The Narcissist Test: How to spot outsized egos ... and the surprising things we can learn from them

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First published in the US by HarperWave, an imprint of

HarperCollinsPublishers 2015 First published in the UK by Thorsons 2015

FIRST EDITION

© Dr Craig Malkin 2015

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Illustration on page 1: Echo and Narcissus, by John William Waterhouse, 1903

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Dr Craig Malkin asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

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Source ISBN: 9780007583805

Ebook Edition © July 2015 ISBN: 9780007583799

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For Julie Malkin

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Introduction

The Myth of Narcissus

PART I: WHAT IS NARCISSISM?

1 Rethinking Narcissism: Old Assumptions, New Ideas

2 Confusion and Controversy: How Narcissism Became a Dirty Word and We Found an Epidemic

3 From 0 to 10: Understanding the Spectrum

4 The Narcissism Test: How Narcissistic Are You?

PART II: ORIGINS: HEALTHY AND UNHEALTHY NARCISSISM

5 Root Causes: The Making of Echoists and Narcissists

6 Echoism and Narcissism: From Bad to Worse

PART III: RECOGNIZING AND COPING WITH UNHEALTHY NARCISSISM

7 Warning Signs: Staying Alert for Narcissists

8 Change and Recovery: Dealing with Lovers, Family, and Friends

9 Coping and Thriving: Dealing with Colleagues and Bosses

PART IV: PROMOTING HEALTHY NARCISSISM

10 Advice for Parents: Raising a Confident, Caring Child

11 SoWe: The Healthy Use of Social Media

12 A Passionate Life: The Ultimate Gift of Healthy Narcissism

Resources

References

List of Searchable Terms

Acknowledgments

About the Author

About the Publisher

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.

The Myth of Narcissus

Long ago in Ancient Greece there lived a boy, Narcissus, the son of the river god Cephissus and the fountain nymph Liriope. His divine origin had blessed him with equally divine looks. With wavy locks tumbling over his forehead and a body sculpted by years of climbing trees and scrambling over rocks hunting for deer and birds, Narcissus quickly amassed an army of admirers.

People everywhere—young and old, men and women—fell for him almost instantly. Soon his reputation reached beyond the human world. Anytime he wandered through the thick forests or along the rippling rivers near his home, Narcissus inevitably drew a crowd of tree or water nymphs eager to catch a glimpse of him.

Narcissus became accustomed to this admiration, but never offered a welcoming response. As legendary as his beauty might have been, he soon became equally well known for his indifference. One by one, potential lovers approached him and, one by one, he turned them away. He seemed to think himself above kindness or love, above the ordinary world of humans, above everyone, really—even the gods.

One day the mountain nymph Echo joined the ranks of his unrequited lovers. As the sun broke through the trees of the forest she caught a glimpse of Narcissus strolling through the woods on his daily hunt. Her heart burned. Unable to look away, she began to follow him, discreetly at first, peering quietly through the branches and leaves. Then, overcome by passion, she grew bolder, trampling noisily in his path. Soon, he sensed he was being followed.

“Who’s there?” he called.

Echo tried to answer, but she had no voice of her own—the result of an ancient curse by the goddess Hera (Echo had distracted her with incessant chatter one too many times). She tried to call out, but could only repeat his words.

“Who’s there?” she replied sadly.

“Come out now!” he demanded.

“Out now,” she answered, tearfully.

Growing angry, perhaps feeling mocked, Narcissus shouted. “Show yourself!”

“Yourself!” cried Echo, leaping out from behind the trees. She reached out, throwing her arms around his neck.

But Narcissus’s heart remained cold. “Get away!” he barked. Then, as he fled, he yelled cruelly over his shoulder, “I’ll die before I love you!”

“Love you!” Echo called, sobbing. Humiliated and heartbroken, she disappeared into the thickest part of the woods. She refused to move, refused even to drink or eat, and her body slowly withered away, until only her voice remained.

Meanwhile, the gods grew tired of the wreckage Narcissus had been leaving in his wake. One man, Ameinias, had become so distraught when Narcissus spurned his advances that he drew a sword and ran himself through. But before he did, he whispered a prayer to the goddess of vengeance, Nemesis. She quickly answered with a curse befitting the cruelty she’d witnessed. Narcissus himself was to know the pain of unrequited love.

One afternoon soon after, while strolling through his beloved woods, he came upon a cool, clear spring, so eerily still that it looked like a mirror. Thirsty from the walk, he bent down to drink, and when he did, he caught a glimpse of a beautiful face. He was so clouded by Nemesis’s curse he didn’t realize he was staring at himself. His heart hammered in his chest. He’d never known a feeling like this before, the depth of longing, the sheer joy of being in a person’s presence. Maybe this is love, he thought.

“Come join me!” he cried.

Silence.

“Why won’t you answer me!” he bellowed, gazing at his reflection. “Don’t you want me, too?”

He bent down to kiss the water and the face, briefly, seemed to fade from view.

“Come back!” He tried to approach the man again, to touch him, to feel his embrace. But each time he did, the face seemed to retreat, disappearing into the still waters of the spring.

Hours went by, then days, until at last, Narcissus stood up and dusted himself off. He finally knew what to do.

“I’ll come to you!” he called out into the water. “That way we can be together!”

With that, he dove into the pool, plunging down into the darkness, deeper and deeper, until he disappeared from sight, never to surface again.

Moments later, at the edge of the pool, a fantastic flower sprang up, a nimbus of white petals ringing a bright yellow trumpet. It leaned over the pool, forever gazing into the waters beneath it.

1

Rethinking Narcissism

Old Assumptions, New Ideas

The silent killer of all great men and women of achievement—particularly men, I don’t know why, maybe it’s the testosterone—I think it’s narcissism. Even more than hubris. And for women, too. Narcissism is the killer.

—BEN AFFLECK

Narcissism. The word has soared to such dizzying heights of fame that Narcissus himself would flush with pride. Scan a newspaper or magazine, watch the nightly news or daily talk shows, eavesdrop on commuters on their cellphones, gossip with your next-door neighbor, and the word pops up again and again. Everyone’s using it: average citizens, actors, social critics, therapists, a US Supreme Court justice, even the pope. Add in that we’re allegedly in the midst of a “narcissism epidemic,” and it’s easy to see why the term has become ubiquitous. Nothing gets people talking like a disease on the rise, especially if, as Ben Affleck seems to worry, the condition is terminal.

But what does narcissism mean exactly? For a word that gets hurled about with such frequency and fear, its definition seems alarmingly vague. Colloquially, it’s become little more than a popular insult, referring to an excessive sense of self—self-admiration, self-centeredness, selfishness, and self-importance. The press is apt to slap the description on any celebrity or politician whose publicity stunts or selfie habits have spiraled out of control.

But is that all narcissism is? Vanity? Attention-seeking? In psychological circles the meaning is no less confusing. Narcissism can either be an obnoxious yet common personality trait or a rare and dangerous mental health disorder. Take your pick. But do it soon, because there’s a strong sentiment among mental health researchers that it shouldn’t be considered an illness at all.

As slippery and amorphous as all these views seem to be, they all share a single assumption: narcissism is wholly destructive.

Too bad it’s wrong.

Narcissism can be harmful, true, and the Web is rife with articles and blogs from people who’ve suffered at the hands of extremely narcissistic lovers, spouses, parents, siblings, friends, and colleagues. Their stories are as heartbreaking as they are frightening. But that’s just a small part of narcissism, not the whole picture. And until all the pieces are in place, we have little hope of understanding how and why narcissism becomes destructive, let alone protecting ourselves when it does.

Today, in contrast, a surprising new view has begun to emerge, one that points to all the ways narcissism seems to help us, too. It even offers some hope for change when our loved ones, just like Narcissus, are in danger of disappearing into themselves forever.

Narcissism is more than a stubborn character flaw or a severe mental illness or a rapidly spreading cultural disease, transmitted by social media. It makes no more sense to assume it’s a problem than it would if we were speaking of heart rate, body temperature, or blood pressure. Because what it is, in fact, is a normal, pervasive human tendency: the drive to feel special.

Indeed, for the past twenty-five years, psychologists have compiled massive amounts of evidence that most people seem convinced they’re better than almost everyone else on the planet. This wealth of research can only lead us to one inevitable conclusion: the desire to feel special isn’t a state of mind reserved for arrogant jerks or sociopaths.

Consider, for example, the findings from a research tool called the “How I See Myself Scale,” a widely used questionnaire devised to measure “self-enhancement” (an unrealistically positive self-image). People who fill out the scale are asked to rank themselves on various traits, including warmth, humor, insecurity, and aggressiveness (“Do you think you’re average or in the top 25 percent, 15 percent, or 10 percent?”). In study after study in country after country, the vast majority of participants report having more admirable qualities and fewer repugnant ones than most of their peers. After reviewing decades of findings, University of Washington psychologist Jonathan Brown has concluded, “Instead of viewing themselves as average and common, most people think of themselves as exceptional [emphasis added] and unique.” This pervasive phenomenon has been dubbed “the better than average effect.”

Lest you fear that these results are evidence of a global social plague, the truth is a slightly outsized ego has its benefits. In fact, numerous studies have found that people who see themselves as better than average are happier, more sociable, and often more physically healthy than their humbler peers. The swagger in their step is associated with a host of positive qualities, including creativity, leadership, and high self-esteem, which can propel success at work. Their rosy self-image imbues them with confidence and helps them endure hardship, even after devastating failure or horrific loss.

Bosnian War survivors provide a dramatic example. Psychologists and social workers who evaluated a group of survivors for depression, interpersonal difficulties, and other “psychological problems” found that those who considered themselves better than average were in better shape than those who had a more realistic view of themselves. A similar pattern emerged among survivors of 9/11. Feeling special seems to help survivors of tragedy face the future with less fear and greater hope.

The converse appears to be true as well: people who don’t feel special often suffer higher rates of depression and anxiety; they’re also less likely to admire their partners. It’s not that their view of the world is wrong; very often it’s more accurate compared to people who think highly of themselves. But they sacrifice their happiness for that realism; they see themselves, their partners, and the world itself, in slightly dimmer light. Researchers call this the “sadder but wiser effect.”

It’s ironic in a way, the reverse of what we’ve been taught about narcissism. It’s not bad, but good to feel a little better than our fellow human beings, to feel special. In fact, we may need to. Where the trouble lies—whether narcissism hurts or helps, is healthy or unhealthy—depends entirely on the degree to which we feel special.

Narcissism, it turns out, exists on a spectrum. In moderation, it can, by inspiring our imagination and sparking a passion for life, open up our experience and expand our sense of our own potential. It can even deepen our love for family, friends, and partners. By far, the most powerful predictor of success in romantic relationships is our tendency to view our partners as better than they actually are. I call this “feeling special by association.”

Psychologists Benjamin Le of Haverford College and Natalie Dove of Eastern Michigan University recently reviewed more than 100 studies involving nearly 40,000 people in romantic relationships and found that whether a couple stayed together beyond a few weeks or months depended most strongly not on partners having winning personalities, robust self-esteem, or feelings of closeness, but on one or both people holding positive illusions—that is, they viewed their partners as smarter, more talented, and more beautiful than they were by objective standards. Believing that we’re holding hands with the most amazing person in the room makes us feel special, too.