Writing About the Self in the Age of Narcissism
By: David Heatley
Tags: Trump, Creativity, Autobiography, Memoir, Narcissism

But how does she do it? What allows her to disappear into herself? Most artists I’ve known or have studied are exquisitely sensitive and needy creatures, craving acceptance and love to an abnormal degree. They swing wildly between the two poles of grandiosity — “I’m the greatest” and “I’m the worst” and they still have a child-like desire for approval. Okay, maybe I’m just describing myself. But I don’t think I’m alone! Try to name a classic rock band or rapper who didn’t start making music as a way to get love or get laid. On the higher brow end of the spectrum, David Foster Wallace crudely said of writing Infinite Jest, his 1,100 page masterpiece, that it was a way to impress a woman he was crushed out on: “It was a means to her end.” But the motivating force behind any great work doesn’t really matter. Whatever spurs an artist to enter that deep space where creations materialize is fair game. When I recently started a Facebook thread on this subject, my writer friend Mela Heestand commented,

“The deeper you go into the particular self, the closer you get to the universal. I absolutely want any work of art to go as far as the artist is willing to go into the self. It’s generous, even if the artist is also looking for adulation.”

Whew, that’s good to hear and I know it to be true. Of course, once an artist becomes a celebrity, what started out as productive self-absorption often becomes a true psychological disorder: malignant narcissism.

My parents had a bit of this more malignant strain, whereas I suffer from narcissistic injury, according to my Jungian therapist who specializes in this kind of thing. My injury really has two main symptoms. First, it frequently presents as an angry voice in my head, which, when observed from the proper angle, is actually hilarious. Pompous, humorless, demanding, insulting, aggrieved, this voice is the personification of a non-stop tantrum, raging at the injustice of being “put upon” by the world in all its disappointing reality: “How dare that person drive so slow in front of me! Why is that guy standing on the sidewalk so close to where I’m locking my bike? I shouldn’t have to fold my pile of laundry — I have pressing ideas to get down on paper!” Progress for me is exposing these kinds of thoughts to the people around me so we can all laugh at them together.

The other symptom rears its ugly head whenever I’m tasked with listening. If anyone talks to me for more than three minutes, I start to check out. My eyes get heavy, my mind wanders, I fight to stay engaged. It’s sometimes physically painful to have to sit there and keep listening. I love my wife and children and my closest friends and I’m committed to giving them what they need from me, so I keep trying. But the task is Herculean! “I’m bored. I’m hungry. Did he always have that mole on his neck? Why is she telling me all of this? I listened to my relatives talking at me for most of my life. When will it be my turn to talk?”

The malignant narcissists out there are probably beyond hope. They lack the self-awareness and empathy needed for therapy (think: Tony Soprano, Trump). It’s probably best to just steer clear of them. But I believe their children have a fighting chance (think: AJ, Meadow, and dare I say Barron?). I think of myself as a recovering narcissist; my narcissism is latent. Because of various factors in my childhood, my tendency to think and act like an asshole is something to which I’m predisposed. But with the right tools I’m able to live close to an asymptomatic life, with a minimum of assholery. In the past, I’ve had streaks of full-blown narcissistic mania and my behavior was ugly and shameful (see my new book Qualification for a blow-by-blow account). But, paradoxically, having the thing I have makes it possible for me to go deeper into myself than most. And my intention is to share what I find so that it actually helps others. We’re traumatized into being artists and it’s a curse and a gift.