I’m sure you’ve seen and rooted hard for the comeuppance of someone acting entitled in public. They’re basically bratty eight-year-olds trapped in an adult human’s body, walking the streets with an underdeveloped emotional intelligence and sensibility.
I was one of those shitstains on society.
The writings on the wall
I’ll be honest: I never knew what a narcissistic person was until I was 30. I didn’t know such a disorder existed.
But when I read about it and the list of symptoms, I sure as hell ticked a shit ton of boxes.
I felt like I didn’t deserve any inconvenience, and everything had to go my way. I was passive-aggressive toward the restaurant waitstaff, and I would blatantly lash out at telemarketers. I was a massive dick to everyone I didn’t care about to feel good about myself.
I had horrible road rage any girlfriend would be ashamed of, and I had no qualms about picking a fight over the most mundane matters.
Lack of empathy, check. Sense of entitlement, check. Need for admiration, check. Grandiose sense of importance, Roger that. Sensitivity to criticism, yep, that’s me.
That’s just the tip of the iceberg, yo.
The rude awakening
I had a few. No, I never had someone smash a beer bottle over my head at a bar for acting a fool. No, I didn’t become a viral sensation on YouTube or Worldstar Hip Hop for a public meltdown. But I had life slap me hard in the face through relationships with narcissistic women, the most vile creatures you will ever come across in life.
At first, I downplayed their behavior to the typical female who sees herself as the perpetual passenger princess. But then, I started seeing a pattern and began asking myself a load of questions.
Why do they think it’s OK to demand something and not practice what they preached?
Do they expect me to be their emotional punching bag and not say a thing?
Are they all masters at button-pushing??
I felt this firsthand with previous romantic partners. Nothing I did was ever enough to satisfy them. It’s always been, “You never made me feel special,” even after uprooting my life to play head of the family for two kids who aren’t mine.
That’s not even the worst of it. I experienced narcissism from my own mother, a living, breathing, spitting image of Livia Soprano.
It was the same song and dance with her; only I went through it in my formative years. None of my accomplishments mattered unless it suited her. She was a champion gaslighter who never failed to turn the tables and make me come off in the wrong. She made it a point to win every argument, even if it meant crushing her only son and scarring him for life.
I have no idea what maternal love and care feel like. It always baffled me how the hardest, mean-mugging sons of bitches were mama’s boys at heart.
That void in my heart was filled with angst and hatred toward the people around me. I never saw the good in a person and immediately cast the worst judgment imaginable. I was always the main character of my story. Everyone else played second fiddle, and I rubbed it in their faces at every chance.
Then, it hit me. I was my mother’s spawn, who exuded the same toxicity and burdening cynicism.
The path to recovery… or so I thought
It took me 27 years of existence to have a good look in the mirror and realize I didn’t like the person I saw staring at me.
At the time, I had moved out of my parents’ home and began to fend for myself. With it came monthly rents, bills, and real-world obligations.
Being away from all the toxic air gave me a fresh perspective on life. The dark clouds began disappearing as I started my journey to emotional maturity.
It took many nights of introspection for me to realize my insignificance in the grand scheme of things. Like everyone else, I was a mere speck in the universe who went through this merry-go-round called life, and it will stop rotating at some point.
Then, the depression kicked in, and it took the wind out of me. The grandiose sense of self turned into deep-seated loathing. It was, after all, rage turned inward. I was furious at myself and the person I came to be.
I wanted off this ride, and I had attempted to escape a few times.
Therapy slaps you back on track, though
It gives you a sensible insight into the Whys and the Hows. It creates a breadcrumb trail for you to understand why you became you.
For someone whose entire existence is anchored on complex trauma, it’s both cathartic and insightful. I’m no longer trapped in my own echo chamber of delusions, misplaced rage, and a distorted view of my sense of self.
Therapy is in no way a crutch but a breath of fresh air that can help connect the dots because, sometimes, that’s all we need.
But you will always be a work in progress.
I’m a few thousand miles away from calling it an improvement. But at least I’ve begun step one. For any narcissist, that’s a huge deal.
See? I’m not a hopeless case. None of us are.
