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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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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.

But while moderate narcissism can enhance love, too much can diminish or even destroy it. When people grow dependent on feeling special, they become grandiose and arrogant. They stop thinking that their partners are the best or most important people in the room because they need to claim that distinction for themselves. And they lose the capacity to see the world from any point of view other than their own. These are the true narcissists, and at their worst, they also display two other traits of a so-called “dark triad”: a complete lack of remorse and a penchant for manipulation.

Surprisingly, too little narcissism can be harmful as well. Remember Echo? She’s the part of the myth we usually forget. She has no voice of her own. She’s self-abnegating, nearly invisible. The less people feel special, the more self-effacing they become until, at last, they have so little sense of self they feel worthless and impotent. I call these people echoists.

Danger, then, lurks toward the ends of the narcissism spectrum. Only in the middle, where the need to stand out from 7 billion other humans doesn’t blind us to the needs and feelings of others, lies health and happiness.

Another notion that we’ve mistakenly become wedded to is that our degree of narcissism is fixed throughout our lifetime. The fact is even healthy narcissism typically waxes and wanes, subsides and erupts, depending on our life circumstances and our age. When we’re sick, for example, we normally move up the spectrum; we’ll feel more deserving of others’ time and care, even more entitled to it, than our healthier peers and family members. Similarly at work, when we feel the need to be recognized, admired, and appreciated—say when we’re gunning for promotion—our narcissism spikes. In such instances, our hopes for the future ride on standing out from the herd. There are also specific life stages during which we need to see ourselves as special, such as pregnancy and adolescence; and others that move us toward Echo’s end of the continuum, such as caring for a newborn or deferring our dreams to help support a partner’s career. Both of these circumstances demand that we scale back our need to be in the spotlight.

But these peaks and valleys generally don’t last forever. The crisis or transition passes and the drive to feel special returns to a healthy level. If we’ve moved closer to Echo’s end of the spectrum, we find our voice again. And even if we’ve won the work promotion and quietly think we’re better than our colleagues, the need to prove that to ourselves—and the world—isn’t nearly as pressing. If it is, we’re no longer in healthy territory.

Another common—and wrong—assumption is that damaging narcissists are always easy to spot. Yes, the loud, vain, self-aggrandizing ones who daily pop on our TV screens and stream through social media certainly are. They stick out like sore thumbs—which is probably a good thing; the truth is you’ll find more narcissists in your life than echoists, and they’ll be more of a concern (narcissists inflict damage on others, while echoists primarily hurt themselves). But not all narcissists advertise themselves so brazenly—some aren’t even especially flashy or outgoing. And that makes recognizing them a lot harder.

There are also lower-profile subtle narcissists who are more difficult to detect, more common, and more likely to wreak havoc in our lives. They’re the people we see every day: they’re our lovers, spouses, friends, and bosses. Their unhealthy narcissism is often masked by their manner; they’re often quiet, charming, capable of warmth, and even occasional empathy. Their signs are harder to spot—but they’re still there. And if you’re familiar with them, you can tease out the signals, including a tendency to flee emotions. In Chapter 7 we’ll take a closer look at the signs that may be red flags, to help you evaluate your relationship with a subtle narcissist.

The idea that the person you sleep with or work beside might be a narcissist is shocking and depressing. Even more depressing is recalling the accepted wisdom that narcissism is a fixed personality trait or character flaw that never improves. But here, too, thinking has begun to shift. Many extreme narcissists do seem to be stuck (thankfully they’re rare, only an estimated 1 percent to 3 percent of the US population). But some, milder narcissists may be able to change. Stripped down to its basic action, narcissism is a learned response, that is, a habit and, like any habit, it gets stronger or weaker depending on circumstances.

Narcissists bury normal emotions like fear, sadness, loneliness, and shame because they’re afraid they’ll be rejected for having them; the greater their fear, the more they shield themselves with the belief that they’re special. Unhealthy narcissism isn’t an easy habit to break, but people can become healthier by learning to accept and share the emotions they usually hide. And their loved ones can help them shift to the healthy center of the spectrum by opening up in the exact same way.

Just like most things in life, healthy narcissism boils down to striking the right balance. At the heart of narcissism lies an ancient conundrum: how much should we love ourselves and how much should we love others? The Judaic sage and scholar Hillel the Elder summarized the dilemma this way: “If I am not for myself, who am I? And if I am only for myself, then what am I?” To remain healthy and happy, we all need a certain amount of investment in ourselves. We need a voice, a presence of our own, to make an impact on the world and people around us or else, like Echo, we eventually become nothing at all.

We all sail between the Scylla of enervating self-denial and Charybdis of soul-killing self-importance. That’s what narcissism is really all about—and you’ll learn how to safely navigate the passage as we go along. But first, we have to untangle a mystery. If feeling special can be good for us, how on earth did we end up so obsessed with the idea that it’s bad? Why are we so focused on the dangers of narcissism?

2

Confusion and Controversy

How Narcissism Became a Dirty Word and We Found an Epidemic

Many years ago, a close friend of mine, Tara, called me about an incident with her father and her two-year-old daughter, Nina. They’d been out for a stroll in the park when Nina suddenly became unglued, screaming and wailing to go home. Tara did what she could, but Nina remained inconsolable. After about half an hour, Tara announced, “We have to go, I’m sorry.” Her father shot her a stern look, warning: “If you leave every time she pitches a fit, she’ll think the world revolves around her!” Tara, fuming, fired back. “Yes. Yes, she will. And I think that’s a good thing! Don’t you?”

On the surface, this father-daughter quarrel was a generational battle over how to raise a child. But at a deeper level, their argument reflects two radically different views of human nature. Tara’s dad seems to believe people are easily corruptible, requiring constant reining in to avoid becoming hopelessly self-centered, while Tara thinks we’re all made of sturdier stuff and actually benefit from a little self-absorption now and then. The first position inevitably adopts a rather dim view of humanity, the latter a more optimistic one.

Without realizing it, Tara and her father had squared off in one of the oldest debates in history, one that’s central to the confusion surrounding narcissism today.

The Birth of Narcissism

Long before the word narcissism had been coined, philosophers fought just as fiercely as Tara and her father over the place of the self in our moral priorities.

In 350 BC, Aristotle posed a question—“Who should the good man love more? Himself, or others?”—and answered it: “The good man is particularly selfish.” In India two centuries earlier, the Buddha had spread the opposite view: The self is an illusion, a trick our minds play on us to make us think we matter. Buddhism suggested that this illusory self should never be our primary focus. Four centuries after Aristotle, Christian teachings added a negative fillip: making too much of oneself constitutes the sin of pride (and a quick path to hell). Excesses of the self underlie other sins—sloth, greed, gluttony, and envy—as well.

Down through the centuries, the debate raged, engaging philosophers from Thomas Hobbes (self-love is part of brutish human nature) to Adam Smith (self-interest benefits society, aka “greed is good”). It wasn’t until the end of the 19th century, however, that the debate entered into the circles of medicine and psychology and the word narcissism first appeared. In 1898 pioneering British sexologist Havelock Ellis described patients who’d literally fallen in love with themselves, sprinkling their bodies with kisses from their own lips and masturbating to excess, as suffering from a “Narcissus-like” ailment. One year later, a German doctor, Paul Näcke, writing about similar “sexual perversions,” coined the catchier term narcissism. But it was the founding father of psychoanalysis, Sigmund Freud, who in 1914 made the word famous in a groundbreaking paper: On Narcissism: An Introduction. He liberated the term from its sexual connotations (unusual for him), describing narcissism, instead, as a necessary developmental stage of childhood.

As infants, Freud wrote, we’re convinced the world originates in us, at least all the exciting parts of it. We literally fall in love with ourselves, giddy with all the fascinating and sexy things we seem capable of. He called this stage “primary narcissism,” and felt it wasn’t just healthy, but also crucial to our capacity to form meaningful, close relationships. Our passion for ourselves as infants gives us the energy to reach out to others. We have to overestimate our own importance in the universe before we can see anyone else as important.

But Freud didn’t know quite what to make of narcissism beyond infancy. Was it good or bad for adults? On the one hand, he felt that narcissism and love were closely linked; lovers often raise each other on a pedestal above the rest of humanity. He also pointed to charismatic leaders and innovators as proof that individuals who feel special can bring tremendous good to the world. But he was quick to condemn adult narcissism as well. If we don’t let go of the childhood fascination with ourselves, he cautioned, it can lead to vanity (in his view found chiefly in women) and to serious mental illness, severing us from reality and turning us into delusional megalomaniacs. Freud’s dual views on adult narcissism generated enormous confusion and set the stage for a crackling duel nearly fifty years later between two giants in mental health: Heinz Kohut and Otto Kernberg.

Both men were born in Vienna to Jewish families and both trained as psychoanalysts. But they came of age under vastly different circumstances. Kohut, born in 1913, knew a Vienna full of hope and prosperity, brimming with rich artistic tradition and teeming with intellectual fervor. The advent of Hitler and the Third Reich changed all that. Soon after the annexation of Austria in 1938, Kohut fled his beloved city for England and then America, where he settled in 1940. Born in 1928, fifteen years after Kohut, Kernberg grew up in a grim and ominous Vienna in the shadow of encroaching Nazism. When he was 10 years old, he and his family fled to Chile, where Kernberg spent the next twenty years, far away from the home he’d once known; he moved to the United States in 1959. The two men’s contrasting experiences seem to have colored their views of human nature. Darkness pervades Kernberg’s view, while hope suffuses Kohut’s.

The Rise of Healthy Narcissism

As a young psychoanalyst, Heinz Kohut, like Freud, quickly earned a reputation for brilliance as a clinician, researcher, and teacher/lecturer. (He was renowned for his ability to commit entire therapy session transcripts to memory and to deliver compelling talks without a single note to prompt him.) Throughout most of his career, he remained one of Freud’s staunchest defenders. But in the 1970s, he split from the orthodox Freudian community to found an entirely new school of thought, Self Psychology, devoted to understanding how people develop a healthy (or unhealthy) self-image.

Kohut believed that Freud had stumbled by placing sex and aggression at the center of human experience. It’s not our baser instincts that drive us, Kohut argued; rather, it’s our need to develop a solid sense of self. And for that, he said, we don’t just need other people; we need narcissism. Freud had all but elevated self-reliance to the level of virtue. We should be fully autonomous as adults, declared the master, demanding neither approval nor admiration. But where Freud saw narcissism as a mark of immaturity, an infantile dependency to be outgrown, Kohut saw it as vital to well-being throughout life. Even as adults, we need to depend on others from time to time—to look up to them, to enjoy their admiration, to turn to them for comfort and satisfaction.

Young children only feel like they matter—only feel like they exist—when their parents make them feel special. Parents who pay attention to their children’s inner lives—their hopes and dreams, their sadness and fears, and most of all their need for admiration—provide the “mirroring” necessary for the child to develop a healthy sense of self. But young children also need to idolize their parents. Seeing their mother and father as perfect helps them weather the storms every fledgling self goes through as we face life’s inevitable disappointments. I’m awesome anyway, you can tell yourself when bullied at school or flunking math, because my parents think so. And my parents are perfect, so they should know.

Kohut believed that children gradually learn that nothing—and no one—can be perfect and so their need for self-perfection eventually gives way to a more level-headed self-image. As they witness the ways healthy adults handle their own flaws and limitations, they begin coping more pragmatically, without the constant need for fantasies of greatness or perfection. At the end of their journey, they acquire healthy narcissism: genuine pride, self-worth, the capacity to dream, empathize, admire and be admired. This, Kohut said, is how any of us develops a sturdy sense of self.

But when children face abuse, neglect, and other traumas that leave them feeling small, insignificant, and unimportant, they spend all their time looking for admiration or finding people to look up to. In short, Kohut concluded, they become narcissists—vulnerable, fragile, and empty on the inside; arrogant, pompous, and hostile on the outside, to compensate for just how worthless they feel. People, in their eyes, become jesters or servants in their court, useful only for the ability to confirm the narcissist’s importance.

The rest of us, if our parents do their job right, never lose our moments of grandiosity. Nor should we. In Kohut’s eyes, it was madness to think of lofty dreams as inherently bad. If anything, they provide a depth and vitality to our experience, fueling our ambitions and inspiring creativity. Composers and artists throughout history, he noted, often have moments of self-importance. To produce anything great—to even sit down and try—often requires feeling that we’re capable of greatness, hardly the humblest state of mind. Kohut refused to see some of civilization’s greatest creations simply as the result of illness. Instead of stamping out narcissism, he argued, we should learn to enjoy it as adults. Narcissism only becomes dangerous, taking us over and tipping into megalomania, when we cling to feeling special like a talisman instead of playing with it from time to time. It all depends on how completely we allow grandiosity and perfectionism to take us over.

There’s an appealing romanticism to Kohut’s vision of narcissism. It allows us to disappear into ourselves, like Narcissus diving into the pool, but instead of drowning and becoming lost forever, we discover another world, richly populated with shimmering versions of everyone we love. Once there, we, too, take on a kind of otherworldly glow. For a time, we’re different, special, set apart from the rest of humanity. If we’re healthy enough, we can reemerge and rejoin the ordinary world, bringing our bounty, such as empathy and inspiration, with us. Where Freud’s narcissist is childish—a Peter Pan figure stubbornly refusing to become an adult—Kohut’s is, at his best, an adventurer, slipping in and out of intoxicating dreams of greatness.

By the 1970s Kohut’s self-psychology movement had become something of a juggernaut and his views on narcissism had become widely accepted. In fact, when the third edition of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual (DSM)—the guide to classifying mental disorders published by the American Psychological Association—hit the shelves in 1980, it carried a brand-new description of unhealthy narcissism very similar to the one Kohut had proposed. By then many mental health experts believed feeling special could lead to many good things—and the dangers, while very real, had been overstated. But the tide was about to change.

The Rise of the Dark Narcissist

Otto Kernberg agreed with Kohut that healthy narcissism provides us with self-esteem, pride, ambition, creativity, and resilience. But he diverged sharply with Kohut’s theory when it came to unhealthy narcissism. Whereas Kohut viewed even grandiose narcissism in a somewhat benevolent light, Kernberg saw it as inherently dangerous and harmful.

Likely due to his exposure at an impressionable age to Nazism and Hitler (one of the most dangerous megalomaniacs who ever lived), Kernberg believed in the presence of evil in the world. His experience during psychoanalytic training reinforced his dark views of human nature—Kernberg cut his teeth professionally working in hospitals and clinics with severely mentally ill patients prone to aggression and psychosis, while Kohut arrived at his theories treating privileged patients in his luxurious private offices. In Kernberg’s view, narcissists, at their most destructive, are masses of seething resentment—Frankenstein’s monsters, crudely patched together from misshapen pieces of personality. They’d been failed so horrifically as children, through neglect or abuse, that their primary goal is to avoid ever feeling dependent again. By adopting the delusion that they’re perfect, self-contained human beings (and that others are beneath them), they never have to fear feeling unsafe and unimportant again.

Far more loyal to Freud’s legacy than Kohut, Kernberg refused to abandon the idea that sex and aggression fueled much of our behavior. Like Freud, he saw human beings as roiling cauldrons of hostility and lust, driven by their darkest and often cruelest passions. The most dangerous narcissists, in Kernberg’s view, may even be born with too much aggression wired into them; they’re frightening mutations, given to a far stronger impulse to envy, attack, and destroy their fellow human beings when they feel hurt. Made to feel worthless as children and fueled by their overabundance of hate, they ravage the rest of humanity out of revenge, using people to satisfy their own needs and casting them aside when they’re done. Kernberg called the most frightening of these specimens “malignant narcissists.”

The only sensible response to this threat, according to Kernberg, is to dismantle the warped self-image and reconstruct it in more benevolent form. He believed that narcissists were capable of reform and that confronting them with the truth of the danger they pose is the first step in changing their behavior. We certainly can’t stop the threat of destructive narcissism by feeding their need to feel special. That’s a bit like letting the monster loose to terrorize the villagers. This was anathema to Kohut, who advocated approaching narcissists with empathy. They need our understanding, he said, if they have any hope of getting better. Kernberg, still allied with Freud’s bleak vision of humanity, could only see Kohut’s stance as dangerously naïve.

Kohut’s and Kernberg’s competing theories were battled over through conferences and papers, with neither side gaining ascendancy. But after Kohut succumbed to cancer in 1981, Kernberg was left alone in the spotlight and his views, particularly of malignant narcissism, spread widely. They were helped into public consciousness by historian and social critic Christopher Lasch’s popular 1979 book, The Culture of Narcissism, which drew heavily on Kernberg’s frightening image of destructive narcissism. In most people’s minds, narcissism became synonymous with malignant narcissism.

This image began to take hold, magnified by the idea that narcissists weren’t rare creatures that we had only the slightest chance of encountering in our lifetimes, but monsters standing on every street corner, sitting in the next cubicle, and sleeping in our beds. And soon one little test enabled the paranoia to spread like wildfire.

An Epidemic of Narcissism— or a Little Measurement Magic

Introduced in 1979, the Narcissistic Personality Inventory (NPI) is a basic tool of psychology researchers, and is routinely administered to undergraduate psychology students in the United States and around the world. (If you ever studied psychology in college, you probably took the NPI.) Respondents read 40 paired statements and check off which one of the two best describes themselves. For example: “I like to show off my body” and “I don’t particularly like to show off my body” or “I find it easy to manipulate people” and “I don’t like it when I find myself manipulating people.” Each narcissistic choice gets one point; the opposite choice gets a zero. Points are added up and people who score well above average earn the title of narcissist.

In 2009, twenty years after the inventory’s start-up, psychologist Jean Twenge, of the University of Texas, compared average totals by year for thousands of US students and announced that the averages had risen “just as fast as obesity from the 1980s to the present.” She proclaimed that a “narcissism epidemic” is raging among millennials—and underscored her contention by using the same shock phrase for the title of her book. The Narcissism Epidemic, coauthored with psychologist Keith Campbell, of the University of Georgia, explored the alleged rampant arrogance and entitlement of today’s youth. This was the dramatic follow-up to her first book, Generation Me, in which she declared, based on the same research, that “today’s young Americans are more confident, assertive, entitled—and more miserable than ever before.”

Twenge placed the blame for this epidemic squarely on shoulders of parents and educators who made a generation of children coming of age in the 1980s and ’90s feel, perhaps, a little too special. After all, it had become commonplace for classrooms to be plastered with positive-reinforcement posters proclaiming things like “You are unique!”; for trophies to be handed out for effort, not accomplishment; for parents to remind their children at every turn that they were perfect just as they were. Love yourself enough, the message seemed to be, and you can do anything. Some educators even argued that boosting self-esteem would be something of a panacea, promoting well-being and happiness, preventing bullying—possibly even reducing crime. Make kids feel special, they argued, and great things will follow.

While this self-esteem campaign doesn’t appear to have had a positive impact on crime rates, bullying, or achievement scores, Twenge argued that it did have a significant cultural impact: it created “an army of narcissists.” In an effort to help children feel better about themselves, we’d inadvertently ruined them. Having given them too much leeway and swollen heads, we hadn’t simply damaged our kids; we created a generation that posed a threat to the entire world.

Twenge’s theories touched a cultural nerve. The press was already rife with reports of overinvolved parents who coddled their children, chewing out their sons’ or daughters’ teachers for dishing out bad grades or calling during job interviews to speak to their prospective employers. Headlines buzzed with shocking tales of millennials’ sense of entitlement: disgruntled administrative assistants who slacked off at work, convinced that secretarial duties were beneath them; entry-level workers who held court when they should have been listening to their boss; new hires who spent entire meetings glued to their smartphones, texting friends instead of taking notes. And now, it seemed, Twenge had provided an explanation for all the bad behavior.

Her conclusions, however, have drawn fire right from the start—and the evidence she marshals to support the idea of a narcissism epidemic has come under the heaviest attack. The NPI, on which Twenge draws so heavily, is a deeply flawed measure. Under its design, agreeing with statements that reflect even admirable traits can inch people higher up the narcissism scale. For example, picking “I am assertive” and “I would prefer to be a leader” counts as unhealthy even though these qualities have been linked repeatedly in decades of research to high self-esteem and happy relationships. People who simply enjoy speaking their mind or being in charge are clearly different from narcissists who enjoy manipulation and lies. But the NPI makes no distinction. More people checking these salutary statements could easily account for millennials’ rising NPI scores through the years, and that’s what some studies indicate has happened.

Second, numerous large-scale studies, including one of nearly half a million high school students conducted between 1976 and 2006, have found little or no psychological difference between millennials and previous generations (apart from a rise in self-confidence). In fact, one study of thousands of students suggests that millennials express greater altruism and concern about the world as a whole than do previous generations, prompting psychologist Jeffrey Arnett, of Clark University to call them “GenerationWe.” The results of a 2010 Pew Research Report, surveying a nationally representative sample of several thousand millennials, also stands in stark contrast to Twenge’s findings. Millennials, the Pew authors concluded, get along well with their parents, respect their elders, value marriage and family far over career and success, and are “confident, self-expressive, and open to change”—hardly the portrait of entitled brats.

But there’s another far more troubling problem with using the NPI to declare an epidemic: we have no way of knowing whether or not people scored as “narcissists” remain so over time. No study has followed up on these thousands of college students after they graduated. Furthermore, just about every theory of adolescence and early adulthood presumes that the young are only temporarily a self-absorbed bunch, and research seems to support that view. We used to think that was a good thing: the bright-faced idealism of youth. The young believe themselves capable of anything; they’re ready to take over the world and make it a better place. Most of us, in our less cynical moments, appreciate their ostentatious energy. But just as with other temporary bouts of narcissism brought on by specific life stages, such enthusiasm eventually fades. As we approach our thirties, most of us come back down to earth, and our self-importance, and yes—self-absorption—give way to the realities of life.

Though we currently seem obsessed with Kernberg’s dark narcissism, the pervasive better than average effect—where healthy people do appear to feel special—suggests that Kohut’s benign view is the right one.

We need our grandiosity at times to feel happy and healthy. And a growing body of recent research concludes that a little narcissism, in adolescence, helps the young survive the Sturm und Drang of youth; moderate teenage narcissists are less anxious and depressed and have far better relationships than their low and high narcissism peers. Likewise, corporate leaders with moderate narcissism are rated by their employees as far more effective than those with too little or too much. And my own research with my colleagues is pointing in the same direction: only people who never feel special or feel special all the time pose a threat to themselves and the world.

The difference between narcissists and the rest of us is one of degree, not kind. To better understand that, we need to explore the full range of the narcissism spectrum.

3

From 0 to 10

Understanding the Spectrum

When my daughters were in kindergarten, they loved to visit the Cambridge Museum of Science. One exhibit, in particular, fascinated them. It consisted of a small tile with a lamp shining down on it. By turning a knob on the lamp, they could change the color of the light. But each time the lamp changed color, so did the tile. What seemed to be a bright red tile, a few moments ago, would deepen into purple, then turn yellow, then green, and on and on. At the edges, some colors would blend, making it hard to discern any one color at a time. A seemingly trivial question, What color is the tile?, suddenly became far more complicated.

We tend to like clear, distinct categories—it makes life easier to impose order on the world. The tile is either green or red, but it can’t be both. Similarly, we like to think in stark extremes—full or empty, black or white, good or bad. But as soon as we start looking more closely at our world, the categories blur. Even the paint on our walls seems to change color throughout the day, depending on the directness and intensity of the light. There are gradations and nuance to almost everything in life, including attitude, emotion, and personality.

So instead of regarding narcissism in all or nothing terms, imagine a line stretching from 0 to 10, like the one below, with the desire to feel special slowly growing as we move from left to right.

The Narcissism Spectrum

0 | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10
abstinence | habit | moderation | habit | addiction

Life at either of the extremes, whether at 0 or 10, isn’t a particularly healthy place to be. At 0 people never enjoy feeling special in anyway. Perhaps they never have. At first, this might sound healthy. Most of us have it drummed into our heads, whether by religion or family or culture, that anything even approaching the desire for special treatment or attention is bad. Our distaste is epitomized by the question What makes you so special? We all recognize the reprimand in the rhetoric. What people really mean is You’re acting like you’re special. Stop it! In most cultures around the world, selflessness is often held up as the ultimate virtue. No one has a right to feel special anyway, the argument goes, so we should celebrate people who never indulge the feeling.

But bear in mind what that really means: unrelenting selflessness, feeling abjectly ordinary, no more deserving of praise or love or care than anyone regardless of the circumstances. It doesn’t take long to see that this presents a range of problems. Say, for example, you’ve lost your beloved mother to a horrific car accident. Most people would agree that you deserve special attention; during grief, our pain should take center stage for a time. Living at 0 means you not only wouldn’t accept sympathy and assistance, you might even actively push it away. I once worked with a woman who rigidly refused to let anyone help or support her, even after her husband died. “Please—don’t trouble yourself,” she’d say when anyone tried to pick up groceries for her or drive out to visit her (she lived an hour from most of her friends). She was determined to be alone instead of surrounded by supportive companions giving her special attention.

Life at the far right is just as bleak. While people at 0 assiduously avoid the spotlight, those at the far right either scramble for it or silently long for it. In their minds, they cease to exist if people aren’t acknowledging their importance. They’re addicted to attention, and like most addicts, they’d do anything to get their high, so even authentic love takes a backseat. At 10 our humanity collapses under the weight of empty posturing and arrogance. Think of Bernie Madoff, who swindled hundreds of millions of dollars from his clients and who, when caught, scoffed at the “incompetence” of the investigators for not asking the right questions. Even as he faced life in prison, he still managed to feel superior.

Being at 1 or 9 isn’t much better. People at 9 are still in the territory of dark narcissism; they can live without elbowing their way into the spotlight, but it pains them to do so—so much so that they need professional help to break the habit. (Think of Don Draper of the TV series Mad Men, hopping from affair to affair, desperately seeking excitement and attention; he can’t stop even after he sees the damage his lies and infidelity have inflicted on his family.) People at 1 suffer just as much; their aversion to feeling special is unyielding. They might tolerate a little attention on birthdays, but they hate it.

As we approach 2 and 3 and 7 and 8 on the spectrum, we leave behind the compulsive rigidity found near 0 and 10, and enter the area of habit. There’s greater flexibility of feeling in this range, and therefore, more possibility for change. On the left, at 2, people enjoy feeling special, albeit infrequently; at 3 they may secretly dream of greatness. On the right, at 8, they might occasionally set aside their flamboyant dreams and devote some thought to other people; at 7, they’ve begun to show signs of humanity again, including the occasional ability to admit to ordinary faults.

A hallmate of mine in college offers a good example of someone around 3 on the spectrum. She enjoyed birthdays and accepted compliments, but she still hated it when anyone tried to take care of her. She’d actually get up and clean dishes as soon as someone tried to clear hers. She struggled with this inability to let others do things for her, confessing to me late one night, “I hate that it’s so hard for me to accept help or special treatment.” Likewise, a dormmate of mine who lived at 7 felt self-conscious about the way he’d name-drop or find a way to work his high test grades into casual conversations. “I know it’s wrong,” he said, “but I do it so people will be impressed. I’m worried that if I don’t, they won’t think much of me at all.” Habitual echoists and narcissists recognize that their behavior might be less than healthy; they just can’t always keep it in check.

The healthiest range is found in the center, at 4 through 6; it’s the world of moderation. Here, we might find intense ambition and occasional arrogance, but feeling special isn’t compulsive anymore. It’s just fun. At 5, in the very center, there’s no relentless need to feel—or avoid feeling—special. People here enjoy vivid dreams of success and greatness, but don’t spend all their time immersed in them. You’ll notice that 6, though it tips past the center, is still in the healthy range. That’s because it’s quite possible to have a strong drive to feel special and still remain healthy. Healthy narcissism is all about moving seamlessly between self-absorption and caring attentiveness—visiting Narcissus’s shimmering pool, but never diving to the bottom in pursuit of our own reflection.

Wiggle Room: Moving Up and Down the Spectrum

Recently, I got slammed with a miserable cold, one that left me feeling grumbly and demanding. I just wanted someone to take care of me. But then a friend called who’d just lost his job, forcing him to uproot himself and find work in another part of the country. Suddenly, my cold wasn’t so important anymore. I rose from bed, cleaned myself up, and went to talk with him.

Most models of human behavior consider flexibility to be the hallmark of mental health. We adapt our feelings and behavior to fit the circumstance. When it comes to narcissism, similarly, only the most extreme echoist or narcissist becomes fixed at one end of the scale. Healthy people generally remain within a certain range on the spectrum, moving up or down a few points throughout their lives. Nevertheless, we’re all prone to climbing even higher on the scale if something provides a big enough push.

Narcissism spikes dramatically, for example, when we feel shaky about ourselves: lonely, sad, confused, vulnerable. In adults, major life events like getting divorced or becoming sick in old age often trigger a large surge of self-centeredness as we struggle to hold on to our self-worth. In younger people, narcissism tends to peak during the teen years. Adolescents often betray a staggering sense of omnipotence, as if they’re somehow above natural and man-made laws (fatal accidents might happen to others who drive drunk, for instance, but certainly never to them). Teens are well known for elevating even the act of suffering to great heights—prone to fits of despair, convinced no one can fathom the pain of their unrequited crush, or the searing humiliation of not owning the next cool smartphone. Nothing else—and often no one else—matters more than the anguish they feel.

Though vexing for parents, this adolescent peak in narcissism is normal and understandable. This is the time when we develop an individual identity, separating from our parents to become our own person. We push away from people who’ve held sway over us, even though we know, somewhere deep inside, that we aren’t yet equipped to handle the world on our own. It’s at times like these—when we need people but aren’t sure if we can or should have their support—that we lean heavily on feeling special. It boosts our confidence, however temporarily. And while it’s not genuine or lasting self-assurance, it gets us through a rough time. Once we’re through adolescence, narcissism falls sharply; it’s time to get on with the business of adulthood—and that means thinking about people other than ourselves.

Varieties of Special: Extroverted, Introverted, and Communal Narcissists

You’ve no doubt come across extroverted narcissists. That’s the kind of narcissist you’re used to hearing about, the one about whom all the fuss is made. They’re loud, vain, and easy to spot. They flaunt their money and possessions, scramble to be the center of attention at every occasion, ruthlessly jockey to rise through the ranks at their office. But narcissism manifests itself in other ways, as well. An intense drive to feel special can yield two other types of narcissistic behavior: introverted and communal.

Introverted narcissists (also called “vulnerable,” “covert,” or “hypersensitive” in scientific literature) are just as convinced that they’re better than others as any other narcissist, but they fear criticism so viscerally that they shy away from, and even seem panicked by, people and attention. Their outward timidity and wariness makes them easily mistaken for self-effacers at the far left of the spectrum. But what makes them different from echoists is that they don’t feel inferior. They believe they harbor unrecognized intelligence and hidden gifts; they see themselves as more understanding of, and more attuned to, the intricacies of the world around them. In self-report, they agree with such statements as I feel that I am temperamentally different from most people. To an observer, these people appear fragile and hypersensitive. In conversation, they’re apt to jump on a misplaced word, or a change in tone, or a brief glance away, and demand What did you mean by that? or Why are you turning away? There’s an angry insistence to introverted narcissists: they seethe with bitterness over the world’s “refusal” to recognize their special gifts.

Communal narcissists, a type more recently identified by researchers, aren’t focused on standing out, being the best writer or most accomplished dancer or the most misunderstood or overlooked genius. Instead, they regard themselves as especially nurturing, understanding, and empathic. They proudly announce how much they give to charity or how little they spend on themselves. They trap you in the corner at a party and whisper excitedly about how thoughtful they’ve been to their grieving next-door neighbor: That’s me—I’m a born listener! They believe themselves better than the rest of humanity, but cherish their status as givers, not takers. They happily agree with such statements as I am the most helpful person I know and I will be well known for the good deeds I have done.

As you can see, not all narcissists look and sound alike and, no doubt, we’ll discover even more than these three variations over time. But remember—regardless of their differences, they all share one overriding motivation: each and every one of them desperately clings to feeling special. They just do it in different ways.

Special Demographics: Age, Gender, Career

As you’ve learned already, narcissism may come more easily to the young; people under 25 tend to be the most narcissistic, with the drive to feel special declining as we age. But what about that perennial question of who’s more narcissistic—men or women? Most studies only capture the extroverted narcissists and, when it comes to this group, researchers consistently find slightly more men than women in the mildly unhealthy range (7 to 8, by this book’s scale). In stark contrast, as soon as we get to the extreme right of the spectrum, men dominate sharply; they’re double the number of women.

This difference is at least partly attributable to gender roles. In most societies, women are criticized for being loud and assertive, while these same qualities are encouraged in men. So it’s no surprise there’s a slight difference in habitual narcissism and a huge difference in the addictive kind. It’s one thing for a woman to be extremely confident and hypercompetitive, but being floridly arrogant and forceful departs dramatically from common notions of how women should behave.

Research on communal narcissism is just beginning to get under way, but so far, it seems to affect men and women in equal numbers. Communal narcissists can either quietly believe they’re the best parents or friends or humanitarians in the world or get up on stage and announce it to everyone. With more men outnumbering women in the loud camp and women edging past men in the quieter one, the gender difference washes out. Interestingly, introverted narcissists, too, seem to be about equally divided between the sexes.

Some professions seem to be magnets for people from certain regions of the spectrum. People on the high end of the spectrum tend to gravitate toward careers where there’s an opportunity for power, praise, and fame. US presidents seem to be more narcissistic, on average, than most ordinary citizens, according to psychologist Ronald J. Deluga, of Bryant College, who used biographical information on every commander in chief from George Washington through Ronald Reagan to score them on the NPI. Predictably, high-ego presidents like Richard Nixon and Ronald Reagan ranked higher than more soft-spoken leaders like Jimmy Carter and Gerald Ford, but almost all presidents scored high enough to be considered “narcissists.”

Psychologists Robert Hill and Gregory Yousey, of Appalachian State University, also studied the narcissistic tendencies of politicians (excluding presidents), comparing them with librarians, university professors, and clergy. Politicians again ranked higher in narcissism than any other group. Clergy and professors were deemed the healthiest, with librarians the least narcissistic. Unlike the politicians, none of the other professionals scored high enough to earn the label narcissist, though librarians certainly scored low enough to flirt with echoism.

The performing arts is an arena with a heavy pull for narcissists—no surprise there; it’s show business, after all—but here, too, there are shades of narcissism if you look closely enough. Dr. Drew Pinsky, host of the radio show Loveline, did just that, by asking every celebrity who appeared on his show to take the NPI. Then he and psychologist S. Mark Young, of the Marshall School of Business at the University of Southern California, compared the actors’ scores to those of people in other artistic areas. Actors and comedians, it turned out, fell near the middle of performers in narcissism (women were more narcissistic than men, possibly because their appearance is more important to their success). Musicians were the least narcissistic. And the most narcissistic? (Drumroll . . . ) Reality TV stars. Based on the data, Pinsky and Young concluded that all the celebrities started out high in narcissism, which, in turn, probably drew them to their flashy careers. For the record, Pinsky and Young also looked at MBA students for comparison, since they often score higher than other groups in narcissism—but the celebrities still won.

Few of us regularly interact with heads of state, celebrities, or even MBA students, so the narcissism we’re most likely to encounter will be in the people we see regularly—our relatives, friends, colleagues, dates, and mates. What does that look like? Let’s start with ordinary folks at the extreme ends of both sides of the spectrum.

Life at 2: Self-Denying

Sandy, 28, is single and works as an administrative assistant at a biotech firm. She came to see me after a recent upset at work. Her boss had decided to throw a party in her honor—his way of saying thanks for her tireless effort to make the company’s past year especially prosperous.

“He was giving me an office MVP award and the day he selected for the party was also my birthday so he decided to kill two birds with one stone.” She grimaced as she spoke and her thin frame seemed to shrink further in her loose black pantsuit. “My boss had spent a lot of time setting it up as a surprise, but I kind of figured out what was happening. People whisper around the coolers.” Unhappy with the party, Sandy tried to get it canceled. “I told my boss’s partner I’d been having trouble concentrating at work because I kept feeling awkward and anxious thinking about it. I managed to get it called off.”

“What made you so uneasy?” I asked

“I can’t stand compliments. They make my skin crawl. I’ve never liked being the focus of anything. I don’t like birthday parties, either, let alone surprise ones.”

“Any idea why?”

“No clue,” she said. She stared at a large blue and green abstract painting on the wall in front of her. “All I know is I feel uneasy. I don’t like people fawning over me.”

Though Sandy was nearly allergic to gratitude from others, she had no trouble lending friends her support. But here, too, when they showed their appreciation with flowers or cards, she was visibly uncomfortable and accepted their tributes reluctantly.

“How about from your boyfriend?” She’d been living with Joe for three years in a small apartment just minutes from her office.

“I can’t stand it when he compliments me or tries to take care of me.” She squirmed, shifting back and forth in her seat. “I tell him he doesn’t need to. I’m not a little kid.”

Her evident distress had begun causing ripples in her relationships at work, at home, and with friends. “My boss was hurt. He said he just wanted to do something special for me.” Joe, too, had clearly grown weary of such a one-sided relationship. “He got really angry the other day because he just wanted me to tell him which restaurant I preferred for my birthday dinner. I was tired of talking about it.” She frowned. “I told him, ‘Why don’t we just stay home and cook—or you can pick wherever you want—it’s up to you.’ ”

Joe had thrown up his hands in disgust, and growled, “You never let me do anything for you!”

“That’s the problem,” I said. “Sometimes people need us to be able to take center stage. It helps them feel special, too.”

Sandy is a great example of the dangers of living at around 2 on the spectrum. The people who dwell there aren’t just unfamiliar with feeling special, they’re afraid of it.

Most of us feel a little boost when we receive praise and attention for our accomplishments. For a time, the spotlight has shifted to us. But for people near 0—extreme echoists—even positive attention can be terrifying. It’s not necessarily because they feel ashamed or defective, though some might. It’s just that they’re convinced that being ordinary is the safest way to live. They stay in the shadows because, as the Japanese saying goes, “The nail that stands out gets pounded down.” Even more, they dread becoming a burden. This isn’t the feigned concern of martyrs who proclaim, “I don’t want to put you to any trouble,” while loudly voicing complaints that demand everyone’s attention—this is real fear.

People like Sandy worry so deeply about seeming needy or selfish that it’s often difficult for them to recognize they have any needs at all. It’s also exhausting working so hard to expect nothing at all, which is why people at this end of the spectrum can lapse into confusing bouts of sadness. They feel depleted, but what they need to replenish themselves is buried so deep they’re not even sure how to ask for it.

The most common feature of echoists is a deep dread of becoming narcissistic in any way. They’re constantly on guard for any signs of selfishness or arrogance in themselves, so much so that they can’t even enjoy being doted upon. Their vigilance comes with a steep price. People feel closer to us when we allow ourselves to become a gleam in their eye. Enjoying our moments on the pedestal elevates not just us, but also those we love.

Life at 9: Self-Serving

Gary, 24, single, is a business school student who was referred to me by his dean, an old friend of his parents, who’d grown concerned and irate about his absences from class.

“I’ve got bigger fish to fry than going to class,” Gary told me, smiling broadly. “I’m starting up a company with a friend. We got the idea one night when we’d been drinking for hours. But it’s a great plan.” He’d arrived ten minutes late to my office, but didn’t seem the least bit contrite about being tardy. “Just came from an investor meeting,” he’d explained, grasping my hand firmly in greeting.

“Terrific,” I responded. “Congrats.”

“I know how to sell myself,” he said, shrugging. “It’s what I do.”

I could see what he meant. Sitting in a classic power position—arms clasped behind his neck, elbows out—he looked more like a business executive than a student. He dressed the part, too—a sleek navy blue suit, gleaming leather shoes, a red-and-blue striped tie.

“Are you any good at this?” he asked. “I don’t have much time to waste.”

“Guess we’ll find out,” I said, feeling sure he’d already decided. “As I understand it, you might get kicked out because you’ve missed so many papers and assignments.”

“Dean tell you that?” he shot back, snidely. He leaned back, crossing his arms. “Listen, they have to keep me in school. I might be the best thing that’s happened to them in a while. The least they can do is try to hold on to me. If they don’t, they’ll see what a mistake they’ve made when my idea takes off and I make a killing.”

“You can appreciate the dean’s position, though?” I asked, curious if he had any perspective on how much jeopardy he’d placed himself in.

“I can talk my parents into anything,” he assured me. “I can talk pretty much anyone into anything,” he added. “They’ll convince him just like they did before.” He combed his fingers though his hair. “People are making a big deal out of nothing. I can crank out the rest of my work, no problem.”

“What made you decide to come to see me?” I asked. “You didn’t have to.”

“I figured you just need to give me a clean bill of health,” he answered matter-of-factly.

“Ah,” I said. “It doesn’t quite work that way, unfortunately. We need”—here he cut me off.

“Look,” he said, “I get that I have to convince the dean’s bosses. That’s why my parents are paying for this. If you can’t help me, I’m sure I can find someone else to get the job done.” He started getting up to leave.

“You can leave,” I said. “But part of the problem is you don’t think you need anyone’s help. You’ve got a lot of talent and ambition, which is fantastic. But you can’t rely on that alone to carry you. If that worked, you wouldn’t be sitting across from me now. And the dean wouldn’t be meeting with the school next Monday about whether or not this is your last semester there.”

That seemed to get his attention. He sat back down.

This is the face of narcissism we all know and loathe: arrogant, entitled—at times frightening. People at 9, extreme narcissists, often think themselves above normal rules and expectations. Whatever they’re paid, it’s not enough. Whatever wrongs they commit against others, they’re explained away. It never occurred to Gary for an instant that he might really be kicked out. Mysteriously, he believed that the university needed him far more than he needed it. He was convinced that his talent as an entrepreneur would save him.

People who live at 9 or 10 cling to their special status for dear life. Their belief that they’re somehow above the rest of us mere mortals might even reach delusional levels, as it did for Gary, who honestly felt that he could do whatever he wanted and still remain in school. This sense of being a “special exception” also explains many other characteristics of people who live on the far right—becoming angry at the smallest slights, willing to do whatever it takes to get what they want, seeing other people as extensions of themselves.

Extreme narcissism blinds people to the feelings of others. That’s one of the reasons we find it so unpleasant to be around people at this high end of the scale. The men and women who live near 10 are too preoccupied with their own need to be recognized and rewarded to consider the needs of other people.

Gary’s parents had been on the phone with him nightly for a week, urging him to seek help. “I’m at my wit’s end,” his mother had said, in a tearful message left on my voice mail. Gary shrugged it off. “She gets that way.” The dean had been a staunch defender, despite Gary’s blithe attitude about his imminent expulsion. He’d known Gary since he was a toddler and clearly thought of him as a son. The whole situation had obviously been taking its toll—the dean sounded exhausted in his messages. But Gary seemed oblivious to just how anxious he’d made everyone around him, especially those who cared about him. “The dean’s as big a worrier as my mom.”

Those on the far right tend to regard others as tools for their personal use. Gary treated me, from the start, like a simple-minded servant. He quickly turned on me when I told him I couldn’t just write a letter telling the administration he was fine.

Gary also had no insight into his problems. When feeling special becomes an addiction, there’s no room to acknowledge flaws, no matter how obvious they are to everyone else. People like Gary are notoriously bad partners and friends. Their lack of empathy hobbles them relationally, leading to frequent lies and infidelity. But people who live around 9 don’t see it. In fact, ask them if they’re comfortable with deeper intimacy, capable of sharing sadness and loneliness with those they care about, and they’ll often say they’re good at that, too. They have such little self-awareness they can’t even recognize the limits of their ability to love.

Life at 5: Self-Assured

Lisa, 41, married, Asian American, is the executive director of a nonprofit that serves the local Asian community. She came to me after her mother died from a massive stroke. “She didn’t even make it to the hospital,” Lisa told me in our initial phone call. “I’ve been different lately, a little off my game, so I thought I should speak to you.”

When I met Lisa in the waiting room, she was chatting with another therapist’s client (I’m in a suite of offices with other therapists). I’d seen this other woman before, but I’d never seen her speak to anyone. She usually sat quietly, reading a magazine or scrolling through her smartphone. Today she was smiling.

“Nice meeting you,” said Lisa, as she waved goodbye to the woman. And I could tell she meant it.

I led Lisa down the hall. Before she sat, she smoothed out her skirt—navy blue and business length, with a matching suit jacket—and adjusted her ponytail. “I’m a big believer in staying on top of things. I don’t want this—whatever this is—to get out of hand.”

Since her mother’s death, Lisa had thrown herself into a bunch of new projects. She was so tightly scheduled she barely had time to think. “I’m always on the go,” she said. “But I’m really pushing myself these days.”

Lisa, who had successfully launched a number of programs for the homeless and elderly, was something of a local celebrity. She had myriad political connections, from alderman to senators, and made frequent TV appearances. “Most people hate all the media work, but I love making speeches or being on camera. I feel so alive then. I’m kind of a ham, anyway. I used to be an actress.” She’d hit the stage as a toddler and continued acting in plays and musicals through high school. “I adore applause.”

“But lately it feels like too much?” I asked.

“Isn’t it?” she asked, and took a deep breath. “How do you know when it’s healthy—all this chasing after success? All these big dreams?” I could tell she’d gotten to the heart of what had been eating at her. She visibly relaxed once she’d said it, her eyes glistening.

“You’ve been more driven than usual these days, since losing your mother. We can work on that. But the joy you take in dreaming big hasn’t just made you happy—it’s made others happy, too,” I said. “I’d say that’s the definition of health.”

At the heart of healthy narcissism is the capacity to love and be loved on a grand scale. People who live in the center of the spectrum don’t always take to the stage, but when they do, they often lift others up with them.

Lisa embodied many of the traits of healthy, centered narcissism. Her grief had driven her into the public eye a little more than usual, but she had enough self-awareness to realize something was wrong. People who live in the center know when their grandiosity is getting the better of them. They know when they’re getting too caught up in themselves. Lisa’s delight in feeling special never blinded her to how other people felt. Her main concern came down to her husband, Doug. She worried he’d become lonely—and he probably had.

“I found him in front of the TV the other day,” Lisa admitted, “and he was looking pretty down. I’d been up all night working on a project and hadn’t come home.”

That prompted a long conversation in which Doug admitted to Lisa that he felt she’d been too self-involved lately.

“He told me all I talk about is work,” she explained. “And he’s right.”

Lisa’s ambition had ratcheted up to high gear. She’d regale Doug with the intricacies of her latest project and how much she’d impressed the clients. She’d surge into a monologue, her voice charged with excitement, as she brought him up to speed on her latest, grand vision to fix the homeless shelter.

“He was feeling totally unimportant,” she said. “I knew I had to fix that. The last thing I want is for Doug to feel like he doesn’t matter to me.”

“So what did you do?” I asked.

“I told him I’d been selfish and would make it up to him,” she said, smiling. “I stayed home the next night and cooked us dinner.”

Lisa displayed other features typical of people around 5 on the spectrum. She drew inspiration from her grand ideas. She’d become a creative leader in her field, rallying supporters even in the political arena. Her dreams pushed her to achieve and rise above an ordinary life but she never used them to make people feel beneath her. If anything, people felt important in her presence, as if they brought value simply by being who they were. Lisa made the quiet woman in the waiting room light up.

That’s a sure sign you’re with someone in the middle of the spectrum—they bring out the best in everyone.

Interestingly, they’re not an especially modest bunch. They don’t need to brag or boast or show off to feel good about themselves, but they’re not bashful about their talents either. Lisa, for example, met her husband at a nightclub and she’d approached him. She slipped up beside him, brushed his shoulder, and after a few minute of flirting, invited him onto the dance floor. “Come on,” she’d said. “I’m a great dancer—promise.”

And she was.

Now you’ve met people along the whole range of the spectrum, from extreme echoists to extreme narcissists. And you can see that narcissism has many faces, both healthy and unhealthy. No doubt at this point you’re wondering: Where do I fall on this spectrum? You may already have some sense just from reading and relating to these stories, but you can get an even better idea by completing the Narcissism Test.

4

The Narcissism Test

How Narcissistic Are You?

Before you grab your pen and flip to the test—I know you’re itching to—you should know a few things.

First, don’t expect to fly through this test. It’s not like one of those quizzes you’ll find in popular magazines. As you’ve seen, narcissism is far more complicated than most people think, which means that any test worth its salt is bound to require a little work. It’ll be worth the extra effort, however; you’ll learn a lot about yourself by the end. You might even be surprised.

Also, this test is not like others designed by psychologists to measure narcissism. Most surveys start with the assumption that any narcissism is bad. Answer “True” to “I like looking at my body” or “I am assertive,” and your narcissism score begins to grow. Say “True” enough times, and you’ll score high enough to be a “narcissist.” But there’s obviously nothing harmful or destructive about feeling confident about your body or being assertive. And it certainly indicates a lack of healthy narcissism when someone freely admits they’re nothing special.

The big failing in present measures of narcissism is their singular focus on the right—mostly the far right—side of the spectrum. What’s more, no other test captures the deficits in healthy narcissism, on the left side of the scale. To address these shortfalls, I and my colleagues, Dr. Stuart Quirk, professor of psychology at Central Michigan University and doctoral candidate Shannon Martin, created a new assessment tool called the Narcissism Spectrum Scale (NSS). To ensure its accuracy, we’ve collected data from several hundred people, young and old, male and female, rich and poor, from all around the world, for a far more representative sampling than the typical college study.

The original NSS consists of 39 questions. To make it easier for people to take on their own, we’ve narrowed it down to 30 items and simplified the scoring system, which you’ll find at the end of the quiz. We call this abbreviated version of the NSS the Narcissism Test. (For more information on the development of the NSS and the preliminary research supporting it, see the references at the end of the book.)

Go ahead now. Get out your pen and get to it. If you’re feeling especially brave, and want to get a really clear idea of where you fall on the spectrum, give the measure to a close friend or your partner and ask them to rate you. Other people often see us far more clearly than we see ourselves.

The Narcissism Test

On a scale of 1 to 5, indicate how much you agree or disagree with each item, using the guide below.

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5
strongly disagree | disagree | neutral | agree | strongly agree

1. | Compliments make me uncomfortable. | ______
2. | It irritates me when someone gets ahead by being the star. | ______
3. | I’ve missed out on opportunities because I was uncomfortable nominating myself (e.g., for promotion or leadership position). | ______
4. | Sometimes I won’t state my ideas because someone else’s will be better. | ______
5. | I often defer to other people’s opinions. | ______
6. | I worry about how other people think and feel about me. | ______
7. | I’m not sure what I want or need in relationships. | ______
8. | When people ask me my preferences, I’m often at a loss. | ______
9. | I blame myself whenever things go badly in a relationship. | ______
10. | I apologize a lot. | ______
11. | I’m self-confident, but caring. | ______
12. | I press on, even when tasks are challenging. | ______
13. | I take more pride in my achievements when I have to work hard for them. | ______
14. | I can recognize my limitations without feeling bad about myself. | ______
15. | I’m happy to acknowledge my faults if it improves a situation. | ______
16. | I believe both partners contribute to the success or failure of a relationship. | ______
17. | I can rein myself in when people tell me I’m getting a big head. | ______
18. | I like to dream big but not at the expense of my relationships. | ______
19. | I’ll take giving over receiving any day. | ______
20. | Despite setbacks, I believe in myself. | ______
21. | *I find it easy to manipulate people. | ______
22. | *I insist on getting the respect that’s due me. | ______
23. | *I expect a great deal from other people. | ______
24. | *I’ll never be satisfied until I get all that I deserve. | ______
25. | I secretly believe I’m better than most people. | ______
26. | I get extremely angry when criticized. | ______
27. | *I get upset when people don’t notice how I look in public. | ______
28. | *I’m apt to show off if I get the chance. | ______
29. | *I have a strong will to power. | ______
30. | I’m great at a lot of things compared to most people. | ______

* © 1987 American Psychological Association. Adapted with permission from Emmons, R. A. (1987). Narcissism: Theory and measurement. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 52(1), 11–17. Further reproduction/distribution prohibited without written permission of APA.

Narcissism Deficits (ND):

Add items 1–10 and enter your score here:
______

Healthy Narcissism (HN):

Add items 11–20 and enter your score here:
______

Extreme Narcissism (EN):

Add items 21–30 and enter your score here:
______

Understanding Your Score

The scale breaks down into three “factors.” Think of these like three large piles the items fall into mathematically. All three are related to narcissism (or the lack of it). But they predict dramatically different patterns of behavior. Each factor is also a rough indicator of different positions on the spectrum.

As you can tell by the name of each score, the first total represents your placement on the left the spectrum, the second reflects your tendency toward the center (or healthy narcissism), and the third gives you a rough sense of how far you are to the right.

As you can also probably tell, the only factor it’s good to score high on is healthy narcissism. That’s because we designed the scale to mirror the spectrum. It’s the extremes (too little and too much narcissism) that cause all the trouble.

Here’s a quick guide to what your scores mean.

The Narcissism Spectrum

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