When Grief Isn’t Simple: Mourning a Narcissistic Parent

Grief is never a one-size-fits-all process—especially when it comes to grieving someone who caused pain.

As a therapist, I often witness the complex emotional terrain my clients must navigate when a parent passes away, particularly when that parent was emotionally unavailable, controlling, or narcissistic.

Today, I am honored to share the words of my dear friend of nearly 40 years—someone I’ve had the privilege of knowing long before either of us had the language for what we now understand. Kathryn V. Jacopi is a gifted writer and poet who lives with complex PTSD and sensory processing disorder. In this deeply personal account, she shares her experience attending her father’s memorial service. Her father was a narcissist, and the emotions she encountered were anything but simple.

This is not a story about closure in the traditional sense. It’s about clarity. It's about reclaiming her voice in a space that once silenced it.

I offer her story with reverence for the courage it takes to speak uncomfortable truths—especially in a world that expects grief to look a certain way. If you’ve ever felt alone in grief that doesn’t look like the movies, you’re not. You’re not broken, you’re not heartless—you’re just telling the truth. And that is brave.

You can find more of Kathryn’s work at www.facebook.com/KathrynV.Jacopi

Kathryn’s Story: Hiding at the Bar

The first time I hid in the bar at my father’s memorial lunch was shortly after the first group of people arrived. Wearing coats too heavy for the start of spring and clutching purses to their chests, they’d sought out his immediate family to express their condolences. They wore heavy perfumes, and some hugged me. I was overstimulated and overwhelmed, and words jumbled in my head. Fortunately, I had practiced a few key phrases to use when thoughts failed me.

“Your father really loved you.”

“Dad sure did have a great sense of humor.”

I ordered a Sprite at the bar and bristled at my response. Was that appropriate? Did I just make a sad situation awkward? Why is the word awkward so awkwardly spelled with two Ws? I finished my soda and returned to the memorial lunch.

The second time I hid in the bar, the servers were bringing out the antipasto. Anxiety played my heart like a snare drum. As I walked away, I felt a slight touch on my forearm. My father’s coworker introduced himself. I fought the urge to tell him how much I hated to be touch by strangers.

“Joe was such a hard worker. We could always count on him.”

“Dad was a rebel in his youth.”

By the bar, I leaned over and took deep belly breaths through the nose and exhaled out of the mouth. I did this three times. A server asked if everything was ok. The crowd had gotten to me, and I needed a break. I wanted to tell her it was because of my CPTSD.

People living with CPTSD often struggle with large crowds. They are overstimulated due to the size of the crowd, the constant movement of people, and the senses being overwhelmed. I also have sensory processing disorder, and too often I can’t filter out the person speaking to me from the other noises. I stress out and have to decide what is the best approach. Do I lean in closer with my ear? Will this make them uncomfortable? Do I ask them to speak up, really asking them to yell? Will this make other people uncomfortable? Do I nod and pretend I can hear every word? If they figure this out, will they think I’m rude?

I worried people would think I’d fallen off the wagon, so I squared my shoulders and headed back. I missed smoking; it was a great excuse to isolate myself. Lunch was served. I held my elbows relieved that, for the time being, I’d be left alone. I was wrong. A man came up behind me to talk to Mom and surprised me mid bite. Tomato sauce dribbled onto my white tank top. I wetted the corner of the cloth napkin and dabbed at the pinprick stain.

The man hugged Mom. She held my gaze over his shoulder, and I knew she was uncomfortable. We don’t like hugs, and we both had been fielding cheek kisses all afternoon. My stomach bottomed out. They talked quietly, and I went for round two with the tip of the napkin. Something was not right. I shifted in my seat and looked up.

The man hovered over me with his hands on the back of my chair. He was about my father’s age, and while he probably needed the chair for support, it still felt like an invasion of my space. Is there a polite way to let him know I’m uncomfortable? I rose to greet him, which forced him to step back. I extended my hand and introduced myself as Joe’s daughter.

“I know,” he said and pressed his lips together. My father used to make the same face when he was disappointed with me. “We’ve already met. I’m Joe’s cousin. Remember?” He crossed his arms over his chest. “And we talked earlier today.”

My heart thumped, and my head hurt, and my pulse swooshed from within my ear. I wanted to lie down and go to sleep. I told him I needed club soda for the stain. I slipped between the tables on the way to the bar and acknowledged people only when I had to.

“I’m hearing all these stories about your dad in high school. He sure did love the ladies.”

“Thank you.” One time when I was a kid, Dad called a woman a dumb whore for cutting him off in traffic.

“Your father had so many funny stories about your mom’s cats; how they’d give him dirty looks whenever he tried to get into bed.”

“Hahaha. Yeah.” One time when I was twelve, I took too long to sweep up fur. Dad threatened to hang my cat upside down, slit her throat, and make me watch her die. I was sent to my room. I grabbed my cat and cried the whole time until I passed out. At lunch, still visibly upset, Dad said there was no reason to be. He was only angry, and it was my fault for not understanding. I took deep breaths at the bar and did my best to self-sooth. I was dizzy and my body ached. I was done. Done feeling guilty for poor facial recognition. Done with the small talk and forced pleasantry. Done stomping down these intrusive thoughts and memories just to meet people’s expectations. Done with my cognitive dissonance. Dad was a great man, but he also was a misogynist and an abuser, prone to rages and bullying.

The memorial felt like such a farce. I was the victim, but I had to keep my feelings to myself. I was so grateful for therapy; it had equipped me with strategies and helped me be more empathetic of my father’s own childhood traumas with abusive parents, and a racist, bigoted mother. These bar breaks and deep breaths and self-reflections saved me.

“Here you go.” A server handed me water. “I hate these things, too.” She gave a half-hearted smile and assured me it was okay to hide. I took the water and thanked her, but I had to return, and not just for societal expectations but also for my mom. I reminded myself who I wanted to be at this memorial lunch, and that I had a gabapentin in my pocket to help me. I took the pill.