Narcissists don't wonder if they're narcissists

teatime conversations

A cloud of steam brought softness to her angular face. Wafts of wild cherry bark, peppermint, and licorice root came from a perfectly misshapen blue glazed mug she held between her thin hands.  

She said to me, her eyes looking anywhere but mine, sometimes I wonder if I am a narcissist. 

Familiarity and shock drew heaviness in my torso, drawing my elbows to lean on the patina table. 

She couldn’t be further from it. A hundred celestial giants separated her from narcissism. 

But I understood. 

Because sometimes I wonder if I am a narcissist too. 

Sometimes I wonder so hard that my awareness rips my consciousness out of my body. And as I wonder I start to worry a worry that compounds like a summer storm. I experience an unshakeable-makes-my-skin-crawl kind of dread that I am self-centered. I fear that I think I am superior to others. I fear that I could do terrible things. That I am not empathetic enough. That I want too much attention. That I am bad.

Time sputters. And I am never sure if it is seconds or minutes that pass as my awareness floats from behind my two eyes further and further away. I’m so grossly aware of myself that I am no longer within myself. My body and my consciousness split, staring at one another in a standoff.

I’m sitting across the room from myself. Watching myself. I smirk. I fidget with my fingers. I rub my arms. I cross my legs in different directions every few minutes. I laugh. I grab a strand of hair and with its curls, I constrict my finger turning it pale then red then purple. I say yeah and draw out my E’s. I observe my facial ticks and twitches as she talks. I arch my back and pinch my shoulder blades together like a stream of cold water is trickling down my spine. 

And sometimes, like this time, my consciousness jumps into the mind of another. As I try to see through her eyes, I wonder if she wonders if I am a narcissist too. 

My micro behaviors are as subtle as the step of a house cat but as loud as a lion's roar.  I wonder what they mean. They must mean something. 

Does my back straighten like a Douglas Fir because I think I am better than others? Do I fidget with my fingers like dandelions tangling in the wind because I am bored with what others have to say? Do my eyebrows raise like spring sprouts because I am judging? Do I laugh like a hummingbird sings songs just to appease others?

Sitting across the room from myself, cups of tea no longer wafting steam, I analyze my emotions and my ticks and my behaviors under a magnifying glass.

My fear of being narcissistic draws my mind to sluggishness, thoughts labor to emerge, words stumble and falter. My fear presses down on me, rendering my movements stiff and my voice hesitant. My fear envelopes me in a thick fog that I navigate with caution and restraint, anxious that the slightest misstep will betray the person I wish to be. 

I was being puppeteered right then and there when her words shattered my mental bubble. 

Narcissists don’t wonder if they’re narcissists. 

That’s what they say at least, she said half laughing, half hopeful. 

I’ve been told the same. By my friends. By my therapist(s). By my own voice mimicking the voices of my friends. And my therapist(s). 

In an equal measure of laughter and hope, I said, so if narcissists don’t wonder if they’re narcissists, then what are we?  

Maybe a little OCD, she said.

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Thank you

Tommy Dixon

for your feedback, your support, and your guidance, and as always, thanks for being a friend.

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