Malignant Self Love - Samuel Vaknin (i wanna iguana read aloud .TXT) 📗
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an easy pill to swallow, is it? How do you think our friends will react
if you try to cram it down their throats? After all, it really is you
who have thwarted my progress, tainted my reputation, thrown me off
course. There is an escape from the frustrations you cause me and,
fortunately, my reputation provides enough insulation from the outside
world so I can indulge in this escape with impunity. What escape? Those
eruptions of anger you dread and fear, my rages. Ah, it feels so good
to rage. It is the expression of and the confirmation of my power over
you. Lying feels good too, for the same reason, but nothing compares to
the pleasure of exploding for no material reason and venting my anger
like a lunatic, all the time a spectator at my own show and seeing your
helplessness, pain, fear, frustration, and dependence. Go ahead. Tell
our friends about it. See if they can imagine it, let alone believe it.
The more outrageous your account of what happened, the more convinced
they will be that the crazy one is you. And don’t expect much more from
your therapist either. Surely it is easier to live my lie and see where
that takes you. You might even acquire some of the behaviour you find
so objectionable in me.
But you know what? This may come as a surprise, 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 against
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 their magic.
So, not to worry if you still do not recognise me. I don’t recognise me
either. In fact, I regard myself as like everyone else, only perhaps a
little better. Put another way, I end up thinking that everyone else is
like me, only not quite as good. After all, that’s what the universe is
telling me.
Ah, there’s the rub. THE universe or MY universe? As long as the magic
of my illusions works on me too, the distinction is immaterial. Hence
my need for a fan club. And 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. In actuality it is I who am
dependent on them. Even the rage, that orgasmic release of pain and
anger, doesn’t work without 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. I need the magic. For the same reason I also fail
to recognise others who behave as I do. In fact, they sometimes recruit
me into their fan clubs. 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. Therein lies the root of my
hostility. I tear you down because in reality I am envious of you
BECAUSE I am different. At that haunting level where I see my illusions
for what they are, the illusion that you too create illusions
collapses, leaving me in a state of despair, confusion, panic,
isolation, and envy. You, and others, accuse me of all sorts of
horrible things.
I am totally baffled, clueless. I have done nothing wrong. The
injustice is too much. It only makes the confusion worse. Or is this
too merely another illusion?
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 why. It is simply not possible for so many robots
of havoc and chaos, as I describe them, 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 respectable 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 far-fetched. 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
I N T R O D U C T I O N
The Habitual Identity
Warning and Disclaimer
The contents of this book are not meant to substitute for professional
help and counselling. The readers are discouraged from using it for
diagnostic or therapeutic ends. The diagnosis and treatment of the
Narcissistic Personality Disorder can only be done by professionals
specifically trained and qualified to do so - which the author is not.
The author is NOT a mental health professional, though he is certified
in Mental Health Counselling Techniques.
In a famous experiment, students were asked to take a lemon home and to
grow used to it. Three days later, they were able to single out “their”
lemon from a pile of rather similar ones. They seemed to have bonded.
Is this the true meaning of love, bonding, coupling? Do we simply get
used to other human beings, pets, or objects?
Habit forming in humans is reflexive. We change ourselves and our
environment in order to attain maximum comfort and well-being. It is
the effort that goes into these adaptive processes that forms a habit.
Habits are intended to prevent us from constant experimentation and
risk taking. The greater our well-being, the better we function and the
longer we survive.
Actually, when we get used to something or to someone - we really get
used to ourselves. In our habits we see our history, all the time and
effort invested. Habits are encapsulated versions of our acts,
intentions, emotions and reactions. They are mirrors reflecting back
that part in us that formed the habit.
Hence, the feeling of comfort: we really feel comfortable with our own
selves when we feel comfortable with our habits.
Because of this, we tend to confuse habits with identity. When asked
WHO they are, most people resort to describing their habits. They
relate to us their work, their loved ones, their pets, their hobbies,
or their material possessions. Yet, all of these do not constitute an
identity. Their removal does not change one’s identity. They are habits
and they make the respondent comfortable and relaxed. But they are not
part of his identity in the truest, deepest sense.
Still, it is this simple mechanism of deception that binds people
together. A mother feels that her offspring are part of her identity
because she is so used to them that her well-being depends on their
existence and availability. Thus, any threat to her children is
interpreted by a mother as a threat to her person. Her reaction is,
therefore, strong and enduring and can be recurrently elicited.
The truth, of course, is that children ARE a part of their mother’s
identity in a superficial manner. Removing them would make her a
different person, but only in the shallow, phenomenological sense of
the word. Her deep-set, true identity is unlikely to change as a result.
But what is this kernel of identity that I am referring to? This
immutable entity which is the definition of who we are and what we are
and which, ostensibly, is not influenced by the death of our loved
ones? What is so strong as to resist the breaking of habits that
die-hard?
It is our personality. This elusive, loosely interconnected,
interacting, pattern of reactions to our changing environment. Like the
mind, it is difficult to define or to capture. Like the soul, many
believe that it does not exist, that it is a fictitious convention.
Yet, we know that we do have a personality. We feel it, we experience
it. It sometimes encourages us to do things - or prevents us from doing
them. It can be supple or rigid, benign or malignant, open or closed.
Its power lies in its looseness. It is able to combine, recombine and
permutate in hundreds of unforeseeable ways. It metamorphoses and the
constancy of its rate and kind of change is what gives us a sense of
identity.
Actually, when the personality is rigid to the point of being unable to
change in reaction to changing circumstances - we say that it is
disordered. A personality disorder is the ultimate misidentification.
The individual mistakes his habits for his identity. He identifies
himself with his environment, taking behavioural, emotional, and
cognitive cues exclusively from it. His inner world is, so to speak,
vacated, inhabited, as it were, by the apparition of his True Self.
Such a person is incapable of loving and of living. The personality
disordered sees no distinction between his self and his
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