The Narcissist Test: How to spot outsized egos ... and the surprising things we can learn from them. Dr Malkin Craig
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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.”