I, thee, the Narcissist

I recently reread the novel Sula by Toni Morrison and fell in love with the book. Not that I didn’t like it the first time I read it, but its lyrical meandering posture did strain my sensibilities and I felt it was one of those “artsy” books with pretty words that rambled circuitously around a taught but hydra-like plot giving gravitas to the mundane along the way; making the most inane seem sublime. But then when speaking of the character Sula’s reason for her egocentric and all too human behavior, Ms. Morrison compared her emotional terror to an artist without art.

“In a way, her strangeness, her naivete, her craving for the other half of her equation was the consequence of an idle imagination. Had she paints, or clay or knew the discipline of the dance, or strings: had she anything to engage her tremendous curiosity and her gift for metaphor, she might have exchanged the restlessness and preoccupation with whim for an activity that provided her with all she yearned for And like any artist with no art form, [Sula] became dangerous.”

And there it was before me. I too have been on that knife’s edge many times, whittling away at what’s reasonable and what’s respectable to commit all sorts of emotional and creative fraud. I failed classes, jilted lovers, quit (or more likely was fired from jobs); I didn’t pay bills not because I was irresponsible but because I was bored. I was enthusiastic with my disdain for the ordinary 9 to 5. They didn't understand my aesthetic! I luxuriated in the hoopla. I was the consummate Drama Queen. Laziness, my canvas, histrionics my palette. The drama of eviction and subsequent search for residence allowed me to be as melodramatic and as narcissistic—as any artist is at heart—as I wanted to be. As if I was the star of my own personal grand Shakespearean five-act. "Out! Out! Damn spot!" Self-sabotage would be too simple an explanation. Too straightforward. If that were the case that would mean somewhere along the way I would have to see my own menace in the shadow of my behavior. But if it were a plot or unexpected event that cascaded God’s wraith down upon me, then the perusing theatrics would have been perceived as the inevitable result of my disappointment and disillusionment. I would excavate people's sympathy like mining gold. Munchausen by Sturgis Syndrome. I would lob off little bombs of self-destruction in hopes that the resulting explosion would dislodge some manna. Something special. Some pixie dust that would imbue me with the salt and the power I yearned to have. The artist way had constantly seemed to elude me.

A few days ago took one of those online personality disorder tests (look here) and received the results of borderline narcissistic personality disorder. Many of the symptoms do fit my personality. I have thankfully always had friends and family that allowed me to paint our relationships with a broad-brush. Narcissistic personality disorder is a condition in which people have an inflated sense of self-importance and an extreme preoccupation with themselves. A person with narcissistic personality disorder may:
• Have excessive feelings of self-importance
• Exaggerate achievements and talents
• Be preoccupied with fantasies of success, power, beauty, intelligence, or ideal love
• Have unreasonable expectations of favorable treatment
• Need constant attention and admiration
• Have obsessive self-interest

Those who know me personally will at once recognize that I exhibit none of these behaviors—and yes even I will at this point be ROTFLMBAO!! But to be assured I do think of others. I think of what they must think of me.

Now to a greater extend I am an altruistic person but before I start comparing myself to Bill and Melinda Gates, Bono or Oprah’s Angel Network let’s clarify I am declarative with my big dreams and notions of philanthropy but I have yet to do any. But are dreams enough? I recently had a conversation with my brother who has struggled most of his life with addiction. Not the LiLo—I’m a rich, white, blond celebrity; look at me and feel sympathy for my pain and upbringing because I’m just being used for my money and beauty—type of addiction but the—hard, menacing, six feet-six I’m going to do anything for a fix, so if I steal, I’m an outlaw, a thug and a menace so let’s make sure I get charged to the maximum so the world will never see the evil of my face and skin again—type of addiction. But he accurately surmised that the only way to change is to change.

Responsibility is a hard thing to run up on. Working a job doesn’t make you responsible. Paying your bills makes you responsible. Keeping your promises to those you love makes you responsible. Being true to your art makes you responsible. Living in truth with yourself and with others makes you responsible. When you are completely honest and start tallying up your accomplishments and measuring them against your failures, make sure those failures are thoroughly examined and diagnosed. For me, the vast majority of the wounds I carry were self-inflicted. There is no reason for cynicism and jadedness for it was my foolishness that led to so much heartache. I can not blame any one or anything for those years of loss and anguish. So now its time to move from self-indulgent to self-fulfillment; from pain and anger to excitement and fervor. Its time to take the long steps. The movement of my feet with pride and conviction. To take the danger that lurks under the light of all our eyes and turn it into something important. And hopefully you will want to read about it, because I want to write about it. Narcissism is such a hard habit to kick.