After an Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing (EMDR) session, my therapist asks, “What is coming up?” A painful memory has arisen, but I am hesitant to share it; the image doesn’t make sense. “You’re thinking about it. Please, share what you are thinking.” I continue withholding, believing the idea in my mind’s eye is silly. My therapist leans in, connects his eyes with mine, and repeats, “Just say it, Billy.”

I give in. “Pepsi,” I mumble.

My therapist nods: my cue to say more. I was seven or eight years old and wanted my mom’s attention. I need her to sign off on something for school. Like a nagging fly, I buzz around Mama, trying to get her attention. I could have easily forged my mother’s signature, as I had many times, but I want, no, I need more—my mom to see me. As I tug on her, growing ever annoying, Mama exclaims, “Leave me alone. I haven’t even had my Pepsi.” My heart sinks. Almost immediately, hurt turns to determination fueled by anger. I am overcome with resolve; Mama will pay attention to me. I get louder, tug harder, and move with more considerable, frantic action. “Alight! Alright! What do you want?!”

I had what I wanted, Mama’s attention.

I proudly hand over the permission slip. 

The EMDR session revealed an inner truth I always knew but never externally acknowledged; If I wanted Mama’s attention, I had to be more entertaining or distracting than her coping mechanisms. More times than not, my mother’s addictions prevented her from establishing an I-You relationship with me, any of her children. In Social Intelligence, Daniel Goleman describes the I-You relationship as “a meshing of two people’s worlds” (Goleman, 2006). The I-You relationship is based on an empathetic connection occurring between two people or, as Martin Buber, the Austrian philosopher credited with coining the phrase I-you, stated, “I-You is a special bond, an attuned closeness.”

My mom was an addict. Not a junkie. (Mama’s drugs were mostly prescribed by medical professionals who lacked the necessary training to facilitate the healing process women like my mom, who lack the education, financial resources, and therapeutic support needed to overcome decades of trauma.) Nevertheless, Mama’s addictions placed a barrier between her and the rest of the world, including her children. Relating to others deeply did not come easily to Mama. Goleman explains the gratification that addicts get from their substance(s) of choice “biologically mimics the natural pleasure we get from feeling connected to those we love.” Goleman also suggests that “the boundary between It and You is porous and fluid.” The You can become an It, and sometimes, the It can become a You. So, if Mama could not always see me as a You, I would find a way to extract her love as an It. And I did.

Learning to become an It to gain my mother’s attention became my primary mode of communication. Taking on the role of It for Mama caused me to lose sight of the I in me. Instead of using interactions to connect empathically with another, listening for their needs and expressing mine, I approached my relationships seeking approval, shapeshifting to match the environment. My needs became secondary to others. Or so it appeared.

Achieving Needs Narcissistically

The online Oxford dictionary defines a need (n.) as “a thing that is required.” Children require attention and care. As a young boy, I needed Mama to parent me, an act she struggled with. Like most singles mothers struggling with addiction, my mother was preoccupied with managing her traumas. In his 2015 TED Talk, Johann Hari suggests that “the opposite of addiction is connection” (Hari, Everything You Think You Know About Addiction is Wrong, 2105). Like me, my mother lacked essential emotional connection. My mom wasn’t a machine with broken parts; she was a human being whose needs weren’t being met. When a parent’s needs go unmet, the child’s needs will also suffer. In Social Intelligence, Goleman highlights research that states, “clinically depressed mothers tend to look away from their babies more often than others, become angry more often, are more intrusive when their babies need a recovery time-out and are less warm.”

But even children locked in a depression loop with their mothers figure out how to get their needs met. Goleman offers a bit of hope by noting that some children of depressed mothers become highly adaptable. “Many of these children become exquisite readers of their mother’s shifting emotions and as adults are artful at handling their interactions to keep them as pleasant (or minimally upsetting) as possible.” I became one of these chameleon-like children Goleman refers to who had to “hard-earn” social intelligence.

Unlike the well-loved infant or child who recognizes their needs are the priority of their caregivers, generating a healthy version of narcissism that develops into a positive sense of self, I suffered from—still struggle with—self-doubt. Goleman explains, “unhealthy narcissists crave to be admired more than to be loved.” As an It, discovering reasons to be loveable proved challenging. Lacking immediate evidence or appropriate modeling that I deserved love (my caregiver didn’t love herself, why should I?) led to settling for the next best thing, approval.

I assume that at some point, my mom (unconsciously) chose to cope over connecting. Mama developed (and lost control of) an unquenchable desire to manage life through chemicals—caffeine, nicotine, sugar, alcohol, and opioids. My curiosity and human-centric nature prevented me from ever giving up on my need to connect, but how I connected became the issue. Unfortunately, the mixed signals of my upbringing made it difficult for me to recognize the error in my behavior. Goleman discusses the unhealthy narcist’s disposition toward cynicism, which creates their own moral universe. I can see how my survival evolved around a moral code that put me at the center of everything; I was the shining Sun in a Milky Way of my creation. I developed a me against the world mentally where I was the best, most important, correct thing in my world—I had to be for my world to continue, to survive.

Internally, I never honestly believed I was the Sun, the best, or the center of anything; I was scared and full of self-doubt. Goleman points out that “unhealthy narcissists lack a sense of self-worth.” My lack of self-belief remained hidden. Instead, I projected arrogance, cockiness, and pride. Even worse than this, I became charming.

Coincidentally or not, as a child, Mama would sing a song to me called “Charming Billy.” These were her good days, the ones where I felt myself shift in her eyes from an It to a You – from noun (It) to verb (You, a collection of processes deserving of love). In these oxytocin-rich interactions, I felt and absorbed my mother’s love through vibrating melodic lyrics—Can she bake a cherry pie, Billy Boy, Billy Boy? Can she bake a cherry pie, Charming Billy? Mama’s eyes lit up as she sang the words charming. Maybe, the slight twinkle in my mother’s eyes and my need to be the reason for her joy—to feel connected to my mom—enforced an unconscious desire to become charming. Through charm, I learned I could get my needs met. Charming doesn’t require one to display empathy. Instead, charism, the act of being charming, is the ability to gain control or power over others through performance.

 In the same way a magician uses deception to lure the audience into believing the unbelievable, the unhealthy narcist uses charm to project confidence and seize approval. Like an illusionist, I transformed self-doubt into charm, confidence, and cockiness. The water was never wine. I just had to help others get drunk off what I was serving. The more I projected belief, the drunker they got, never noticing the difference. Sometimes, charm fails. When charmed failed, rage kicked in. Denial was never accepted well. In Social Intelligence, Goleman connects this anger to a sense of deflation of the narcist’s psyche that creates a hypersensitivity to rejection or criticism. When you make yourself the center of the universe, even if you don’t believe your positioning is legit, you suffer significantly if even one star goes out. Fading and falling stars are natural, a point the unhealthy narcissist can’t see. By hyper-focusing my attention on learning how to puppeteer others, I lost track of the world’s natural rhythms. My lack of connection with the real left me feeling increasingly emotional. My narcissistic tendencies led to increased bouts of paranoia and more intense feelings of self-doubt. They drove me deeper into me, turning life into one continuous performance piece where I played every part. Life became a one-man show written, directed, and performed by me.

Overcoming the Performer

The intuitive Helen Palmer asked, “What is your capacity to witness the arising of your structure—your identity—as it occurs?” For decades, I could not see my identity unfold in real-time, i.e., the one I developed early as a façade to survive. Year after year, I found myself awkwardly taking center stage. Sometimes charming my way into positions of power, and other times being assigned, promoted, or elected to positions of authority and prestige.

More times than not, I was thrust into leadership roles by superiors and peers, all assuming I was the correct man for the position. Outwardly, I enthusiastically accepted roles like the president of my class, head of my youth group, and captain of my football team. Inwardly, I was paralyzed, constantly doubting my ability, forever feeling like an imposter. During my four-year enlistment in the Marine Corps, I graduated top of my boot camp class, was meritoriously promoted multiple times, and received two Navy-Marine Corps Achievement medals. The day I drove off base for the last time, I couldn’t help but smile, feeling like I had pulled the wool over an entire institution’s eyes. No one could do what I could, and some aspect of my ego loved my chameleon-like ability.

Eventually, at some point in my early thirties, pretending became overwhelming. Managing my facades and lies became burdensome; the reward was no longer worth the effort. What I unconsciously sought, love and connection, could no longer be supplemented by attention and pseudo-approval. I had mastered my craft. With mastery came a major realization; the magician’s bag of tricks is an empty bag. For the first time in my life, I began questioning who I was absent from an audience. Tired of performing, I started wanting to share myself, the me behind the masks, with others. But who was Billy?

Unsure of what was real, I couldn’t help but feel like a young Alice, lost in a maze of my own making. Like a true naïve narcissist, I began relying on reflections to tell me who I was. Long stares into bathroom mirrors, quick glimpses into the tinted glass of commercial buildings, the over-the-top laugh of a friend, or the neck-breaking glance a stranger all reflected information about who I was, or so I believed. Even in my attempt to shed the narcissistic performer, to project authenticity, I still relied on the world to tell me who I was. Billy, whoever he was, was trapped beneath decades of filters, each providing an ego-appeasing echo. Like a house of mirrors, every direction looked the same, like me. My hope of escape would not come from stepping out of myself but deeper into myself. Like young Alice, discovering Billy required a journey through the looking glass.

The self-centric world I created was built on a foundation of me that was reinforced by a sleuth of defense mechanisms and survival behaviors— protecting Billy at all costs. Breaking through required radical action: I had to be vulnerable. 

The professor of Sociology and author Dr. Brenee Brown defines vulnerability as “uncertainty, risk, and emotional exposure” (Brown, 2019). Dr. Brown builds on her definition of vulnerability by suggesting, “vulnerability is not weakness; it’s our most accurate measure of courage. When the barrier is our belief about vulnerability, the question becomes: ‘Are we willing to show up and be seen when we can’t control the outcome? When the barrier to vulnerability is about safety, the question becomes: Are we willing to create courageous spaces so we can be fully seen?’” 

Walt Prochno, my high school wrestling coach, preached “showing up.” In Walt’s mind, nothing is more challenging than showing up. Doing the work was easy; showing up is what most struggled with. If one could muster up the courage to be present, results would follow. If I was going to discern who Billy was, I would have to start showing up. For me, showing up equated to honesty, telling the truth.

While clarity around my identity was muddy, there were some facets of self I knew; the most obvious being I liked to make things up. Over-exaggeration, or “self-inflation,” as Goleman puts it, is a narcissistic trait that I was always keenly aware I possessed. I never considered myself a liar. My lies were hardly egregious but instead of the white lie variety. Nevertheless, the tales I frequently and reflexively constructed were the head cornerstone that held together the image I had projected since childhood. My stories provided me a false sense of protection that allowed me to control my narrative. If I was going to discover who I was, the head cornerstone had to be shattered. 

Bohm’s Suspension as a Solution.

When you’re entire life feels like a lie, relying on truth feels unnatural. I suffered through a lot of sweaty armpits and palms, bouts of onset dizziness, and, at times, uncontrollable shaking holding myself accountable to honesty. Expressing myself, acknowledging my feelings, and explaining my actions openly felt less honest than lying. Telling the truth felt awkward, more like a lie than actually lying. Little narcissistic white lies could be tailored to project and protect an image; words could be added or left out, allowing the interpretations to be subjective. Honesty means including facts, taking responsibility, and the possibility of disagreement or disapproval. As Dr. Brown stated, a significant part of allowing ourselves to be seen is found in the bravery of surrendering to the reality that we don’t get to control outcomes. Giving up control, abandoning my attempt to control how others see me, or allowing others to see me as they will have been my most challenging endeavors; I want to be liked. But more than approval, I seek radical connection inspired by love.

The quantum physicist David Bohm proposed that the suspension of thoughts, impulses, and judgments lies at the very heart of dialogue. Bohm suggested that “the free exchange of ideas and information is a fundamental relevance for transforming culture and freeing it of destructive misinformation, so that creativity can be liberated.”

I believe we are in constant dialogue with ourselves. These internal conversations are loaded with false information absorbed throughout our lives about who and why we are. This misinformation disrupts our perceptions of self, causing us to believe that others’ thoughts are our own, locking us into an incomplete or distorted idea of self. So, if I am to free myself from the narcissistic character I created as a child to fulfill my emotional needs ,i.e, move from seeing myself a a broken noun to a fluid verb capable of change, I must continue practicing the art of suspension. I must suspend my judgement of the narcissist. And instead become curious about the wound behind his (my) narcissistic tendencies. Only when we become aware of our wounds – accept our complete identity – can we begin to heal.

To overcome the liar, I must understand his lies. I must crawl inside his stories and discern their purpose. I must intimately explore the needs and feelings connected to each tale. I must develop the capacity to witness my structure unfolding as it occurs. My liberation will come when the storyteller no longer takes the shape of the protective, frightened fibber. The manipulative magician must become an emotional alchemist. Psychotherapist and author Miriam Greenspan believes emotional alchemy “is not about taming or transforming” powerful negative emotions, but “about befriending it and using it for the good of ourselves, others, and the planet.” Through the continual practice of Bohmian suspension, I can freely observe my thoughts, beliefs, and behaviors, learning to befriend Billy with each observation and liberating the creator as I go. 

As I began to see Billy as a You and not an It, then, perhaps, I will find my way back through the looking glass, where emotional health will finally feel normal.

References:

• Brown, B. (2019). Braving the Wilderness: The Quest for True Belonging and the Courage to Stand Alone. New York: Random House.
• Goleman, D. (2006). Social Intelligence: The new science of human relationships. New York: Bantam Dell.
• Greenspan, M. (2003). Healing Through the Dark Emotions. Boulder: Shambhala Publications, Inc.
• Hari, J. (2015). Chasing the Scream: The First and Last Days of the War on Drugs. Camden: Bloomsbury Publishing.
• Hari, J. (2105, July 9). Everything you think you know about addiction is wrong. Retrieved from TED: Ideas worth spreading: https://www.ted.com/talks/johann_hari_everything_you_think_you_know_about_addiction_is_wrong?language=en
• Krishnamurti, J. (1985). The Ending of TIme. (D. Bohm, Interviewer)
• Palmer, H. (2014, June 14). Helen Palmer ‘The Enneagram – Gateway To Spiritual Liberation’ Interview by Iain McNay. (I. McNay, Interviewer)
• Rosenberg, M. B. (2015). Nonviolent Communciation: A language of life. Encinitas: PuddleDancer Press.