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Introduction

My mother was the most wonderful and infuriating person I’ve ever known: she was a narcissist.

I wasn’t aware of it for the longest time, not until I was in college and immersed in an introductory psychology text. There, printed in bright bold letters just below a picture of the Greek youth Narcissus staring at his reflection in a pool of water, was the word narcissism. When I read the accompanying description, I remember feeling relieved and horrified all at once. The term perfectly captured the paradox of my mother.

She was the incandescent figure of my childhood, irrepressibly outgoing, infectiously funny, and wonderfully caring. The world seemed to revolve around her. A striking nearly six-foot-tall blonde, with a thick English accent from her upbringing in Great Britain, she seemed to make connections everywhere she went—the grocery store, the coffee shop, the hair salon. She was devoted to friends, buoying them through illness and hardships, and dedicated to improving her community, whether the project was cleaning up a playground or organizing a bake sale. And as wife to my father and mother to me and my brother, she was always there, generous with her love and counsel.

But her glow gradually dimmed as I, and she, grew older. She seemed to become more self-involved. She bragged about her accomplishments as a young ballet dancer, sometimes making the point by demonstrating—awkwardly—a split or plié. She name-dropped, boasting of brushes with celebrities (though I could never tell if the encounters were real or imagined). She grew obsessed with her looks, frantically charting wrinkles and chasing spots around her body and starving herself to stay thin. She interrupted people when they spoke, even when they were in the midst of sharing their pain and anxiety. Once, when I tried to tell her of my anguish over a romantic breakup, she dreamily muttered, “I never had any trouble finding dates.” I was stunned by the non sequitur.

What had happened to my mother? College gave me the word narcissism. But I really didn’t understand what it meant. I had so many questions. Had she always been a narcissist and I hadn’t recognized it? Was she suddenly pushed to it by circumstance, namely getting older? Could I do anything to get back the loving, unselfish woman I remembered from my childhood?

I devoted myself to finding answers. In the library, I pored over books and articles from Freud onward. As a psychologist in training, I interned with one of the foremost experts on narcissism. I took a postdoctoral fellowship focused on helping personality-disordered clients, hoping to better understand narcissistic personality disorder (NPD), the most extreme form of narcissism. But even though I learned a great deal during those years, my understanding still felt incomplete. Then one day, I saw something that changed my thinking about narcissism—in my mother, in my clients, and in myself—forever.

My father had recently died and my wife, Jennifer, and I had undertaken the painful process of moving my mother from a large house far away into a small apartment close to us. The cramped space she found herself in now pushed her over the edge. “Lovely place you’ve found for me,” she grumbled sarcastically.

She stayed in a nearby hotel that first night, rolling up in a taxi the next afternoon to meet us at the apartment. We resumed unpacking, mostly in silence and mostly without her help. Before long, my mother disappeared in a taxi again, this time to drop exorbitant sums on “decorations.”

It went on that way for a week—my mother staying nights in a hotel, shopping by day—until late one evening, she announced, with an exaggerated sigh, “I need to get comfortable!” She disappeared into the bedroom where we heard her rustling through boxes. Moments later, she reappeared wearing four-inch stilettos—Manolo Blahniks, she proudly informed us. “There,” she said, sighing, “I can relax now. At least my shoes are better than this place.” The shoes, apparently, made her feel special.

That’s when it hit me. My mother used feeling special as a crutch—something to prop herself up when she felt scared or sad or lonely. Instead of turning to me, my brother, Jennifer—or anyone—to talk about how frightened she was about living alone, she relied on feeling better than other people. (In her Manolos, she literally was above most people.) It hadn’t been so necessary to make herself feel special when she was younger—others did the job with their attention and compliments. But as she aged and her looks—the source of much of her confidence—faded, she grew to believe that she had very little to offer and she withdrew from social and civic life. She had to find another way to stand out and prove to herself that she was special.

Thinking of narcissism this way—as a habit people use to comfort themselves—showed me a much clearer, simpler path to coping with my mother. I could see what made her narcissism rise and fall. I could see how and why it became destructive. I could even see how to help her to set it aside and talk honestly about her pain.

My search to understand my mother led me to another epiphany as well: narcissism isn’t all bad. In fact, some narcissism is good—even vital—for us to lead happy, fulfilled, and productive lives. Feeling special, I’ve discovered, can make us better lovers and partners, courageous leaders, and intrepid explorers. It can make us more creative, and it might even help us live longer.

Numerous studies confirmed much of what I’d seen growing up. The traits I so admired in my mother when she was young—her warmth, optimism, and activism—were fueled in great part by her narcissism. Her sense that she was special gave her conviction, confidence, and courage. It allowed her to believe that she had wisdom to effect change in the world, the ability to pull off just about anything she set her mind to, and the nerve to go ahead and try. Narcissism was her launching pad. It made her an engaged parent and energetic community leader. And it made her believe not just in herself but in others as well—and they felt that assurance.

When I was seven, I remember her talking to a despairing shop owner who was very close to shutting his doors. “We need you,” she said, beaming. “I need you. Where else would I get such perfectly delicious food and brilliant conversation?” Her lips formed an exaggerated pout. “That’s it!” she said, stamping her foot. “You cahhhhn’t leave—I won’t have it!” Munching on cookies, I watched the man’s face go from crestfallen to triumphant. Such was the power of my mother; she felt special and she made others feel special, too. The man’s store stayed open well into my college years.

That feeling special can be good as well as bad is just one of the startling findings I unearthed while exploring the mystery of narcissism. In the following pages you’ll discover many other truths that challenge accepted wisdom. In reaching my conclusions, I’ve drawn from a wealth of research, much of it conducted during the past few years. I’ve also drawn on my experience as a clinician working with individuals and couples to provide vivid examples of narcissism at its worst, its best, and in all its subtleties. (All the examples are composites of people I’ve counseled; identifying information has been changed to protect people’s privacy.)

My goal in writing this book is to help you not only understand and cope with the people around you—those you live and work with—but also to better understand yourself. My explorations certainly did that for me.

Like many children of narcissists, while growing up and through my teen years, I didn’t allow myself to feel special at all. I was terrified of even trying. I shrank from compliments or dismissed them. No matter what I accomplished, it wasn’t good enough.

Later as a young adult struggling to find my voice, I swung in the opposite direction, dominating conversations with one too many jokes or tall tales, all in an effort to prove I had something interesting to say. What I eventually realized is that neither stance—constant self-doubt or continuous bravado—made for a very fulfilling life; they both left me feeling lonely and misunderstood.

Luckily, I’ve been able to change and find a rewarding balance. And I’ve helped many others do the same. As a therapist, I am a firm believer that growth is possible, for everyone, whether we harbor too little narcissism or too much. And happily, the evidence, as you’ll see, supports that conclusion.

Years after I started researching this book, in the midst of a particularly blistering summer, my mother passed away. My brother and I were at her side. By that time, I had come to see her narcissism in a different, more nuanced light. Without that new perspective, I’m certain I wouldn’t have been able to say goodbye to her with love in my heart.

My aim in sharing the insights you’re about to discover is to bring the same clarity and hope to your life that I found in my own.

May this book help you overcome the bad—and embrace the good—about feeling special.