"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, 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. 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."

Ken Heilbrunn, M.D.
Seattle, Washington, USA

Very, very good description of our cousin "George", cousin Lionel. But
I think "George" will be quite cross with you for posting it. What will
he call you in addition to "slut", "La Slalope", "kroopologist", etc?


Your cousin,
Brian T. Middius (a proud member of the Middius family of anonymous
Usenet trolls)




Lionel C. Middius wrote:
"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, 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. 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."

Ken Heilbrunn, M.D.
Seattle, Washington, USA

a écrit :
Very, very good description of our cousin "George", cousin Lionel. But
I think "George" will be quite cross with you for posting it. What will
he call you in addition to "slut", "La Slalope", "kroopologist", etc?

"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."

;-)

LOL !

Your cousin,
Brian T. Middius (a proud member of the Middius family of anonymous
Usenet trolls)

Dear Lionel,

Thank you for quoting the entire introduction to my book, "Malignant
Self Love - Narcissism Revisited":

http://malignantselflove.tripod.com/kenintro.html

http://malignantselflove.tripod.com/thebook.html

More about pathological narcissism:
http://malignantselflove.tripod.com/npdglance.html

Sam

samvaknin a écrit :
Dear Lionel,

Thank you for quoting the entire introduction to my book, "Malignant
Self Love - Narcissism Revisited":

http://malignantselflove.tripod.com/kenintro.html

http://malignantselflove.tripod.com/thebook.html

More about pathological narcissism:
http://malignantselflove.tripod.com/npdglance.html

Sam

Sincere apologies since I have only referenced the author of the
introduction (Ken Heilbrunn) and I forgot you as the writer of the book.

Lionel