Malignant Self Love....

Hello. Recognise 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 recognise 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 behaviour 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 recognise me. I don't recognise 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, andscouting 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 recognise 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 realise 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
behaviour 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
resectable tumour 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...