sorry — I’m sorry, but this is pure classic, burning narcissism. Honestly, it’s all a kind of madness: him, his wife, and a string of painfully bad short stories he begged me to help publish. I did help get them out there, but, as you can imagine, they drew no readership. His requests for help just snowballed. He wanted a blog — and insisted I write and maintain it. He wanted me to go to writing workshops in his place. He expected me to attend events on his behalf. Good grief, that takes the cake. He even wanted me to help him discover a “personal” religion based on his eccentric ideas. Before long he pressured me to quit my job so I could become his full-time literary agent — something I refused. The pleas for assistance weren’t limited to his writing; they covered everything. And every time I tried to help, I somehow made things worse. My stepmother was equally difficult: controlling, demanding, manipulative. There’s more, but suffice it to say that spending time with them turned into pure torment. Yes, I’m sorry you were dragged into this — I’ve read versions of this story before, so I knew where it might head — but I thought: this is one of the hardest family situations I’ve ever heard. So a few years back I decided to try setting boundaries. At first I failed spectacularly. Then I stuck to it. I cut contact to a phone call every few weeks and an in-person visit only every few months. That mostly worked. Yet the guilt trips never stopped; she’d manipulate me with money or cajoling offers. Every visit was a storm of chaos that could take days or weeks to recover from. That’s where I started to intervene: “No, this is not okay,” I’d tell myself. Meanwhile, my father developed medical problems that affected his mobility and eyesight. Both issues were treatable, but he refused interventions, convinced surgery would fail and leave him wheelchair-bound — which made little sense, because the predictable outcome of refusing treatment was exactly what he feared. A few months before his death his vision declined dramatically and he was left stunned. I tried to be helpful: I bought him magnifiers, audiobooks, and recordings of his favorite musicians so he could at least listen to music if he couldn’t read. I urged him to get surgery; he declined. My stepmother’s reaction was, to put it mildly, unhelpful. When he became effectively blind she decided he no longer needed his woodworking tools — one of his greatest joys — and she began discarding his hobbies as if they were nothing. That hurt. Around that time my birthday was approaching and she emailed to see if we could meet. I agreed. The next morning she rang at dawn and woke me; given her pattern, I expected another hard sell to come for lunch — the usual foot-in-the-door, push-and-push-for-more routine. But no — and remember, I’d said this household was volatile — she was calling to tell me our father had taken his own life. I was stunned and rushed to read the note he left. I didn’t know what I’d find; he never hugged me or said “I love you,” so perhaps I’d hoped against hope for some tender final words. Instead the note was a long justification about why his medical problems were somehow insurmountable, followed by bizarrely detailed pages — even about his bowel movements. It’s tragically absurd. He claimed his disabilities would make life unbearable for his wife, so he had no choice but to end it. He signed off, “With all my love, Dad,” which is something I’d always known about him — a certain kind of instability — but I never imagined he’d do this. He even included a schedule of his bowel movements over the past month — the level of madness was off the charts. I’ve been trying to process all of it the best I can, but I can’t shake the sense that if I’d enforced firmer boundaries earlier—if I hadn’t gone along with his demands—maybe he wouldn’t have done it. A friend has been incredibly supportive, but I’m really struggling. Right now the problem is that my stepmother’s demands have escalated to an insane magnitude. I suspect she’s trying to keep herself busy to avoid feeling, while simultaneously erasing every trace of my father as fast as possible — and she believes I should be there every single day to help with this purge. When she arrived the day he died, her main focus was getting rid of as many of his possessions as she could — the body hadn’t even cooled yet. There’s something deeply wrong with that. She calls multiple times a day and expects me to drop everything and help her constantly. I refuse to make caregiving for her my job. I get why she behaves this way — I know she’s frantic and using activity to stave off grief — but I can’t sustain it. She says things like, “I need you to come and help me with X, Y, Z — please be here tomorrow afternoon.” I don’t want to set a precedent where my role becomes caring for her full-time. I’m with you on that. Still, after what happened I worry she might harm herself too, or, as my friend put it, she’s the kind who pushes others into that direction. He keeps reminding me it’s not my responsibility to care for her and that I simply need to learn to say no, but somehow it isn’t that easy. The pressure is relentless. Some days I just want to get on a plane and never come back to this continent, but that’s not realistic. I’m exhausted — grieving, angry, hurt — and I also have a job and a life to manage. Any advice or insight would be deeply appreciated. Okay, Steve — my god, what a life you’ve been living. You described the situation with such clarity and conviction, and you made the effort to set boundaries. I’m with you on that. Don’t listen to people who speak in black-and-white terms — telling you to either forgive or completely cut off — because you don’t owe anyone that binary choice. You can take this day by day. Here’s my first suggestion: handle this one day at a time. Maybe don’t answer today; that doesn’t mean you won’t pick up tomorrow. Decide anew each day. If you need to, break your time into small segments — an hour at a time. There’s a technique called “ninja boundaries” that’s especially helpful for people living with trauma. You’ve lived with trauma for a long time and have just been hit with a major adult trauma on top of childhood wounds. When that happens, old defenses can crack and the past can roar back, tearing through your emotional equilibrium. You’re vulnerable right now. I’m on your side about protecting your space, your time, and your commitments to helping this person — but you also need to protect yourself. Try assigning a percentage to how much of any given day you’re willing to devote to her, anywhere from 0% to 100%, and let that number shift from day to day. Keep it relatively small during this intense grieving period — something like 12% is a reasonable average. That’s not abandoning her; it’s giving her some help without surrendering your life. If you need to cut contact entirely for a while, allow that as an option. Let having boundaries be something you can trust, something you can implement confidently when you need space. You mentioned wanting to be there to help her through this, and also not wanting to lose yourself. Balancing those two impulses means the most important thing is limiting the time and emotional availability you give. Her communication pattern sounds like an almost constant monologue of demands — emotionally exhausting. Your friend is right: you can say no or cut contact, but the reason it’s so hard to step away isn’t just guilt; it’s love. We don’t disengage from people in need solely out of duty — we do it because we care. That caring can be a gift, but it can also be misused. People with a compassionate streak risk being drained and burned out if they give beyond their capacity. Your talent for compassion is valuable — it’s for the world and it’s for your life. If you overuse it on people who cross your boundaries and treat you poorly, you’ll damage that gift and it won’t be available when others truly need you. So ration that compassion: give it in small doses, a little cup at a time. Practically, that could look like a brief, firm message: “Hi — I know you’re overwhelmed and I can help a bit, but I’m tied up this afternoon,” and leave it at that. You don’t owe a long explanation; sometimes invoking work or another commitment is enough to make them respect a boundary. If you need to invent a reason to avoid conflict, that’s fine — preserving your emotional safety is the goal. From what you’ve said, these people won’t benefit from deep conversations, so there’s no point in getting pulled into them. Right now they’re elderly and struggling, so treat the help you offer as measured kindness — a gentle 12% rather than an all-consuming 100%. Over time you can reduce that further; after your father’s passing, she is no longer “stepmother” in the same way, and you can let the relationship loosen gradually if you choose. You’re not the only person whose parent or partner is difficult; many people worry about whether they’re doing enough while also needing to preserve themselves. There’s no easy answer to caring for someone who can’t care for themselves and yet is still emotionally demanding. The one practical tool that consistently helps is boundaries. Your friend’s advice — that you can falter and say no — is sound. Do what helps you feel steady. One technique I use myself when I’m tempted to overindulge in things that hurt me (like food) is to tell a trusted person my plan for the next day: “This is what I’ll eat for breakfast, lunch, dinner.” Translating that to time management can help: tell a friend your boundary plan for tomorrow — how much time you’ll allow for calls or visits — and check in with them afterward for accountability. Declare your intention out loud; it lends weight. Also, after you follow through with a visit or call, check in with yourself: does this feel manageable, or do you need to tighten the limits? We hope you don’t have to be the sole person responsible for someone difficult — often a formal agency or health services will step in when a family is genuinely overwhelmed. Some people rush to say “cut them off,” but families are complicated and rare; some relatives merit extra effort. If you can keep your effort measured, day-by-day, you can maintain the relationship without being consumed. I’ll leave you with a resource: there’s a free pamphlet called “Ninja Boundaries” full of tips for dealing with difficult people without losing all your energy — simple lines to deflect provocative conversations, ways to stay calm and protected while still offering small acts of kindness. It teaches the kind of subtle, almost invisible boundary work I’ve described — the sort of quiet defense that doesn’t announce itself. You can grab it by clicking the link there, and I’ll see you soon. [music]