Hello. Recognize me? No? Well, you see me all the time. You read my books,
watch me on the big screen, feast on my art, cheer at my games, use my
inventions, vote me into office, follow me into battle, take notes at
my lectures, laugh at my jokes, marvel at my successes, admire my
appearance, listen to my stories, discuss my politics, enjoy my music,
excuse my faults, envy me my blessings. No? Still doesn't ring a bell?
Well, you have seen me. Of that I am positive. In fact, if there is
one thing I am absolutely sure of, it is that. You have seen me.
Perhaps
our paths crossed more privately. Perhaps I am the one who came along
and built you up when you were down, employed you when you needed a
job, showed the way when you were lost, offered confidence when you
were doubting, made you laugh when you were blue, sparked your
interest when you were bored, listened to you and understood, saw you
for what you really are, felt your pain and found the answers, made
you want to be alive. Of course you recognize me. I am your
inspiration, your role model, your saviour, your leader, your best
friend, the one you aspire to emulate, the one whose favour makes you
glow.
But
I can also be your worst nightmare. First I build you up because
that's what you need. Your skies are blue. Then, out of the blue, I
start tearing you down. You let me do it because that's what you are
used to. You are dumfounded. But I was wrong to take pity on you. You
really ARE incompetent, disrespectful, untrustworthy, immoral,
ignorant, inept, egotistical, constrained, disgusting. You are a
social embarrassment, an unappreciative partner, an inadequate parent,
a disappointment, a sexual flop, a financial liability.
I
tell you this to your face. I must. It is my right, because it is. I
behave, at home and away, in any way I want to, with total disregard
for conventions, mores, or the feelings of others. It is my right,
because it is. I lie to your face, without a twitch or a twitter, and
there is absolutely nothing you can do about it. In fact, my lies are
not lies at all. They are the truth, my truth. And you believe them,
because you do, because they do not sound or feel like lies, because
to do otherwise would make you question your own sanity, which you
have a tendency to do anyway, because from the very beginning of our
relationship you placed your trust and hopes in me, derived your
energy, direction, stability, and confidence from me and from your
association with me. So what's the problem if the safe haven I provide
comes with a price? Surely I am worth it and then some.
Run
to our friends. Go. See what that will get you. Ridicule. People
believe what they see and what they see is the same wonderful me that
you also saw and still do. What they also see is the very mixed up
person that you have obviously become. The more you plead for
understanding, the more convinced they are that the crazy one is you,
the more isolated you feel, and the harder you try to make things
right again, not by changing me but by accepting my criticisms and by
striving to improve yourself. Could it be that you were wrong about me
in the beginning? So wrong as that? How do you think our friends will
react if you insist that they are also wrong about me? After all, they
know that it really is you who have thwarted my progress, tainted my
reputation, and thrown me off course.
I
disappoint you? Outrageous! You are the one who have disappointed me.
Look at all the frustrations you cause me. Lucky for you, I have an
escape from all this, and fortunately my reputation provides enough
insulation from the outside world so I can indulge in this escape with
impunity. What escape? Why, those eruptions of rage you dread and
fear. Ah, it feels so good to rage. It is the expression of and the
confirmation of my power over you, my absolute superiority. Lying
feels good too, for the same reason, but nothing compares to the
pleasure of exploding for no material reason and venting my anger with
total abandon, all the time a spectator at my own show and at your
helplessness, pain, fear, frustration, and dependence.
In
fact my raging is precisely what allows me to stay with you. Go ahead.
Tell our friends about it. See if they can imagine what it's like, let
alone believe it. The more outrageous the things you say about me, the
more convinced they are that it is you who have taken a turn for the
worse. And don't expect much more from your therapist either. You may
tell him this or that, but what he sees when I visit him is something
quite different. So what's the therapist to believe? After all, it was
you who came for help. No! That's what this is all about. No! That
simple two-letter word that, regardless of how bad I am, you simply
cannot say. Who knows? You might even acquire some of my behavior yourself.
But
you know what? This may come as a shock, but I can also be my own
worst nightmare. I can and I am. You see, at heart my life is nothing
more than illusion-clad confusion. I have no idea why I do what I do,
nor do I care to find out. In fact, the mere notion of asking the
question is so repulsive to me that I employ all of my resources to
repel it. I reconstruct facts, fabricate illusions, act them out, and
thus create my own reality. It is a precarious state of existence
indeed, so I am careful to include enough demonstrable truth in my
illusions to ensure their credibility. And I am forever testing that
credibility on you and on the reactions of others.
Fortunately
my real attributes and accomplishments are in sufficient abundance to
fuel my illusions seemingly forever. And modern society,
blessed/cursed modern society, values most what I do best and thus
serves as my accomplice. Even I get lost in my own illusions, swept
away by my own magic.
So,
not to worry if you still do not recognize me. I don't recognize me
either. In fact, I am not really sure who I am. That's probably a
question you never ask of yourself. Yet I wonder about it all the
time. Perhaps I am not too different from everyone else, just better.
After all, that's the feedback I get. My admirers certainly wish they
were me. They just don't
have the gifts I have, nor the courage I have to express them. That's
what the universe is telling me.
Then
again THE universe or MY universe? As long as the magic of my
illusions works on me too, there really is no need for distinction.
All I need is an abundant fan club to stay on top of it all. So I am
constantly taking fan club inventory, testing the loyalty of present
members with challenges of abuse, writing off defectors with total
indifference, and scouting the landscape for new recruits. Do you see
my dilemma? I use people who are dependent on me to keep my illusions
alive. So really it is I who am dependent on them.
Even
the rage, that orgasmic release of pain and anger, works better with
an audience. On some level I am aware of my illusions, but to admit
that would spoil the magic. And that I couldn't bear. So I proclaim
that what I do is of no consequence and no different from what others
do, and thus I create an illusion about my creating illusions.
So,
no, I don't recognize me any better than you do. I wouldn't dare. Like
my fans, I marvel at my own being. Then again, sometimes I wish that I
were not the person I am. You find that confusing? How do you think it
makes me feel? I need my own magic to stay afloat. Sometimes others
like me recruit me into their magic. But that's ok. As long as we feed
off of each other, who's the worse for wear? It only confirms my
illusion about my illusions: that I am no different from most other
people, just a bit better.
But
I AM different and we both know it, although neither one of us dares
to admit it. Therein lies the root of my hostility. I tear you down
because in reality I am envious of you BECAUSE I am different. At some
haunting level I see my magic for what it is and realize that people
around me function just fine WITHOUT any "magic".
This
terrifies me. Panic stricken, I try all my old tricks: displays of my
talents, unnecessary deceptions, self-serving distortions, skilful
seductions, ludicrous projections, frightening rages, whatever.
Normally, that works. But if it fails, watch out. Like a solar-powered
battery in darkness, my fire goes out and I cease to exist.
Destitution sets in.
That
is the key to understanding me. Most people strive for goals and feel
good when they approach them. They move toward something positive. I
move in the same direction but my movement is away from something
negative. That's why I never stop, am never content, no matter what I
achieve. That negative thing seems to follow me around like a shadow.
I dowse myself in light and it fades, but that's all it does.
Exhausted, I ultimately succumb to it, again and again.
Where
did it come from, this negativity? Probably from before I learned to
talk. When you were exploring your world for the first time, with the
usual little toddler mishaps, your mother kept a careful eye on you,
intervened when she saw you heading for danger, and comforted you when
you made a mistake, even if you cried.
Well,
that's not how it was for me. My mother's expectations of me were much
higher. Mistakes were mistakes and crying was not the way to get her
approval. That required being perfect, so that's exactly what I
became. Not the little awkward toddler that I was, but my mother's
model child. Not the brave and curious little person that I really
was, but the fearful personification of my mother's ideal.
What
you were experiencing through your little mishaps and mistakes were
small doses of shame. What you were learning from your quick
recoveries was shame repair. At first your mother did most of the
repairing. Through repetition, you gradually learned how to do it by
yourself. Shame repair brain circuitry was being laid down that would
carry you for the rest of your life. I had no such luck. I simply did
not acquire that skill when nature had intended my brain to acquire
it. No one enjoys shame. But most people can deal with it. Not me. I
fear it the way most people fear snakes.
How
many others like me are there? More than you might think, and our
numbers are increasing. Take twenty people off the street and you will
find one whose mind ticks so much like mine that you could consider us
clones. Impossible, you say. It is simply not possible for that many
people – highly accomplished, respected, and visible people – to
be out there replacing reality with illusions, each in the same way
and for reasons they know not. It is simply not possible for so many
shame-phobic robots of havoc and chaos, as I describe myself, to
function daily midst other educated, intelligent, and experienced
individuals, and pass for normal. It is simply not possible for such
an aberration of human cognition and behavior to infiltrate and
infect the population in such numbers, virtually undetected by the
radar of mental health professionals. It is simply not possible for so
much visible positive to contain so much concealed negative. It is
simply not possible.
But
it is. That is the enlightenment of "Narcissism Revisited"
by Sam Vaknin. Sam is himself one such clone. What distinguishes him
is his uncharacteristic courage to confront, and his uncanny
understanding of, that which makes us tick, himself included. Not only
does Sam dare ask and then answer the question we clones avoid like
the plague, he does so with relentless, laser-like precision. Read his
book. Take your seat at the double-headed microscope and let Sam guide
you through the dissection.
Like
a brain surgeon operating on himself, Sam explores and exposes the
alien among us, hoping beyond hope for a respectable tumor but finding
instead each and every cell teaming with the same resistant virus. The
operation is long and tedious, and at times frightening and hard to
believe. Read on. The parts exposed are as they are, despite what may
seem hyperbolic or farfetched. Their validity might not hit home until
later, when coupled with memories of past events and experiences.
I
am, as I said, my own worst nightmare. True, the world is replete with
my contributions, and I am lots of fun to be around. And true, most
contributions like mine are not the result of troubled souls. But many
more than you might want to believe are. And if by chance you get
caught in my web, I can make your life a living hell. But remember
this. I am in that web too. The difference between you and me is that
you can get out.
Ken
Heilbrunn, M.D.
Seattle, Washington, USA
